Aunt Penelope, who was looking awfully baffled, stooped to pick up one of the stockings that had fallen from the box. “What is this?” she asked in a sort of vacant tone, and the question, and all that tangled in its answer, evidently enraged Evelyn, for she almost exploded with rage.
“What is it?” she echoed. “What is it! Ask her!” She pointed at me. “Ever since she came,” she went on, “I have been bothered. Amy never thought of doing a thing until she appeared. Amy was always----”
But she stopped, for at that moment Amy came in and diverted the talk.
“Do you know anything about this, Amy?” asked Aunt Penelope.
Amy looked at the box and then at me. “No,” she answered.
“Why should she?” asked Evelyn. “I told you I saw the violets. I suppose she took them to Mr. Kempwood; she’s insane about him. . . . Silly little thing! . . . I hope you will make it understood, mother, that if another thing like this happens she will be shipped to her backwoods town--to stay.”
“I didn’t do it,” I said, but my voice shook, and even to myself it did not sound convincing.
“Didn’t do it!” said Evelyn, and she laughed unpleasantly.
“Where did you get the violets?” asked Aunt Penelope.
I told her, and I looked at Amy, but her face was hard, and she answered none of the appeal I sent her for help. And at that moment I began to hate her for a cheat.
“She has helped herself to my bracelet too,” Evelyn accused. “For two days it was gone, and when it came back there was a dent in it.”
“I didn’t,” I whispered. “I honestly didn’t.” But no one believed me.
“Have you any ideas about who made off with the violets?” asked aunt. “Who took the bracelet?”
I said I had. And she asked who it was, and I said I’d rather not tell. Then there was a deep, unpleasant silence, and during this everyone looked at me.
“We will have to have a very serious talk,” Aunt Penelope said to me. “I think, Natalie, you have allowed yourself to forget what you owe us, the debt our hospitality has laid on you.”
I contested, as politely as I knew how, that I had not. And I added that I had had nothing to do with the violet theft, whatever else I was mixed up in.
“Do you mean to tell me,” demanded Evelyn, waving the note we wrote, “that Amy had a thing to do with this? I can’t believe it. You didn’t, did you, Amy?”
And again Amy said “No.”
“It is too childish for her,” Evelyn continued triumphantly. “She plays as good a game of bridge as I do, mother, and she wouldn’t stoop to this sort of action. That we leave to people who accept everything and give nothing but trouble.”
“In some way,” I said, “I am going to pay you for everything”--and I could feel myself growing steadily more white, for I was furiously angry--“and I am going home,” I added, “home where truth is believed and I am trusted.” Then I looked at Amy.
“I will take some blame about the paste,” I said.
“Indeed?” said Evelyn coolly, her eyebrows raised. “Why accept any, since lying doesn’t seem to trouble you?”
I didn’t answer, and Aunt Penelope ran her hand over her forehead and said, “Dear, dear!” in a tried, worried way. Then the door-bell rang, and Aunt Penelope, Evelyn, and Amy all became quite everyday and tried to look usual. I stood silent and ignored as Jane admitted Mr. Herbert Apthorpe.
He said “Evelyn!” quite sharply and held out his hands. You could see he cared for her and was glad things were fixed, as I suspect they were, and I think Evelyn was glad too, although she didn’t show it so plainly. She only said: “Oh, Herbert! Nice of you to come to see us. . . . Let’s go in the living-room. I believe there’s a fire there. . . .”
At that moment Jane summoned Aunt Penelope to the telephone, and Amy, quite naturally, disappeared. I went down to see Mr. Kempwood, for I was going to borrow the fares to go home. But he persuaded me not to go, and in this way, after I had told him as much as I dared, without squealing on Amy.
“My dear,” he said, “if Washington had not fought out the battle of Harlem Heights, New York might be a British Possession to-day. But courage and staying there saved the country and won a battle. Just in that way a man has to fight his battles through; he owes that to his soul. After he has won--or tried to--going is another matter. But you are not guilty; your battle has just begun, and I think you ought to stay here until you can leave without the shadow of suspicion hurting you. Hoist your flag, wave it hard, and stick!”
I drew a deep breath. “If you think so, I will,” I said.
Then he cheered me a great deal by saying, “This is simply rotten!” and, “What’s the matter with them?” I shook my head. After that I stood up.
“I must go,” I said, “and change my clothes for dinner. Aunt Penelope cannot excuse lateness.”
But I need not have hurried, for I had my dinner in my room. It was part of my punishment, and everything was cold, but I didn’t mind. I wasn’t very hungry. After I finished eating I wrote Uncle Frank, but it wasn’t a good letter. I told him about school starting the next week, spoke about the weather, and a little, but not much, about missing him (I didn’t dare tell him how much I really did, for I knew it would make him unhappy), and then I told him I looked at the bug quite a good deal, which was true; and after I finished the letter I got the little bug, put it on my desk and studied it, and what it meant, for quite a long while. And I think it helped me. I didn’t feel any happier from this, but I felt more courage. For if a mere bug could stand being entombed for three years so that it might finally blossom out with wings and a song, I thought I could.
Just as I got up to put it on my bureau, I heard a noise at the window. I drew a very deep breath and then stopped breathing entirely for a minute, after which I decided I would go to see what was happening. For what Mr. Kempwood had said about battles made me want to fight mine very bravely. And I did laugh when I got there, for on top of a broom and a floor-mop which had been lashed together to make height, was a package. It was tied there, and down below, poking this up, was Mr. Kempwood.
He did a stage whisper, which I heard clearly.
“Your room?” he said. “I never dreamed it!” But he had known, for I told him I slept over the little room which he used for an office. “Unlash the ballast, Juliet!” he commanded, and I did. Then I said: “I wish I could come down!” He said he wished so too, smiled and waved at me, and I said I’d send him a note a little later on a string. Then I went inside and undid the package. It held a wonderful box of candy with enough pink ribbon on it for two chemises, a copy of “Little Women,” and a dear little box with an ivory kitten perched on top. Inside of this he had a rhyme. It said:
“This Thomas Cat, the mop-post brings,
?Is well bred, calm, and never sings
???Upon a fence at night.
?The box he guards is for Nat’s rings,
?Cuff buttons, studs, and other things
???(Keeps them from dust and sight).
?And if, my dear, life cruel stings,
?Remember S. K.’s friendship clings
???To you, all right!”
Well, I liked that, and it cheered me up. And below that I found a little wad of paper which was twisted about a silver ring; it was a lovely ring! The silver was so prettily fashioned and held the amethyst so beautifully, and on this paper was a line which said: “There’s a wish on this. Put it on and see if it won’t come true. I hope it will fit.” And it did. I was excited and really happy! It was just like Christmas! Then I sat down and wrote Mr. Kempwood and ate candy as I did it. Life looked so much brighter! I told him so, and how happy he’d made me. Then I lowered this by a corset lace, which was the only convenient lowering device that I could find, and waited. He answered my note promptly, and he said:
“Dear Nat,
“Your note made me very happy. I’d give my entire apartment and its contents, any day, to get a thank you note like yours! I know things will smooth out soon; they can’t help it. And meanwhile, if ‘a feller needs a friend’ she has it, can’t help having it, in the apartment below.
“Please sleep well to-night, small girl, for we are going to the Hippodrome to-morrow afternoon at 2.0. Now aren’t we?
“Until then,
“S. K.”
I sent down one more note before I went to bed. And because he had signed himself “S. K.” I called him that. Mr. Kempwood seemed too cold for the way I liked him. So I wrote: “I would love to go, dear S. K.” And I added: “Thank you for everything!”
And then I went to bed, wearing my new ring and thinking a great deal about Mr. Kempwood and the Hippodrome. And I almost forgot the happenings of that afternoon, which at the time had hurt fearfully.