Part 13

Time in a business office is a deliberate affair, Elaine soon discovered. It was no wonder that much was accomplished when the hours were two or three times as long as the easy-going hours with which she was best acquainted. At ten o’clock she was impatient for luncheon. At eleven she wanted to go home. By noon she was ready for bed.

The other girl in the office gave her information in more or less technical terms, which left Elaine little the wiser. It was incredible that she could ever master the meaning of the phrases Miss Newell rattled off so glibly. Each new item, as she gave it her attention, crowded out all that had gone before. She felt like a spent swimmer, clutching desperately at slippery, water-soaked stalks, to find each giving way in her hand. And when Miss Newell had finished Elaine was gasping, like a swimmer who has come to the surface after going under.

The middle of the afternoon found her tired, bewildered and so near to complete disheartenment that it needed only a feather’s weight addition to her load to wreck her weakened courage. As ill luck would have it, that trifling extra was forthcoming. About three o’clock the office door swung ajar to admit a florid gentleman, accompanied by two young girls. Elaine, recalling Miss Newell’s instructions, rose hastily and approached them.

"Did you wish to see Mr. Mannering?" she began, addressing the florid gentleman. Then all at once it flashed over her that the something vaguely familiar in the faces of the two girls was not a misleading fancy, as she had thought. She really knew them, for she had met them at Peggy Raymond’s Hallowe’en party. So strong had Elaine’s feeling of forlornness become by now that even the appearance of these mere acquaintances gave her pleasure out of all proportion to its exciting cause. The color rose in her cheeks, as she said smilingly, "Why, good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," said the girls in chorus, and returned her look blankly. It did not occur to her that her own tardy recognition should have given her the key for interpreting their unresponsive manner. The possibility that these acquaintances failed to recognize her, as she had come so near failing to recognize them, was far from her thoughts. She was being snubbed, taught her place. She would have to remember, henceforth, that a girl who worked in a real estate office must not expect cordial treatment from girls who, like the lilies of the field, toiled not, and yet outdid Solomon in gay apparel.

Just what the florid man wanted, and whether he got it or not, Elaine was never exactly sure. For in the abyss of humiliation into which she had descended connected thought was impossible. In her misery and confusion she was conscious of but one thing, an overwhelming longing for the end of that dreadful day. Plenty of girls have gone home from just such experiences, to be cheered, soothed, encouraged, and sent out in the morning with teeth set and heart resolute. But the atmosphere of Elaine’s home was not of the sort to revive the fainting and inspire the discouraged. Mrs. Marshall, as well as her daughter, had spent a wretched day, weeping at frequent intervals, and bemoaning the changed fortunes which had brought her family to such straits. There was nothing in her companionship to invigorate the girl who crept home at nightfall, half crushed under a burden no less heavy because it was largely imaginary. Elaine’s evident dejection plunged Mrs. Marshall still deeper into melancholy, and the mother’s low spirits reacted on the girl. Instead of the mutual helpfulness which should have been given each was making it harder for the other.

When Peggy Raymond made her appearance at eight o’clock Elaine was lying back in the easy chair, her eyes closed, and her face colorless. Mrs. Marshall, sitting on the other side of the round table, had the air of one who has expected the worst all along, and whose sole remaining comfort is the doubtful joy of saying, "I told you so."

"Headache?" exclaimed Peggy sympathetically, yet cheerily too, for Peggy had an intuitive shrinking from the sympathy which knocks the props out from under a tottering courage. "Well, the first day of anything is always a hard day. Want me to rub your head?"

"I don’t know." Elaine spoke languidly, more as if it were too much trouble to refuse than as if she welcomed the thought of Peggy’s ministrations. Indeed she was almost in the mood to resent the idea of being made comfortable. But Peggy slipped behind her chair, stroking the throbbing temples with a touch at once gentle and assured. "Uncle John telephoned me this evening," she observed. "He says you take things a little hard, but that you’ll be all right as soon as you’re used to it."

Mrs. Marshall sighed heavily, and Elaine came to life sufficiently to say with some spirit, "There are some things one never would get used to."

Peggy’s caressing hand paused a moment. "Some things! What sort of things do you mean?"

"Like being snubbed, for instance."

"Snubbed?" cried Peggy, startled.

"Of course it’s no more than I should have expected. When I took up that work, I ought to have known that people would look down on me, and treat me accordingly. But, somehow, I wasn’t prepared for it."

"Look here, Elaine," said Peggy, thoroughly aroused. "Business is business, and when a girl goes into an office, she must expect that she’ll be told of her mistakes. But to imagine that Uncle John is going to look down on anybody--"

"Oh!" Elaine’s tone was apologetic, as she interrupted. "It wasn’t your uncle. He was very kind indeed, all that I saw of him. But along in the afternoon--" to her amazement she was obliged to pause to get control of her voice--"two girls came in, girls I met at your house," she faltered. "Their name is Henderson."

"Bess and Lu! Well, what of it?"

"Why, I spoke to them before I thought, just as I would anywhere. Everything seemed so strange that I had a silly feeling as if it were awfully nice to see anybody I knew. And they--O, Peggy!" Elaine broke down and sobbed helplessly. "They were so cold and distant, and all at once I realized how they must feel to have a girl in an office acting as if she thought she was as good as they were. I suppose I deserved to be snubbed."

"If I had been listened to," observed Mrs. Marshall tragically, "this could not have happened."

"Why, I never heard of such a thing," Peggy cried, finding her voice. "Lu and Bessie are nice, sensible girls, as far as I know. I can’t imagine their doing anything so ill-bred and silly as snubbing you for speaking to them. I simply can’t believe it."

"It’s true, though." Elaine wiped away her tears and Peggy took a long look at her. "Well, what of it?" she said.

Elaine hesitated. "You mean--"

"I mean it’s not worth a second thought. If they didn’t intend anything, there’s no sense in worrying. And if they did, they’re beneath your notice."

"But, Peggy!" Elaine expostulated, "don’t you see I can’t go on with this if people are going to look down on me and despise me? I don’t mind how hard I work, but this--"

Something in Peggy’s look halted her mid-way in the sentence. The other girl’s eyes were ablaze.

"Elaine, see here. Why did you apply for that position in the first place?"

"Why, I needed the money, Peggy."

"You didn’t do it on the spur of the moment, did you? You thought about it, and made up your mind that it was the right thing to do?"

"Why, ye-es--" Elaine hesitated, feeling a little suspicious that she was walking into a trap.

"You’re the same Elaine to-night that you were yesterday, aren’t you? You haven’t been spoiled, by spending a day in Uncle John’s office. Is there any reason why anybody should like you less or respect you less?"

"Of course not, Peggy. It’s only the way people feel about such things."

Peggy did not mean to stop till she had spoken her mind. "You’re ready to give up doing something you’re sure is right and sensible because of what people think. You know they’re wrong. You know such prejudices are silly and mistaken and yet you haven’t got the courage to fight them."

"I don’t know who would be brave enough for that," Elaine said dejectedly.

"Everybody ought to be brave enough. Think of the people in the world who’ve conquered real obstacles, people like Helen Keller, for instance. It’s a shame for such a girl as you to give in to a lie, to let herself be beaten by something she despises. You’re in the right and you know it. Hold your head up and let people think what they please."

Peggy’s exhortation broke off abruptly on the discovery that there was a fourth person in the room. A tall girl stood behind her, looking down upon her with a face oddly like Elaine’s, though something--not years alone--had given it a rather pathetic maturity. She was pale, and the shadows under her eyes made them seem unnaturally large. As she met Peggy’s startled gaze a little smile fluttered across her lips, and then, as if unaccustomed to those surroundings, was lost in instant gravity.

"I’ve been listening to you, Peggy Raymond," she said, in a voice which Peggy instantly recognized as one she had heard before, and that over the telephone. "And I think the cap fits me."

Peggy sprang to her feet. Even in her excitement she was on her guard against betraying the secret of Elaine’s confidence. Fortunately her confusion over Grace’s unexpected appearance and contribution to the conversation was sufficient for the exigencies of the case. No one could have guessed from her manner that she had a previous knowledge of Grace’s presence in the house.

"Sit down, Peggy Raymond." The older girl touched Peggy’s shoulder lightly, and seated herself near by. A furtive glance told Peggy that Mrs. Marshall’s face was colorless, and that Elaine was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her eyes protruding, as if her sister had been a chance visitor from another planet.

Apparently Grace was not impressed by the excitement due to her unheralded appearance. "I’m Grace Marshall," she said, addressing Peggy. "Elaine’s sister."

"I couldn’t help knowing that you were Elaine’s sister, after really looking at you," Peggy replied, trying to smile naturally. Grace reflected a minute, apparently studying the pattern of the carpet.

"So you don’t believe in giving in to a lie."

"No!" Peggy gulped. "I don’t."

"And if you’re in the right, you should hold your head up and let people think what they please. Isn’t that what you said?"

"It’s what I believe, anyway, with all my heart."

"I half think you’re right. And do you know, Peggy Raymond, I’ve been acting on a very different plan. I’m going to tell you something that happened not so very long ago and see what you have to say about that."

It was the story Peggy had heard before, shorn of some of its tragedy, compressed into as few words as possible; a bald little tale, if the burning eyes of the narrator had not supplied the pathos. She sat with crossed hands as she told it, and when she had finished, looked expectantly in Peggy’s direction. "Well?" she said as the other hesitated.

"Well," cried Peggy, voicing a sentiment she had expressed earlier, "somebody ought to hide. But not you."

"Then you think I’ve been silly."

"Yes." Peggy’s smile took the edge off her bluntness.

"And cowardly?"

"You could be braver."

"Well, I’ve been brave enough to come down and see you, anyway." Grace laughed out, and Peggy noticed that both Elaine and her mother started nervously at the sound. "You mustn’t think me familiar on short acquaintance. You see I’ve known you for some time, and the most popular topic of conversation in this house since we moved in has been Peggy Raymond. You don’t mind my calling you _Peggy_?"

"I’d mind dreadfully if you called me anything else. And, by the way!" Peggy had some sensible ideas as to striking when the iron is hot. "Mayn’t I bring some of the girls in to see you? They will be so interested when they know Elaine’s sister has come."

Grace’s gesture reminded Peggy of one who, coming from the darkness of a cellar, blinks and shrinks away from the sunshine.

"Not yet. Not quite yet," she pleaded. "Let me get a little used to things first." And Peggy wisely forbore to press her, guessing that as soon as Grace began to live normally her unnatural shrinking from companionship would disappear.

It was an exciting evening. Peggy stayed till her mother telephoned to ask if anything was the matter. When some reference was made to Elaine’s headache, Elaine protested.

"Headache! I haven’t any headache. I never felt better in my life."

Peggy viewed her with approval. It was not only that Elaine’s color had returned, and her languid eyes had brightened. There was another change, indefinable, but not to be mistaken. When courage and resolution come flooding back into a heart deprived of both the least observing cannot fail to note the difference.

"Going to the office, to-morrow?" Peggy demanded, as she rose to go.

"Of course."

"And you’re not going to say silly things any more, are you, about people who look down on you?"

"I’m not going to be beaten by my sister. Grace needn’t think she’s got a monopoly in the courage of the family." Elaine slipped her arm about Grace’s shoulders, her face so transformed by tenderness and pride that it was hardly recognizable.

Grace looked rueful over the implied compliment. "I’m afraid neither of us could be called heroines. But Peggy’s started us right, and we’ll have to help each other to be brave."

It certainly was a remarkable evening. But the thing which astonished Peggy even more than the dramatic appearance of Elaine’s mysterious sister, was the fact that Mrs. Marshall kissed her good night.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*AMY IS DISILLUSIONED*

"Elaine’s sister here! Why, I didn’t even know she had a sister. Is she nice, Peggy? Has she come here to live? It’ll be lovely for Elaine, won’t it?"

That was the way Friendly Terrace received the announcement of the third member of the Marshall household. It was surprisingly easy, Peggy found, to evade answering questions as to the date of Grace’s arrival, and the reason she had not joined the family earlier. Peggy said with perfect truth that Grace was not very strong and that even now it might be some time before she was able to see Elaine’s friends.

But by the end of a fortnight Grace was so far restored to the normal attitude of girlhood toward the world outside that she no longer shrank back from the window if a passer-by chanced to look up, nor gave evidences of collapse when Peggy suggested that one of the girls might come in with her after school.

As a matter of fact Grace made a much more favorable impression on the girls of the Terrace than Elaine had done. There was something in her look of fragile delicacy that was distinctly appealing. Ruth lost her heart to her at once, after the impulsive fashion of school girls. Priscilla, who, ever since her misunderstanding with Peggy, had been on her good behavior, took especial pains to be cordial to the new-comer. It occurred to Peggy one afternoon to wonder how it happened that Amy had not as yet accepted any of their invitations to call and meet Elaine’s sister.

"I’m sure you’d like her, Amy. And you’re just the one to do her good. Suppose we run in for a few minutes."

"I guess not." Amy’s tone was hollow. "I don’t feel like meeting strangers."

Peggy cast a sidelong glance in her direction, and made a discovery which temporarily banished from her mind the topic under discussion.

"Amy, I believe you are growing thin."

She made the announcement jubilantly, expecting it to be received with enthusiasm, but Amy did not speak.

"Have you really left off eating candy?" continued Peggy, innocently interested. "Seems to me I haven’t noticed any boxes of chocolates in your desk lately."

"I haven’t been eating very much candy." Amy sighed so heavily that Peggy looked at her again. Amy had really lost flesh, but that was not all. About her hung an air of depression, as inconsistent with the normal Amy as hollow cheeks, or a total loss of appetite.

"Amy, I believe something is the matter. What is it?"

"You’d think it was silly." Amy’s tone indicated a longing to confide her griefs, only restrained by a dread of being laughed at.

"Silly troubles are the very worst of all sometimes," Peggy declared comfortingly. "Go ahead, dear. Out with it."

For a moment Amy hesitated. Then her pent-up woes burst bounds.

"I’m not going to live through the year."

"What!" Peggy could not believe that she had heard aright. "What did you say? I didn’t understand."

"I’m not going to live through the year." Amy repeated her startling statement with a deliberation and an emphasis which carried the conviction that at least she meant what she said. Peggy burst into excited expostulation.

"Amy, you’re crazy. I never heard anything so absurd. You have lost a little flesh, to be sure, but no more than is becoming. I thought you would be delighted. What makes you think that anything ails you?"

"I didn’t say that anything ailed me, did I?"

"If you don’t expect to live, it stands to reason that you must be sick."

Amy shook her head. "I might be killed in an accident. Or I might be taken sick suddenly, and not live more than two or three days."

Peggy’s suspicions were aroused. "Amy Lassell, you’ve been doing something silly."

"You can laugh if you like. I dare say it seems funny to you." Amy spoke with an injured air which Peggy failed to notice, so busy was she in following the clue which her quick wit had suggested.

"I know," she burst out. "It’s a fortune teller."

Amy made no effort at evasion. On the whole it seemed a relief to be found out.

"Yes, it was a fortune teller. But if she’d been a faker she never would have told me that, you know yourself. They tell you how rich you’re going to be, and whether you’re going to be married once or twice, and things of that sort. But the ones who are just tricksters, don’t ever tell people they are going to die right away."

Peggy checked her impulse to laugh. The thing might seem a joke to her, but it was serious enough to Amy. Her loss of flesh, and even more the haunted look in her eyes, was proof of that.

"Tell me all about it," she said soothingly, and Amy closed with her offer so hastily as to suggest that all she had wanted was a chance.

"She’s a woman on West Spring Street, Madame Planchet. Lots of girls go there to get their fortunes told, just for the fun of the thing. One day Blanche Estabrook and I were going past, when she suggested that we should stop. Madame Planchet only charges a quarter."

"That’s cheap, considering what she gives you," observed Peggy with an irony that glanced harmlessly from her friend’s armor.

"Of course neither of us took it a bit seriously," Amy explained. "We were both laughing when we went in and all the time Blanche was having her fortune told I fairly stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth, I giggled so. Blanche’s fortune didn’t sound a bit true, you know. It was all about coming into a lot of money, and that she was going to have a serious sickness when she was about twenty, but she’d recover and be a lot healthier after that. And I supposed mine would be just the same. But it wasn’t."

"Go on!" Peggy prompted impatiently, for poor Amy paused, as if she found it difficult to disclose to another the black page of the future so unexpectedly revealed to herself.

"Well, she looked at my hand a minute, and then she said, ’I can’t tell your fortune. There is nothing to tell.’ I was so stupid that I didn’t understand for a minute. I thought she only meant that there wouldn’t be much doing in my life, you know. And I asked her if I wasn’t going to get married. I thought fortune tellers married everybody off. And then she said in a dreadful voice, ’You have no future,’ and I began to understand."

"Poor Amy! To pay a quarter for that!" Peggy cried, but Amy refused to smile.

"I asked her how long I was likely to live, and she said it wasn’t possible to be exact. It might be six months, and it might be a little more. She was sure I shouldn’t live out the year." Amy paused a moment before she added, "And one month has gone already."

"O, you goose!" cried Peggy. "You dear silly goose! Don’t you see how perfectly absurd it all is?" She launched into arguments convincing to herself, but useless as far as Amy was concerned. More profound logicians than Peggy long ago discovered the hopelessness of mere reason when confronted with a well-grounded superstition.

Peggy went home thoroughly uneasy, and reproaching herself that her absorption in Elaine’s affairs had blinded her to Amy’s troubles. The month of anxiety had told upon the girl. The dismal prophecy might fulfil itself. Peggy’s attention wandered from her geometry that evening. More absorbing than the theorem assigned for her lesson was the question of helping Amy.

When she suggested a walk the following afternoon there was a brightness in her eye which indicated that her hard thinking had not been unprofitable, in her own opinion at least. Amy was not inclined to be enthusiastic over the proposal.

"I don’t know as I care much about walking where I’m likely to be seen. I thought it was going to rain this morning, and I put on this old tam I haven’t had on my head this year."

"All the better," Peggy said jubilantly. Then, as Amy looked as if she would like to know what was meant by that speech, if it were not too much trouble to ask, Peggy added hastily, "We’ll take the side streets. It won’t matter if your tam is old."

Once under way Peggy set herself to be entertaining. She talked so rapidly, changing the subject with such abruptness as to hold Amy’s attention fixed on her conversational gymnastics. When she halted suddenly in front of a shabby looking building on West Spring Street Amy cast a startled glance about her and fixed her gaze on a fly-specked card, in the window, bearing the announcement, "Madame Planchet, Palmist." Then she turned on Peggy eyes brimful of reproach.

Peggy had expected this. "We are going in," she said quietly.

"No, Peggy. O, not again! I can’t stand it."

"Yes, we are, my dear. And the only thing I ask of you is not to say a word more than you can help. Leave me to do the talking."

She pushed Amy up the steps ahead of her, and held tightly to her arm, as she rang the bell, apparently apprehensive that her captive would take to flight if not forcibly detained. Amy’s air of shrinking horror did much to justify this suspicion. When shuffling footsteps sounded in the hall, and a slatternly girl opened the door, Amy drew back with a precipitateness which came near sending the two of them to the bottom of the steps.

"Is Madame Planchet at home?" demanded Peggy, righting herself adroitly, and clutching Amy more tightly than before.

"Walk in," said the slattern, and led them down the hall to a stuffy little room hung with mysterious charts. Peggy looked about her with an air of interest.

"I am almost sure this is the place," she cried. "Charts on the wall and red curtains, just as Roxanna said. Yes, I’m pretty sure we’re right."

Amy opened her mouth and closed it without emitting a sound, in a fashion suggestive of a dying fish. She perceived from Peggy’s expression that she was expected to listen to her friend’s observations, instead of taking part in the conversation.

"I don’t know why you should act so scared over the idea of having your fortune told, as lucky a girl as you are. For of course your Uncle Philander’s money is all coming to you."

Again Amy’s jaw dropped. She looked frankly stupid.