CHAPTER VI
SYLVIA'S CALLER
When Dunham's telegram reached Sylvia Lacey she was for the time beingpowerless to disobey it. The excitement and disappointment of theinterview with her aunt had resulted in a feverish attack which, thoughslight, destroyed her ambition to do more than lie on her narrow bedand meditate upon the situation.
She could not write to the friends at home who had pictured such apleasant future for her with her Boston relatives. She was not ableeven to go out and buy a "Dramatic Mirror" to discover where Nat'scompany would be playing the coming week.
She lay white and slender in her black wrapper, and listlessly fingeredthe telegram, which was now two days old. It read:--
"Do not leave Association till you hear from me. Important. JOHN DUNHAM."
In the hopelessness of her thought her mental pictures of Dunham werealways mortifying. He had heard her belittled, had heard her fatherslandered, had forced her to accept grudging charity, and yet thesunshine of the smile with which he had bade her good-by, hisencouraging words and friendly handclasp, formed the only spot of cheerin her wilderness. The telegram was a straw to which she clung when, inthe processes of dismal thought, waves seemed to go over her head.
What important matter could be coming to her? If it were only that heintended returning, with apologies or propositions from her discardedrelations, she told herself with set lips that his errand would befruitless; but even while she took comfort in reiterating thisresolution, she was finding a ray of brightness in the idea that hewould be the messenger.
Her aunt's words often recurred to her. "Of course we knew you wouldwish to get something to do."
In the precarious hand-to-mouth existence she had led with her fathersince she was old enough to understand his visionary, happy-go-luckytemperament, he had regarded her and taught her to regard herself as aflower of the field. He had petted her, praised her beauty, and hadmanaged to pay their board spasmodically in first one, then anotherlocality; and being a good fellow who usually won the hearts of hiscreditors, it was not until after his death that a multitude of smallclaims came buzzing about his daughter's ears; and it was these as muchas anything which had made her accept with childlike insouciance thearrangement of the friends who packed her away to her relatives withall the celerity possible.
Her father's men friends had always admired and flattered her; shesupposed that men were all alike, and that she had but to throw herlovely arms around Uncle Calvin's neck and tell him of her father'smisfortunes and petty debts to have all troubles smoothed away. She haddoubted a little how she should like Uncle Calvin and Aunt Martha (thelatter's stiff epistles had not prepossessed her), but she had neverentertained one question as to how they would like her.
To hear it declared first and foremostly that they took no interest inher, and did not want her, and secondly, that they proposed sending herout into the world to work for her living--these nightmarish facts madeher rebound at once to the memory of the carefree, shabby environmentwhere rosy possibilities had always been held before her. As her eyesrested now on the bare wall of her bedroom, it softened and melteduntil she saw a vision of footlights, herself in the centre of thestage, while a murmur of applause, heart-warming, inspiring,intoxicated her senses.
The day-dream soothed her to slumber, but the applause continued.Instead of rejoicing, at last it began to disturb her. Her eyes slowlyopened, and she grew conscious that some one was knocking on her door.
At her summons a maid entered. "Somebody to see you, Miss. You don'tfeel well enough, do you?"
The girl's tone was sympathetic. Sylvia was of a different type fromthose who usually sought the Association. Her appearance suggestedromance.
"Who is it?" she asked eagerly, half rising. "A man?"
"Yes'm."
"A tall man, very straight?"
"He ain't so awful straight," returned the maid doubtfully.
"Thick hair?" (quickly).
"Yes'm."
"Handsome teeth?"
"I--I didn't see his teeth."
"Splendid chin?"
"Law, ma'am, his beard covers his chin."
"Beard!" Sylvia sprang to her feet. "You're crazy."
"No, I ain't, ma'am. Oh, 'tain't the gentleman you came here with, andthe superintendent said was one o' the best connected folks in Boston.'Tain't him. I saw him. He's grand. I guess this one is sort of acountry gentleman, but he's awful pleasant-spoken and his beard's aswhite as the driving snow."
Sylvia flung herself back on the bed. "You've made a mistake. He askedfor somebody else."
"No, ma'am," returned the maid; "because I thought first he said'silver lace,' and I thought maybe he was a peddler, 'cause he had abag; so I told him we didn't want anything, and he was real nice. Hiseyes sort of twinkled up, and he said _he did_ want something. Hewanted to see Miss--Sylvia--Lacey, real slow; and was you here? and Isaid you was, and he told me to tell you a cousin of your mother'swanted to see you, and his name was Jacob Johnson."
"I never heard of such a person," said Sylvia. "Does he lookshabby--poor? It sounds like an impostor."
"N-no," returned the girl doubtfully. "He ain't exactly a Rube, butthen you'd know he wasn't a swell, either. He looks awful nice out ofhis eyes. I'd like to have him _my_ mother's cousin."
This was somewhat encouraging, but country cousins were no part ofSylvia's plan. "You go down and tell him I've been ill. I'm not able tosee him," she said at last decidedly.
"I don't like to one bit," returned the maid. "I kind of hate todisappoint him." She lingered a moment, but Sylvia shrugged hershoulders and turned her face to the wall, so the girl departed.
Only a couple of minutes had passed when the knock sounded again onSylvia's door, and the maid pushed it open without awaiting permission.
"He asked was you able to be dressed," she began, rather breathlessfrom her quick run, "and I said you was, and he said for me to tell youhe'd come about the telegram you got."
Sylvia was still holding the telegram. She started. So Mr. Dunham wasnot coming. He had not admired her, then. He did despise her as acast-off poor relation. A flush rose to her cheeks, and she sprang fromthe bed quickly. "I'll go down," she said briefly.
"Well, I'm real glad," declared the maid. "That wrapper looks allright. I wouldn't stop to change."
She gazed admiringly at the brilliant tints of Sylvia's complexion asthe girl ran a comb through her reddish curls.
"Indeed I shan't change for him," responded Sylvia. Her heart was hotwithin her. Dunham might have come himself. Now she should never seehim again, and she didn't care. The only reason she had wished to meethim was to show him her inflexibility and independence despite heracceptance of the despised money he had forced upon her.
She swept by the maid, who continued to gaze after her with admiration,and went downstairs to the reception room.
There she found a man with gray hair and short white beard, sittingnear a window, a somewhat limp bag on the floor beside him. She pausedinside the doorway and stood regarding him.
There was nothing interesting in his appearance. She had had all shewanted of relatives. If those who would have been creditable would noneof her, she certainly would none of this countrified individual and hisclaim of cousinship.
"Good-afternoon," she began coldly. "You say you have brought me someexplanation of Mr. Dunham's telegram?"
"Why, why," said the stranger, gazing at her musingly as he slowly rosefrom his chair; "is it possible that you are Laura's little girl?"
He stood noting her repellent attitude, and Sylvia recalled the maid'sardent recommendation of the manner in which he looked out of his eyes.
"You resemble her very little," he continued, in a slow, quiet voice aspleasant as his gaze. "I hadn't remembered that Sam Lacey was sogood-looking."
This familiar mention of her mother and father seemed to establish thestranger's claim, but Sylvia was reluctant to grant it. Her hand wasstill against every man, and her look did not s
often.
As she kept silence the visitor continued. "You've heard your motherspeak of her cousin Jacob Johnson, perhaps?" he asked wistfully.
"Never," returned the girl briefly.
The man nodded. The lines in his forehead accented his expression ofpatience. His loving eyes studied the young features before him.
"Yes," he sighed, "you were still only a little girl when she wentaway, and her life was full of other things." A pause. "I wanted tomarry your mother, Sylvia." Something in his tone knocked at the doorof the girl's heart. She closed it tighter and kept silence.
"Wanted to so much that I never married anybody," he went on with thesame slow quiet. "She preferred Sam Lacey." The speaker's lips partedin a slight smile as tender as his eyes, which began to shine again."As I say, I'd forgotten how good-looking Sam was."
The knocking at Sylvia's heart grew clamorous. This man's voice touchedsome chord; and he admired her. She demanded that.
"I've tried to think right about it ever since I knew how," hecontinued with simplicity, "but there were long years when I didn'tknow how, and when the whole world seemed unprofitable. It's a realgift to see you, my little Sylvia."
The loving sincerity of the closing words shook that sensitive stringin the girl's sore heart painfully. Her eyes filled while sheendeavored to retain her self-control.
"It _is_ an unprofitable world, full of coldness, full of disappointments,"she answered brusquely.
He nodded. "True, true," he said, and advancing he took her cold handgently and led her to the chair near his own.
They sat down together.
"That sense of things is the flat, stale, unprofitable stuff we hearabout," he added. "You've been sick, too, they tell me."
"Who could tell you that?"
"The young man in Judge Trent's office. Dunham's his name."
Sylvia's face crimsoned, and she pulled her hand from its kindlyprison.
"Then he has broken his word," she said passionately.
"Steady, my girl. Perhaps you haven't the facts, and you can't thinkright till you have, you know."
"He promised he wouldn't talk to Uncle Calvin about me."
"Perhaps he hasn't. You didn't think I was Judge Trent in disguise, didyou?"
"Did he only talk to _you_? Truly, did he?"
"So far as I know. Your uncle telegraphed for me to come to the office,and I reached there this morning. I suppose Mr. Dunham hadn't promisednot to talk about you to anybody on earth, had he? Your Cousin Jacob isharmless."
Sylvia looked into the small eyes so luminous with kindness.
"But it was Uncle--Judge Trent who sent for you?"
"Yes, I think he'd somehow got the idea that you didn't care aboutseeing him."
"They've been cruel to me. Aunt Martha was--Oh, I mustn't, I can'tspeak of it!" The girl's lips pressed together after the vehementburst.
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth," said CousinJacob. The quotation from his lips became a remark. His companionlooked at him in surprise. "I've an idea you're some ways off theinheritance, Sylvia."
"There's a difference between meekness and servility, I hope," shereturned hotly.
"I hope so," agreed Jacob Johnson equably. "This matter's just likeeverything else, little girl. You haven't any call to do anything aboutit but just think right."
"Oh," murmured Sylvia impatiently.
"Yes, I know. It takes time, especially if you aren't in practice. ThatMr. Dunham's an honest, manly chap?" He put it as a question.
"Yes, indeed."
"There, then." The visitor nodded. "So far, so good. He told me whereyou were."
"And not Uncle Calvin?"
"No, he'd promised not to. A girl who thought she was high-strung,excited, and mad, made him promise not to."
"Is that the way he described me?"
Cousin Jacob pointed an emphasizing finger. "She's thinking it again.No, he didn't describe you in just those words. Well, Judge Trent andMiss Lacey took this business a good deal to heart, after all; and theysent for me to tell me about things; and as long as Mr. Dunham told mewhere you were, I thought I'd take a run to Boston. I'd go many a milefurther to see Laura's child."
"I wish she had told me about you instead of wasting time making mekiss Uncle Calvin's picture good-night." The scornful tone broughtanother smile to her companion's lips.
"Your Uncle Calvin has made his mark," he said.
"A black and blue one, I'll warrant," retorted Sylvia.
Jacob Johnson shook his head gravely. "He's made his mark, and yourCousin Jacob is only a farmer."
Sylvia's lips had nearly formed the words, "I thought so." Her eyesdropped involuntarily to the limp bag.
"I was wondering what you were intending to do here in Boston, littlegirl?"
"I can't stay in Boston," she returned, and her lip quivered. "Justthink, Cousin Jacob, I'm spending Uncle Calvin's money when I hate him!Isn't it awful?"
"It is," returned the other, with conviction. "Hating folks is the veryworst business anybody can invest in."
"I didn't mean that. Isn't it awful to be obliged to him? You don'tknow. You don't understand."
"Yes, I do," the speaker nodded. "I know the whole thing from A toizzard. Well, how do you expect to leave Boston, and what will you do?"
"Go on the stage."
"Oh, I guess not, little one. How old are you? You look fifteen, butyou're more. I remember when you were born, and how I envied Sam."
"I'm nineteen."
"If you were going on the stage, it would have been well to be thinkingof it even sooner. Have you had any experience?"
"No, except knowing an actor."
"And you're counting on his help?"
"Yes. I think I'd better marry him."
Jacob Johnson looked at her in silence. "You love him?" he asked atlast.
"A--pretty well."
Her companion shook his head, smilingly. "Is he famous?"
"No. He says his chance has never really come."
"Young?"
"Oh, no."
Cousin Jacob threw back his head. "What a way out of trouble: to manyan actor of that sort whom you love pretty well! You are very good tolook at, Sylvia, my child, and any chance you could get on the stagewould come from that. Bad business, hard business, dangerous business.Anyway, you're not strong yet. I have a proposal to make you. Come upwith me to the farm for a while and drink milk."
"Why, Cousin Jacob!" Sylvia's cheeks had grown very white, and now alittle color stole back into them. "Oh, you're kind!"
"Well, then, if you think so, come!"
"When?" Sylvia already had a sick dread of the little room upstairs andits thoughts.
"Now."
"To-day--to-night?" eagerly.
He nodded. "We may as well go to Portland to-night as to stay here.Then we'll go to the farm to-morrow."
Sylvia took his hand in both hers and looked earnestly into his eyes."Forgive me," she begged.
"For what?"
"For being so--so snippy when I first came into the room; for notbelieving in you, nor wanting you."
Cousin Jacob took her chin in his hard hand and his shining gaze methers.
"You weren't thinking right, Sylvia. Oughtn't it to make you easier onother folks? Other folks who didn't know you, who didn't believe inyou, who didn't want you? They weren't thinking right, and theysuffered for it afterward just as we all do. You'd have been kind toyour Cousin Jacob in the end, anyway. They'd have been kind in the endto their niece. I saw you weren't glad to see me. I might have pickedup my grip and left"--
"Oh, I'm so glad you didn't. I'm so glad you didn't! You'll wait whileI pack?"
He patted her shoulder. "Yes, oh, yes. I'll wait."