CHAPTER IV.

"Come into the drawing-room," said Miss Herrick in her most commanding tones.

Valentine and Elizabeth obeyed. They remained standing while she seated herself in the identical carved chair from which so short a time before had dangled the shabby shoes of Eva Louise Brady.

"Who were those children?"

"Eva Louise and Bella Brady," replied her niece.

"And what were they doing here?"

"They--they have been playing jack-stones, and--and eating."

"Eating! Playing jack-stones! And how, may I ask, did they happen to come?"

"We were giving a party, Val and I, especially for the Bradys, Aunt Caroline. I was afraid you might not exactly like it, and so I think if I explain you will understand better."

"It certainly requires an explanation," said Miss Herrick, stiffly. "I suppose that if I had not returned unexpectedly early I should have known nothing of it. I find that you are not to be trusted at all."

"Oh, Aunt Caroline, don't say that! Indeed I am to be trusted; only Val and I--"

"Leave Valentine out of the question. It is you who are responsible."

"But Val thought of it," began Elizabeth, eagerly. "At least he thought of part of it."

Then she stopped. Valentine thus far had said nothing. Was he not going to stand by her? She looked at the boy, but still he remained silent.

"I am waiting for your explanation," said her aunt.

"Well, we saw Eva Louise from the window, and Val said--at least we both thought we would go down and see her. And then on the way I told Val I was so sorry for them, and would like to have a party for them, and he said--at least we both thought it would be very nice to ask them over, and I remembered about that feast in the Bible. Don't you remember, Aunt Caroline, where people are told what kind of parties to give? Perhaps you have never read just that part of the Bible, for you never do give that kind of a party. Your people are all so rich and come in carriages, but it really does say somewhere something about inviting the poor and the lame and the halt and the blind. Well, of course I know the Bradys are poor, and I thought very likely they were halt, and so I decided to ask them."

Miss Herrick was becoming interested in spite of herself. There was something very original about her niece, she thought, and she certainly was beautiful to look at as she stood before her with the earnest look in her great dark eyes, and her high-bred manner of carrying her head.

"Continue," she said, as Elizabeth paused for breath.

"There is not much more to tell except that Val went out and got the things to eat. Of course we had to give them something to eat, Aunt Caroline, and we didn't like to ask the servants."

"And where were the servants all this time?"

"I don't exactly know."

"This must be looked into. I leave you in Marie's charge when Miss Rice is not here."

"I never see much of Marie," remarked Elizabeth, composedly.

"You should have told me of this before. But where did you have the party? In which room?"

Again there was silence. Elizabeth looked once more to Valentine for assistance, but none was forth-coming. A faint color spread over her face and she clasped her hands tightly behind her back, but she gazed steadfastly into her aunt's eyes as she replied, "In the locked room."

"What do you mean?" asked Miss Herrick, not in the least comprehending.

"The locked room in the third-story back buildings. The room with the padlock."

"Elizabeth!"

The child was frightened at the effect of her words. Miss Herrick's face grew very white. It was some minutes before she could control her voice sufficiently to speak.

"Have you been there before?" she asked at last.

"Yes, often," faltered the little girl.

"How did you get in?"

"I--I found the keys one day when I was looking for them in your little Chinese cabinet."

"And do you call this an honorable proceeding?"

"No, not so very."

If Aunt Caroline would only scold her, thought Elizabeth. She was so calm. The child attempted to excuse herself.

"I had wondered about that room so long, Aunt Caroline. I really did want to know something about my own family, and you and Aunt Rebecca never would tell me. I--I am very sorry."

Miss Herrick did not reply. Presently she turned to Valentine.

"Have you anything to say for yourself?"

"Why, no, not exactly. I didn't really understand about the room. Elizabeth had been there lots of times before I came, and it was her idea about the party in the first place."

"I see," said his aunt, with faint scorn in her voice; "it is merely another case, repeated from time immemorial, of 'the woman tempted me and I did eat.'"

"I don't understand you, Aunt Caroline," said Elizabeth.

But Valentine did understand, and he blushed scarlet.

Miss Herrick, after her last remark, relapsed into thought.

"There is another thing," said Elizabeth, presently; "we broke one of your plates."'

"So we did," said Valentine. Then, with evident effort--"at least, I did. Elizabeth had nothing to do with it. I broke it."

His little sister looked at him gratefully. At last he was coming to her rescue. But this final bid of information made small impression on Miss Herrick. She was leaning back in her chair lost in thought.

"Is--is that room still open?" she asked at length.

"Yes, Aunt Caroline."

"Go up and close it; and then, Elizabeth, come to my room. I wish to speak to you alone."

The children, glad to escape, ran up stairs. The door of the room stood wide open, the plates containing the few remnants of the feast were piled recklessly together--everything was in disorder.

They carried the dishes down to the pantry, and put the table back into its accustomed place. They straightened things up as best they could, and then they pulled in the blinds and closed the windows.

Elizabeth locked the door and descended with the keys to her aunt's room. Her party had been a failure from beginning to end. It was very hard for her to keep from crying, but she was determined not to do it--in Valentine's presence, at least.

She found Miss Herrick still in her bonnet. She was standing by the dressing-table, and she held the little cabinet in her hand. She took the keys without a word, put them in the drawer, and shut it with a snap. Then she opened her desk, the key of which she always carried on her person, and placed the cabinet inside.

"I should have done this before," she said. "Is there anything else that you have been prying into?"

Elizabeth's tears refused to be suppressed another moment. She covered her face with her hands.

"I never pry!" she cried. "It was only that one room, and I did so want to know about it. I wouldn't have done it if you had only answered more questions. I have such a stupid time. You won't let me go to school, and you won't tell me anything. And I was all alone, and my father doesn't come home, and I want him--I want him so much! Aunt Caroline"--suddenly drying her eyes and fixing them upon her aunt--"don't you really think my father will come home soon?"

"I doubt if he ever comes home."

"Aunt--Caroline!" Then, after a moment's silence: "But I wrote to him and begged him to come. I said if he couldn't afford it, I would pay for him when I got my money. I really did, Aunt Caroline."

Miss Herrick laughed harshly. She was too much disturbed with the discovery about the closed room to be careful of her niece's feelings.

"Quite unnecessary on your part, Elizabeth. Your father has all the money he needs, and much more. That is not the reason he does not come. I will explain to you, since you are so insistent. I have refrained from doing so before, but I see there is nothing else to do now. Your father left home immediately after the death of your mother. He was deeply attached to her. Your mother, you know, died shortly after you were born, and your father simply could not bear the sight of you."

"Could not bear the sight of _me_?"

"No. In fact, his one desire was to get away from everybody and everything connected with his former life. He has lived abroad ever since, and I doubt if he ever comes home."

"What will he say when he gets my letter?" asked the child.

"I don't know, I am sure. You ought never to have written that letter. I don't know what he will say."

"Aunt Caroline, would you mind if--if I went up to my room now?"

"Not yet. I have not finished. You deserve a severe punishment for prying into that room, Elizabeth. I have not yet decided what it shall be. Your curiosity must be controlled. What difference need it make to you if forty rooms in the house are locked?"

"I don't know."

"I should think not. That room is connected with the tragedy of my life. I doubt if you ever know about it. Perhaps when you are a woman you may be told of it, but that cannot be decided now. And I ask you never to mention the subject to me again."

"No, Aunt Caroline, I won't."

"You may go now."

"Yes, Aunt Caroline."

Elizabeth walked across the large room to the door. Then she paused a moment, and turning abruptly, she flew back to her aunt's side.

"Aunt Caroline, you said my father could not bear the sight of me when I was a baby. Perhaps I was not a nice baby; some are not--the Brady baby, for instance. Don't you think--don't you really think, Aunt Caroline, that if my father were to meet me now he might like me just a teeny-weeny bit? Is there nothing nice about me, Aunt Caroline? Val, my own brother, likes me. The Brady girls used to like me, only they don't seem to now. I never know whether you and Aunt Rebecca do or not, but I hope you do. But don't you think, Aunt Caroline, _dear_ Aunt Caroline, that if my father ever does come home he might grow to like me a little?"

Her aunt looked at her. Then she stooped and kissed her. "Yes, my dear. Yes, I think he might."

"Then I am going to hope more than ever for him to come. Yes, I am going to pray for it. Every night and morning of my life I am going to ask God to send my father home to me, and I really think, Aunt Caroline, that some day he will come."

And then she went up to her room and cried for an hour.

Valentine returned to Virginia in a few days. He felt sorry for Elizabeth, forced to remain forever in the stiff old house with those stiff old aunts, as he designated them.

"And she is not half bad," he said to himself, as he was being whirled rapidly homeward in the train; "she is really a good sort, though she does get herself into such mighty scrapes. She is a plucky one, though. You don't catch her shirking any of the blame. Well, neither would I with anybody but that dragon of an Aunt Caroline. Elizabeth is more used to her, I suppose."

And then he gave himself up to thoughts of the coming football match, for which he would get home just in time.

With Elizabeth life went on about as usual. She missed Valentine sadly, and she felt almost jealous of her cousin Marjorie, who would always have the pleasure of his society.

Miss Rice was engaged to stay all day now. It was shown to the child plainly enough that she was not to be trusted. She resented this, although she knew there was reason for it. She did hate to be watched, she said to herself.

For months the child brooded over her lonely existence, and the strange fate of having a father who did not wish to see her, and a brother who did not live with her, and who, she was quite sure, preferred his cousin to his sister.

Day after day when the postman rang the door-bell she looked for an answer to her letter, and day after day she was disappointed, until she grew thin and pale, and her aunts at length became alive to the fact that she was not well. Thoroughly alarmed, they sent for the family physician.

He knew something of the state of affairs in Fourth Street, and of the unnatural life which the little girl had thus far lived, and he determined to seize this opportunity for improving matters.

"The child should live in the country," he said, when Elizabeth had been sent from the room.

"Just what I thought," said Miss Herrick, in a relieved tone. "She will go out to our place next week. It is nearly April, so it will not be unbearable."

"But that won't do. Does she have any playmates there?"

"No, not many."

"I thought not. And does her governess go too?"

"Certainly. We could not get along without Miss Rice. My sister and I are away so much."

"Precisely. And now, my dear Miss Herrick, I am going to speak plainly to you. Unless you send that child away she will die before your very eyes. She should be in some happy home where she would have companions of her own age. Boarding-school would be better than nothing. Send her to boarding-school."

"My dear doctor! My niece at a boarding-school? Never!"

"Why not? There are plenty of good schools where she would be happy and well cared for. Then she must go somewhere else. Send her to her mother's relatives in the South. They live in the country, don't they? Let her grow up with Valentine. The brother and sister had much better be together."

"It is out of the question, doctor. I do not want to give up my niece, and I cannot consent to her being brought up in that large family of boys and girls. She would grow very rough among them."

"The rougher the better, say I," said the doctor, rising to go, "and I tell you plainly, Miss Herrick, unless you do something of that sort there is no saving the child. Drugs won't keep her alive. She needs no medicine, but a natural, free child's life, and the sooner you send her to get it the better. She behaves precisely as if she had something on her mind. What is it?"

"I don't know, I am sure," cried Miss Herrick, who was deeply alarmed. "I can't imagine what it is, unless it is about her father. Miss Rice says she talks in her sleep about his not coming home to her."

"And he ought to come home to her," said the doctor, who had been a friend of Edward Herrick's when they were boys. "What right has a man to shirk his responsibilities in this way?"

"Poor Edward!" began Miss Herrick.

"Fudge and fiddlesticks for 'poor Edward'!" exclaimed the doctor, walking about the room. "You have much more reason to say 'poor Elizabeth.' But I had better take myself off before I say anything to be sorry for. Good-morning."

And the front door slammed before Miss Herrick had recovered from her astonishment at his last speech.

She repeated his opinion of Elizabeth to her sister, and then she wrote, though much against her will, to Mrs. Redmond. She could not understand why the life with her father's sisters should not be the best thing in the world for Elizabeth, but apparently it was not.

Several letters passed between Miss Herrick and Mrs. Redmond before matters were finally arranged, and until they were Elizabeth was told nothing. When everything was settled, even to the day and the train by which she was to go, Miss Herrick announced to her that she was to pay a visit of indefinite length to her aunt in Virginia.

"Oh, I don't want to!" exclaimed Elizabeth.

"That makes no difference," returned her aunt. "You must."

"But I won't!" cried the child, stamping her foot. "You have no right to send me away from home."

"Be quiet, Elizabeth! Your temper is becoming quite ungovernable. I hope your aunt Helen will be able to control you."

"She will never have a chance, Aunt Caroline. Rather than go there I will run away from here--I will!"

"Nonsense!" said Miss Herrick, and thought no more of the threat.

Elizabeth left the room, pondering deeply. It would be quite impossible for her to go among strangers, and so far away. Her father might come home any day. She must be at home herself to receive him.

And besides, she could not possibly go to live at her aunt Helen's house, where there were so many boys and girls, among them the incomparable Marjorie of whom Val had spoken so much. Elizabeth remembered all about her, although several months had elapsed since his visit. Her lonely life with its burden of grief and disappointment in regard to her father had told upon her even more than the doctor suspected. She dreaded going among people whom she did not know, and at this distance Valentine also seemed a stranger.

Anything would be preferable to going to Virginia, even life at the Bradys', her only friends.

And this suggested something to her. She would disappear from her home and take refuge with the Brady family. She had read in the newspaper of people disappearing from their homes, therefore it would be quite possible. Life at the Bradys' would not be altogether desirable, but anything was better than being sent away off to Virginia to live with Marjorie.

And if she were at the Bradys' she would be near enough to hear of her father's return, if he ever came. She would ask them to say nothing about her being there, and she would be careful not to go near the back of the house, so there would be no chance of her being discovered, for her aunts would never think of looking for her there.

Her mind was fully made up. She would take refuge with the Brady family.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.

BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.