Dandelion Cottage/Chapter 21
CHAPTER XXI
Submitting to The Inevitable
THE unhappy girls could not trust themselves to talk as they hastened homeward. They held hands tightly, walking four abreast along the quiet street, and barely managed to keep the tears back and the rapidly swelling lumps in their little throats successfully swallowed until Jean's trembling fingers had unlocked the cottage door.
Then, with one accord, they rushed pell-mell for the blue-room bed, hurled themselves upon its excelsior pillows and burst into tears. Jean and Bettie cried silently but bitterly. Marjory wept audibly, with long, shuddering sobs; but Mabel simply bawled. Mabel always did her crying on the excellent principle that, if a thing were worth doing at all, it was worth doing well. She was doing it so well on this occasion that Jean, who seldom cried and whose puffed, scarlet eyelids contrasted oddly and rather pathetically with her colorless cheeks, presently sat up to remonstrate.
"Mabel!" she said, slipping an arm about the chief mourner, "do you want the Milligans to hear you? We're on their side of the house, you know."
Jean couldn't have used a better argument. Mabel stopped short in the middle of one of her very best howls, sat up and shook her head vigorously.
"Well, I just guess I don't," said she. "I'd die first."
"I thought so," said Jean, with just a faint glimmer of a smile. "We mustn't let those people guess how awfully we care. Go bathe your eyes, Mabel—there must be a little warm water in the tea kettle."
Then the comforter turned to Bettie, and made the appeal that was most likely to reach that always-ready-to-help young person.
"Come, Bettie dear, you've cried long enough. We must get to work for we've a tremendous lot to do. Don't you suppose, if we had all the things packed in baskets or bundles that we could get a few of your brothers to help us move out after dark? I just can't let those Milligans gloat over us while we go back and forth with things."
Bettie's only response was a sob.
"Where in the world can we put the things?" asked Marjory, sitting up suddenly and displaying a blotched and swollen countenance very unlike her usual fair, rose-tinted face. "Of course we can each take our dolls and books home, but our furniture"
"I'm going to ask mother if we can't store it upstairs in our barn. I'm sure she'll let us."
"Oh, I wish Mr. Black were here. It doesn't seem possible we've really got to move. There must be some way out of it. Oh Bettie! couldn't we write to Mr. Black?"
"It would take too—oo—oo long," sobbed Bettie, sitting up and mopping her eyes with the muslin window curtain, which she could easily reach from the foot of the bed. "He's way off in Washington. Oh dear—oh dear—oh dear!"
"Why couldn't we telegraph?" demanded Marjory, with whom hope died hard. "Telegrams go pretty fast, don't they?"
"They cost terribly," said Bettie. "They're almost as expensive as express packages. Still, we might find out what it costs."
"I dough the telegraph-mad," wheezed Mabel from the wash-basin. "I'll go hobe and telephode hib and ask what it costs—I've heard my father give hib bessages lots of tibes—Oh by, by dose is all stuffed up."
"Try a handkerchief," suggested Jean. "Go ask, if you want to; it won't do any harm nor probably any good."
Mabel ran home, taking care to keep her back turned toward the Milligan house. During her brief absence, the girls bathed their eyes and made sundry other futile attempts to do away with all outward signs of grief.
"He says," cried Mabel, bursting in excitedly, "that sixty cents is the regular price daytimes, but it's forty cents for a night message. It seems kind of mean to wake folks up in the middle of the night just to save twenty cents, doesn't it?"
"Yes," said Bettie. "I couldn't be impolite enough to do that to anybody I like as well as I like Mr. Black. If we haven't money enough to send a daytime message, we mustn't send any."
"Well, we haven't," said Jean. "We've only thirty-five cents."
"And we wouldn't have had that," said Mabel, "if I hadn't remembered that wallpaper just in the nick of time."
Strangely enough, not one of the girls thought of the money in the bank. Perhaps it did not occur to them that it would be possible to remove any portion of their precious seven and a half dollars without withdrawing it all—they knew little of business matters. Neither did they think of appealing to their parents for aid at this crisis; but, indeed, they were all too dazed from the suddenness and tremendousness of the blow to think very clearly about anything. The sum needed seemed a large one to the girls, who habitually bought a cent's worth of candy at a time from the generous proprietor of the little corner shop. Mabel, the only one with an allowance, was, to her father's way of thinking, a hopeless little spendthrift, already deeply plunged in debt by her unpaid fines for lateness to meals.
The Tucker income did not go round for the grown-ups, so of course there were few pennies for the Tucker children. Marjory's Aunty Jane had ideas of her own on the subject of spending-money for little girls—Marjory did not suspect that the good, but rather austere woman made a weekly pilgrimage to the bank for the purpose of depositing, religiously, a small sum in her niece's name, and if she had known it, Marjory would probably have been improvident enough to prefer spot cash in smaller amounts. Only that morning tender-hearted Jean had heard patient Mrs. Mapes lamenting because butter had gone up two cents a pound and because all the bills had seemed larger than those of the preceding month—Jean always took the family bills very much to heart.
The girls sorrowfully concluded that there was nothing left for them to do but to obey Mr. Downing. They had looked forward with dread to giving up the cottage when winter should come, but the idea of losing it in midsummer was a thousand times worse.
"We'll just have to give it up," said grieved little Bettie. "There's nothing else we can do, with Mr. Black away. When I go home to-night I'll write to him and apologise about not being able to keep our promise about the dinner party—that's the hardest thing of all to give up."
"But you don't know his address," objected Jean.
"Yes I do, for father wrote to him about some church business this morning, before going away, and gave Dick the letter to mail. Of course Dick forgot all about it and left it on the hall mantelpiece. It's probably there yet, for I'm the only person that ever remembers to mail father's letters—he forgets them himself most of the time."
"Now let's get to work," said Jean. "Since we have to move let's pretend we really want to—I've always thought it must be quite exciting to really truly move. You see, we must get it over before the Milligans guess that we've begun, and there isn't any too much time left. I'll begin to take down the things in the parlour and tie them up in the bed clothes. We'll leave all the curtains until the last so that no one will know what we're doing."
"I'll help you," said Bettie.
"Mabel and I might be packing the dishes," said Marjory. "It will be easier to do it while we have the table left to work on. Come along, Mabel."
Mabel followed obediently. When the forlorn pair reached the kitchen, Marjory announced her intention of exploring the little shed for empty baskets, leaving Mabel to stack the cups and plates in compact piles. Mabel, without knowing just why she did it, picked up her old friend, the cracked lemonade-pitcher and gave it a little shake. Something rattled. Mabel, always an inquisitive young person, thrust her fingers into the dusty depths to bring up a piece of money—two pieces—three—pieces—four pieces.
"Oh!" she gasped, "it's my lemonade money. Oh, what a lucky omen! Girls! Gir"
The next instant Mabel clapped a plump, dusty hand over her own lips to keep them from announcing the discovery, and then, stealthily concealing the twenty cents in the pocket that still contained the wall-paper money, she stole quickly through the cottage and ran to her own home.