Part 8 (1/2)

And I play the banjo decently well, you know, and sing more or less--and tell stories, or read aloud; and I most always go dressed up in some sort of a fancy costume 'cause I can't seem to find any other thing to do that astonishes sick people so much and makes them sit up so bravely and look so s.h.i.+ny. And really, it isn't such dreadfully hard work to do, because everything fits together so well. The short skirts, for instance, that turn me into such a jolly prattling great-grandchild for the poor old gentleman, make me just a perfectly rational, contemporaneous-looking play-mate for the small Cambridge girl. I'm so very, very little!”

”Only, of course,” she finished wryly; ”only, of course, it costs such a horrid big lot for costumes and carriages and things. That's what's 'busted' me, as the boys say. And then, of course, I'm most dreadfully sleepy all the day times when I ought to be writing nice things for my Serial-Letter Co. business. And then one day last week--” the vivid red lips twisted oddly at one corner. ”One night last week they sent me word from Cambridge that the little, little girl was going to die--and was calling and calling for the 'Gray-Plush Squirrel Lady'.

So I hired a big gray squirrel coat from a furrier whom I know, and I ripped up my m.u.f.f and made me the very best sort of a hot, gray, smothery face that I could--and I went out to Cambridge and sat three hours on the footboard of a bed, cracking jokes--and nuts--to beguile a little child's death-pain. And somehow it broke my heart--or my spirit--or something. Somehow I think I could have stood it better with my own skin face! Anyway the little girl doesn't need me any more. Anyway, it doesn't matter if someone did need me!... I tell you I'm 'broke'! I tell you I haven't got one single solitary more thing to give! It isn't just my pocket-book that's empty: it's my head that's spent, too! It's my heart that's altogether stripped! _And I'm going to run away! Yes, I am!_”

Jumping to her feet she stood there for an instant all out of breath, as though just the mere fancy thought of running away had almost exhausted her. Then suddenly she began to laugh.

”I'm so tired of making up things,” she confessed; ”why, I'm so tired of making up grandfathers, I'm so tired of making up pirates, I'm so tired of making-up lovers--that I actually cherish the bill collector as the only real, genuine acquaintance whom I have in Boston.

Certainly there's no slightest trace of pretence about him!... Excuse me for being so flippant,” she added soberly, ”but you see I haven't got any sympathy left even for myself.”

”But for heaven's sake!” cried Stanton, ”why don't you let somebody help you? Why don't you let me--”

”Oh, you _can_ help me!” cried the little red-lipped voice excitedly.

”Oh, yes, indeed you can help me! That's why I came here this evening.

You see I've settled up now with every one of my creditors except you and the youngish Boston lady, and I'm on my way to her house now.

We're reading Oriental Fairy stories together. Truly I think she'll be very glad indeed to release me from my contract when I offer her my coral beads instead, because they are dreadfully nice beads, my real, unpretended grandfather carved them for me himself.... But how can I settle with you? I haven't got anything left to settle with, and it might be months and months before I could refund the actual cash money. So wouldn't you--couldn't you please call my coming here this evening an equivalent to one week's subscription?”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Oh! Don't I look--gorgeous!” she stammered]

Wriggling out of the cloak and veil that wrapped her like a chrysalis she emerged suddenly a glimmering, s.h.i.+mmering little oriental figure of satin and silver and haunting sandalwood--a veritable little incandescent rainbow of spangled moonlight and flaming scarlet and dark purple shadows. Great, heavy, jet-black curls caught back from her small piquant face by a blazing rhinestone fillet,--cheeks just a tiny bit over-tinted with rouge and excitement,--big, red-brown eyes packed full of high lights like a startled fawn's,--bold in the utter security of her masquerade, yet scared almost to death by the persistent underlying heart-thump of her unescapable self-consciousness,--altogether as tantalizing, altogether as unreal, as a vision out of the Arabian Nights, she stood there staring quizzically at Stanton.

”_Would_ you call it--an--equivalent? _Would_ you?” she asked nervously.

Then pirouetting over to the largest mirror in sight she began to smooth and twist her silken sash into place. Somewhere at wrist or ankle twittered the jingle of innumerable bangles.

”Oh! Don't I look--gorgeous!” she stammered. ”O--h--h!”

VIII

Everything that was discreet and engaged-to-be-married in Stanton's conservative make-up exploded suddenly into one utterly irresponsible speech.

”You little witch!” he cried out. ”You little beauty! For heaven's sake come over here and sit down in this chair where I can look at you! I want to talk to you! I--”

Pirouetting once more before the mirror, she divided one fleet glance between admiration for herself and scorn for Stanton.

”Oh, yes, I felt perfectly sure that you'd insist upon having me 'pretty'!” she announced sternly. Then courtesying low to the ground in mock humility, she began to sing-song mischievously:

”So Molly, Molly made-her-a-face, Made it of rouge and made it of lace.

Long as the rouge and the lace are fair, Oh, Mr. Man, what do you care?”

”You don't need any rouge or lace to make _you_ pretty!” Stanton fairly shouted in his vehemence. ”Anybody might have known that that lovely, little mind of yours could only live in a--”

”Nonsense!” the girl interrupted, almost temperishly. Then with a quick, impatient sort of gesture she turned to the table, and picking up book after book, opened it and stared in it as though it had been a mirror. ”Oh, maybe my mind is pretty enough,” she acknowledged reluctantly. ”But likelier than not, my face is not becoming--to me.”

Crossing slowly over to Stanton's side she seated herself, with much jingling, rainbow-colored, sandalwood-scented dignity, in the chair that the Doctor had just vacated.

”Poor dear, you've been pretty sick, haven't you?” she mused gently.

Cautiously then she reached out and touched the soft, woolly cuff of his blanket-wrapper. ”Did you really like it?” she asked.