Part 32 (2/2)
How long the impromptu concert might have continued no one knows, but through a break in the sea of faces surrounding them, Peace caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sherrar's portly form, and it reminded her suddenly of where she was and how she came to be there. Breaking off in the midst of her song, she thrust the heavy cup back into the owner's hands, bowed to the astonished throng, and cried shrilly, ”He's been sick and can't play as much as he used to could, until he gets strong again; so he needs all the money he can get. Don't forget him when you go by again.”
Grabbing Allee by the arm, she whisked away to where her friends were waiting, fearful lest they might not approve of her impulsive action; so before they had a chance to speak a word either of blame or praise, she began, excusingly, ”Just s'posing we all had our eyes punched out so's we couldn't see, and had to sit on street corners and grind out music all day long. Wouldn't it be terrible? I--I--thought--maybe it might help a little if we joined in the music, and it did. He's got a whole cupful of money, and now maybe he'll go home and rest a bit. He's been sick.”
Tears filled the eyes of the little company of grown-ups, and Frances, with an understanding heart, drew the childish figures close, saying tenderly, ”For these bonnie little la.s.sies I'd lay me doon and dee.”
CHAPTER XIX
HEARTBREAK
It was a wild, stormy, October night. The rain fell fitfully, and the howling wind raced madly through forest and over farmland, shrieking down chimneys, rattling windows and doors, whistling through every conceivable crack and crevice, and rudely buffeting any traveler who chanced to be abroad. In the brown house three rosy-cheeked little maids lay fast asleep in their beds in the tiny back chamber, blissfully unconscious of wind and rain; but in the room below Faith and Hope kept anxious vigil, awaiting Gail's return from the darkness and the storm.
”I should have gone, too,” croaked Faith, in a voice so hoa.r.s.e she could scarcely speak above a whisper.
”No, indeed,” Hope declared. ”You have a dreadful cold now; but I think she might have let me go. Towzer isn't enough company on such a night, and like as not he will get tired of waiting and come home without her.
What was that? Oh, only the clock. Eleven! I had no idea it was so late.”
She rose from her chair and paced restlessly back and forth across the room, pausing at every turn to look first out of one window and then out of the other, as if trying to penetrate the inky blackness of the stormy night. The unlatched gate creaked dismally on its hinges; somewhere a door banged shut; and then an old bucket blew off the back porch and down the steps with a rattlety-clatter which made the two watchers within start and s.h.i.+ver.
Peace heard it, too, and sat bolt upright in bed, not knowing what had awakened her, but trembling like a leaf with nervous fear. A terrific gust of wind roared around the corner, shaking the little brown house from rafter to foundation; the great elm trees tossed and groaned in sympathy, and the leafless vines over the porch beat a mournful tattoo against the walls.
”Have you ever heard the wind go 'Yoooooo?'
'Tis a pitiful sound to hear!
It seems to chill you through and through With a strange and speechless fear,”
chattered Peace, hardly conscious of what she was saying. The gate shut with a clang. ”What's that? Sounded 's if--it _was_ the gate banging and someone is coming up the steps! I wonder who it can be this time of night and in all this storm?”
She listened intently for the visitor to knock. None came, but the front door was opened unceremoniously, a blast of wind tore through the house, and she heard two excited, relieved voices exclaim, ”Oh, Gail! We thought you would never come. Take off your coat this minute! You are drenched!”
”What on earth is Gail doing out of doors in this rain?” said Peace to herself. ”She was sewing when I came up to bed. I'm going to find out.”
Tumbling out of her warm nest, she crept softly down the stairs, and slipped behind the faded drapery which served as door to the tiny hall closet, from which position she could watch the girls in the living-room, and hear much of what they were saying.
The first words which greeted her ears as the curtain fell back in position with her behind it, were Faith's: ”Oh, Gail, not Mr.
_Skinner_!”
”Yes,” answered the oldest sister in a strained, unnatural voice that struck terror to the little spy's heart, ”Mr. Skinner!”
”But I thought Mr. Hartman held the mortgage,” Hope began in bewildered tones.
”He did, dear,” Gail answered. ”I supposed he still held it; we paid the last interest money to him.”
”Then how--”
”Two years ago Mr. Hartman signed a note for old Mr. Lowe on the Liberty Road. The Lowes have always been considered wealthy people, and the two families have been close friends for years, so he thought there would be no trouble about the note; but when it fell due in July Mr. Lowe couldn't pay, and Mr. Hartman had to. He owns quite a little property, I guess, but all his ready money had gone into fixing up his buildings and putting up a new barn. Mr. Skinner wouldn't give an extension of time on the note, and said he would take nothing but cash payment or the mortgage on our farm. He has always wanted this place, it seems, and had expected to get it when papa bought it--you know the first owner was a great friend of our family--and there was some bad feeling over it. He never liked us, and Peace's prank with his bull settled everything. He was fairly insulting--”
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