Part 17 (1/2)
”I know all about that, dear, we so frequently are,” Mrs. Morrison replied, smiling a little all to herself. ”But,” she added, ”you ought to be happy to-day. I came up to congratulate you on your story.”
”I have had three taken this week, and instead of being happy I hate it all!” Lillian's head went down on the papers again.
By dint of much patient encouragement and real sympathetic interest the story came out by degrees; all the hidden sorrow of months found an outlet in the broken little confession. Not very clearly told, it was yet plain enough in a general way.
A boy and girl friends.h.i.+p had grown into something stronger. Only a year ago they had made happy plans for the future they meant to spend together. Then came the misunderstanding--a trifling thing in the beginning, but which grew until she was convinced she had made a mistake, that she had never really cared. She felt she needed freedom to go her own way and do her own work. She would be independent and try life for herself.
He had laughed at first, and this hurt her pride. She would show him she was not a weak dependent creature, and with some bitter words they had parted.
”I thought I did not care--that I could be happy in my work. I meant to be famous and I did not mind being lonely,” said Lillian; ”but now that I am having a little success it means nothing because--” she hesitated, and Mrs. Morrison said softly--
”Success doesn't mean much unless there is some one to share it and be glad with us.
”Yes, that is it. Perhaps if I were a genius it would be different, but I have only a poor little talent, after all. And I see how I was most to blame. I was hateful and proud--and now there is no help for it. I don't know why I should tell it, except that you are so kind, for it cannot be undone, and I must learn to bear it.”
”It is so much better for you to speak of it, dear. And do you know what I am thinking? That it is not easy to destroy the bridge between two hearts that really love; isn't that it? All you can do is to wait and be patient, going on with your work and making yourself worthy of the best that can happen to you.”
”But when one makes a mistake one has to bear the consequences,” said Lillian, sadly.
”The pain and self-accusation--yes, but how often we are given the opportunity of undoing our mistakes. It is a hard, hard lesson you have to learn, but isn't there a star of hope somewhere that you can fix your eyes upon. Forgive me for pressing your own moral upon you, but it has helped me and I want you to take comfort.”
As Mrs. Morrison went slowly down stairs again, she said to herself, ”Poor little girl! I wish I could help her; but if her lover is what he ought to be, he will come back, I am sure.”
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH.
HARD TIMES.
Bad weather was predicted by the almanac for the first week in February, and bad weather prevailed both indoors and out.
Frances had an attack of grip which came near being pneumonia, and caused her mother some anxious days. Miss Sherwin, going in one evening to ask Zen.o.bia about the patient, found Mrs. Morrison herself in the kitchen, crying as if her heart would break, her face buried in one of her little daughter's white ap.r.o.ns that lay on the ironing-board.
”Is she worse?” Lillian exclaimed, much alarmed, for surely it must be something serious to unnerve this bright, hopeful person.
”I don't know--the doctor didn't say so--but she is ill, and one can never tell. Oh, my darling baby!--if she should get worse, and Jack away--why did I let him go!” she began a trembling search for her handkerchief. ”I left her with Zen.o.bia-- I couldn't stand it any longer, but I must go back now,” she said, wiping her eyes. ”I know I am foolish, but I can't help it.”
”You are not foolish at all, but tired and anxious, poor child,” said Lillian, with her arms around her. ”Now listen to me; Frances is going to pull through, I am certain of it. The doctor would have said so, if he thought her very ill; but I am going to stay with you. I am a good nurse,-- I took care of my little cousin only a year ago, in just such an attack, and you may lie on the sofa and watch me.”
”Oh, thank you, but--”
”Please don't say a word, dear, for I know I can help. I am going to take Zen.o.bia's place now, and you may come when you have bathed your face.”
There was strength in Lillian's quiet, confident tone; Mrs. Morrison smiled through her tears: ”You will think me a great fraud, after all my good advice to you. Like the physician who gave up his profession to enter the ministry, I find it easier to preach than to practise.”
”I am glad you are human,” Lillian answered, and dropping a kiss on her forehead, she went to relieve Zen.o.bia.
She was quite right in thinking she could help, and during the few days while Frances lingered on the brink of a serious illness she was a tower of comfort and strength. The experience drew them closer together; and when the worst was over, and the patient convalescing, Mrs. Morrison said she believed it was worth all the anxiety to have found out this side of Lillian.
”I do want you and Jack to know each other,” she said, and this meant that her new friend had been taken into the inner circle.
About this time the Spectacle Man sat at his desk in the room below with an anxious look on his usually cheery face. The storm cloud had settled upon him, too, and his trouble was a question of money.