Fermentations of Eliza

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I A Wishing Bone and a Disappointment . . 9

II Eliza Sings a Song 22

Chapter I A Wishing Bone And A Disappointment

THE dinner gong sounded!

From the cool depths of the thickly shaded lawn the guests of Glenraven arose and walked toward the house. As they reached the broad veranda, the front door, just thrown open by Johnson, the colored butler, permitted a cool outrush of air from the tall ceilinged hall within. A very distinguished guest was being entertained at Glenraven, and in her honor a great many delightful ladies and gentlemen had been brought together by its owner, Mrs. Dudley, whose gracious hospitality made her the most toasted and popular lady for miles around.

To-day, the huge fluted columns of this old colonial house glistened in the September sun and the dark green shutters were thrown open in hospitable welcome. Some belated blossoms had appeared on the thick honeysuckle vine, while Dick, the dignified old canary, remembered a song of his youth which he was pouring forth up among their white fragrance.

The distinguishing feature of this Kentucky home lay in the immense space of ground its galleries, wings and outbuildings covered. When first built in the last century, it was an unpretentious abode, but each successor to the estate seemed to get the builder’s craze, until the wonder was its proportions were not marred, but the two grand wings erected by Mr. Dudley seemed to add dignity to the whole. He did not live long, however, to enjoy the home he had prepared for the beloved bride. She was from a distant city, a pretty child of eighteen who had been reared in luxury, yet who thought her new home ideal. Their two years of married life were as one happy day. He died shortly after their second anniversary and she was left with twin girls. Reared entirely by her side, these children became her comrades — shared her joys and anxieties to an unusual degree. Visitors had been known to exclaim, “It is an education to be near and watch them — the perfect little darlings — and to see how they confide in their mother and she in them.” Nine years had passed since Richard Dudley’s death, and Mrs. Dudley still wore mourning for her young husband.

As soon as Johnson had ushered the last guest into the dining-room, three girls in white frocks and a boy in blue trowsers came from behind the box hedge through which they had been peeping.

“That was she,” whispered Eliza, skipping a little ahead of the others, her right hand full of fourleaf clovers, the other buried in the long black fur of the shepherd dog’s head. “That one dressed in pink was Mrs. Charlton. I know ’cause she’s so pretty.” Eliza trilled a roundelay unconsciously.

“The one in front?” asked Susan, who always wanted to be exact. Susan was the larger of the twins, but Eliza was leader.

“Certainly. The one with Mr. Champe. Oh, I know she can write, for she looks like a storylady — Sip ta ra de ah — ”

“Pshaw!” interrupted the irrepressible William. “She ain’t nothin’. I don’t care nothin’ about her. I wish we didn’t have to wait. It’s awful on hungry kids.”

“You couldn’t be expected to appreciate her, William,” said Eliza a little patronizingly. “I am going to be a writer myself, and naturally I want to meet this clerity.”

“Celebrity’s the word you are hitting at, ain’t it?” asked William, laughing, but the girls paid no attention. They had now reached the front porch and were peeping through the half-turned shutters into the parlor. An exclamation of pleased delight escaped them, for everything looked so beautiful. A profusion of roses here, there and everywhere, and they were not expecting to see them, for, the day before, they had been sent to Aunt Mollie’s while the transformation took place. “Mother must have gotten them at the florist’s,” said Eliza, dancing, for flowers were her delight. “Come on, let’s go in and pick out our seats. I bid for the stool so I can move it where Mrs. Charlton sits and watch her while she talks.”

“I’d just as soon be in a far corner from her,” said William. “I’d rather be far away because she might ask me to say something.”

“I wish she would ask me something,” said Eliza. “Susan, don’t you and Stella want to talk to her? I’d love to read her what I’ve written.”

“What are your books good for?” asked William teasingly. “All that paper wasted.”

Eliza turned to him, saying sweetly:

“You know, William, you couldn’t be expected to appreciate them though I did bring you in that last chapter. You remember, Susan? I left out his worst traits — I didn’t want to commemorate them, William.”

“I can’t see what fun you find in writing,” answered William, reaching over to pull his sister Stella’s hair. “It’s all I can do to write four lines’ worth in my old copybook.”

“Everybody can’t be expected to be alike,” said Susan. “I don’t like to do the things that Eliza likes to do and I can’t ever understand either why she likes to do them.”

“Eliza, did you put your long end of the wish-bone over the door?” asked Stella, anxious to change the subject.

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten about that. I put it over the double doors of the dining-room and told Johnson to be sure to watch who went under first. I hope and pray it was Mr. Champe, for I like him better than any man here.”

They had now entered the front door and stood facing the dining-room. The double doors were thrown wide open and the long dining table with the many guests seated was plain to be seen. Johnson hovered near the doors, anxious, but happy.

“Who is that ugly little woman sitting on Mother’s right?” asked Susan. “That’s where she puts her best guest usually.”

“It’s Mrs. Charlton’s secretary,” answered Eliza. “I saw them come together.”

“Eliza, you see everything,” said Susan. “And you never seem to see anything.”

“It’s a pity she is ugly,” continued Eliza. “If — I mean when I publish my books I’ll want pretty people about me. I wish there wasn’t a single ugly person in all God’s pretty world. It makes you good to be pretty.”

“Mr. Woodstock isn’t pretty and he’s good,” said Susan.

“Of course,” said Eliza, a little patronizingly.

“I never said ugly people were mean , Susan, but I said it makes you feel good if you look pretty. Besides, Mr. Woodstock is a preacher, and he ought to be good by rights.”

“I’m ugly,” declared William, grinning, “but I ain’t mean.” Giving Stella’s hair another pull he danced a jig by throwing his legs straight out. “Mother says that I’m just mischievous,” he said, glancing uneasily where Johnson stood at the end of the hall.

“Now, William,” said Eliza, sweetly, “ you know if you should wake up some morning and find your freckles all gone and your hair turned to a beautiful brown instead of re — I mean auburn, and everything else improved and Aunt Mollie should say, ‘How handsome our Willie boy grows,’ you know well and good it would make you feel so good that you would be good all day and maybe the next.”

“I wouldn’t neither. I don’t give a continental how my face looks so’s I have a good time. Girls think too much about their looks anyway.” William turned a handspring as he spoke, caught his foot on a chair and over he went, the chair under him. J ohnson came hurrying forward, indignantly shaking a finger at the children as he came, and forming his lips into the word “HUSH”

“Oh, J ohnson, tell me quick who went under my bone?” said Eliza, catching him by the coat.

“Whut do yer mean makin’ so much noise here fur folks ter wonder at?” demanded Johnson, addressing the abashed William, who had retreated, backing into the parlor. “How kin I spect things ter turn out right whin you chillun keeps up such er noise an’ here me er try in’ my bes’.” His face was almost tragical and the children began to look sober.

“You never told me, Johnson,” said Eliza, during the painful pause that followed; “I can’t half wait. Tell me, please, who went under my bone first.”

Johnson turned toward her, the frown still on his face. As her meaning began to dawn on him a smile appeared, though none of the children detected it. Eliza earnestly continued to question him.

“You promised to watch, Johnson. Now don’t go tell me you forgot. I’ll be obliged to marry the one who did it and it’s not fair for me not to know. I hope Mr. Champe was the one. I picked him out. Johnson , what makes you look so curious?”

“Hit wuz Mr. Cornell,” said Johnson, “an’ he’s got his wife wid him.”

Eliza’s face grew very red and her mouth trembled. “Oh!” she said with a wail that made them all follow her to the sofa where she threw herself sobbing. Her sobs increased and no one could control her. She felt that her future was ruined. It never occurred to her to doubt that she would have to do what had been foretold some day. In vain Johnson threatened and implored, but to no avail.

“He can’t marry yer,” he argued; “don’t go ter actin’ so silly, Eliza. Hain’t I er tellin’ yer he’s got his wife wid him?”

“It don’t matter if he has,” sobbed Eliza. “She will die some day and then I’ll have to do it. It’s awful — awful, and he’s got a bald head too. I saw it under the shade trees and the sun made it look slick. Oh, oh, I feel worse than I ever did in my life. I think you might have stopped him from it, J ohnson — oh — oh !”

Johnson, in despair of quieting her, retreated, closing the parlor door tight — to muffle the sound of her weeping. He walked the length of the hall, stopped and listened. Satisfied that she could not be heard, he went back to his duties in the dining-room, wisely deciding to leave her alone. Some time later when the other children went in for their dinner Eliza was not with them.

“Mother,” whispered Susan as she passed her mother in the hall, “Eliza is still crying because Mr. Cornell went under her wish-bone and we can’t make her hush.”

Eliza, with her head buried in some cushions, became conscious that many people stood around her and some of them were laughing. Then she heard some one say in the sweetest voice: “It’s a shame! You all go out and leave her to me. Can’t you see it’s a serious occurrence to her?”

Then, this same person knelt and began talking. The words made no impression until Eliza heard her say she was Mrs. Charlton. Of course she sat up at once and tried to look through her tears. Mrs. Charlton — oh, no, it couldn’t be! Why, this was the little ugly woman and not the beautiful one. There was surely some mistake somewhere. Yet she knew she had heard aright. Eliza covered her eyes again, for this second disappointment was more than she could bear. Mrs. Charlton continued talking in that same sweet voice.

“Wishing bones and what they foretell don’t always come true,” she said. “When I was a child I put several bones over doors and the man I married never had been under a single one of them.”

Eliza permitted her to take her hand. Her face still was covered with the other hand and she found it easy to imagine Mrs. Charlton pretty because of her voice.

“Nobody really believes in them, dearie. It’s just a play. Nobody ever thinks anything serious will come of it.”

“Honest?” asked Eliza, faintly.

“I am telling you the honest truth ” Mrs. Charlton replied solemnly.

Eliza arose and stood for a minute with puckered brow. She felt decidedly better than she had ever hoped to feel again. Soon her face brightened and she extended both hands.

“I believe you, and am so much obliged to you,” she declared. “You’ve said just the right thing. I think I’d like to kiss you for what you’ve done.”

Mrs. Charlton drew her near and kissed her twice.

“I ’specially wanted to be happy to-night,” continued Eliza, “on account of something we had planned to do.”

“Tell me,” said Mrs. Charlton, encouragingly.

“Well, it’s nice because we haven’t ever done it before. We are going to sleep in the office by ourselves and not let anybody know about it. We’ve been slipping things up there all day — things to eat — and to-night we are going to play make-believe games until late, then go to sleep in that old fourposted bed that used to belong to Grandmother. It has a roof over it lined with pleated silk stuff. That’s the office up yonder. You see it? That little white building with green shutters under that biggest,maple tree.”

Mrs. Charlton leaned forward, eagerly looking in the direction indicated by the child’s finger. She could only see a tiny speck of white because of so much green. “Yes,” she said encouragingly, thinking of the time she had delighted in doing just such things as this child did. Then, it suddenly dawned upon her that it was a childish prank which she must not openly encourage. “Would your mother approve? Would she think it safe?” she asked.

“Mother understands everything,” said Eliza, grandly. “But then, since you mention it, maybe I shall leave a little note on her pillow and ask her not to tell anybody else. We want it to be a surprise. Why, it’s the greatest thing we’ve done ever. That’s one reason I am so glad you explained about the bone,” — warmly pressing Mrs. Charlton’s hand. “I didn’t want anything on my mind to-night. It’s ever so much fun to dream things when you are not asleep, and playing games with your eyes shut is fine.” She paused suddenly, remembering who Mrs. Charlton was, and flushed.

“You will be a writer if you keep on,” said Mrs. Charlton.

“I’ve already written four,” answered Eliza, sweetly. “To be a writer is the height of my ambition,” she added, in a quaint way.

“You seem like my own little girl-self come back,” said Mrs. Charlton, smiling. “But, listen, dearie, and don’t ever forget what I am going to tell you. Don’t try to write, dear child. Be happy, joyous, full of youth! Writing means a weary way — and a stony way. Oh, little girl, it means heart burnings, and yearnings, and disappointments, sacrifices — sometimes a great sacrifice. Happiness is the main thing, and gratified ambition does not always produce it.”

“Aren’t you happy?” asked Eliza, surprised at the lady’s earnestness. The flush that sprang to Mrs. Charlton’s face made Eliza aware of her rudeness, and she immediately said, “Oh, I’m sorry I asked that — please excuse me.”

“It’s all right. My words made you ask, dear. If I have missed the real thing, may you find it, dear little girl.” With tears welling in her eyes, Mrs. Charlton drew Eliza close and kissed her again.

“I’ll always remember you ” said Eliza, soberly. “And — and the things you’ve told me.”

A short time later, seated happily eating her dinner, Eliza paused in passing a spoonful of ice cream to her mouth to say, “Susan, I’ve found out who that ugly woman is. She isn’t so ugly either, when you’re intimate with her.”

“Who is she?” asked the three children at once.

“She’s Mrs. Charlton, the writer. The pretty one is her secretary — and^ — and I’ve concluded writing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Well, hurry up, Eliza, so’s we can go into the parlor.”

“I’m not going in — at least, not now,” replied Eliza, calmly. “I’m going out to the woods-lot and make a bonfire.” But she refused to tell them what it was she was going to burn.

Chapter II

6 imW TfOU simply can’t help feeling lonesome ^ / when the others have gone to sleep and

JL left you,” whispered Eliza to herself that night, shivering a little in spite of the fact that two warm bodies were in the same bed with her. It was a homely old bed, she thought, when compared with her own blue-enameled one up at the house. True, she could not see the posts now for the darkness, but she could feel where they stood and also where the great closet was with its non-shuttable door. For the first time she wished they had not kept everything so secret. Decidedly it would have been better if some one person had been told. If anything should happen — but, of course, nothing could. Lots of Mother’s company had remained for the evening and the house would be alive with lights for hours yet.

She smiled as she thought of the way Susan had slipped the towels and soap here for morning’s use. She had hid the towels under her apron and the soap under her sunbonnet, not that anybody would have

noticed if both articles had been held out in full 22 view — with all that company no one had time to notice the children — but it was fun for them to smuggle things and pretend it was necessary to do so. Stella the cousin (Eliza slipped her hand under the cover now to make sure that precious girl was really there) had brought many things from home, laughing at the extraordinary size of the bundle which had escaped her mother’s eye. She, Eliza, had brought the eatables — three yellow horse apples, some biscuits, two thick slices of country ham, and one immense cucumber with some vinegar and salt. There was also a slice of cocoanut cake saved over from Sunday’s dinner for this express occasion. They had been a week planning it. There had been lots of maneuvering — the hardest part was getting Stella; but she was here, the precious! (Again Eliza’s hand unconsciously fondled the body on her right. )

If it had not been for William’s dare they would never have thought of passing a night here alone. The idea of his accusing them of being afraid of haunts. Nobody except darkies and bad boys like himself believed in such things. Then he had said, “But what about that workman who had been hurt and put up there and had had his leg cut off and afterward — ” But, here they had laughed him to scorn and had determined among themselves that they would prove their bravery. Haunts — the very idea! Anyway, the man had been taken away before he died. Shivering, Eliza pulled the sheet over every vestige of her tousled head.

It was a great comfort to know Mother was having a lot of company that evening and to feel that the house was near, if worst came to worst. Then, too, there was the note she had pinned on their own pillow, knowing her mother’s habit of looking at them the last thing before she slept. Eliza was glad Mrs. Charlton had made her think of it.

What fun it had been playing Red Riding Hood. Susan had tripped over that old wrapper and the shepherd dog had sprung on her in truly wrolf-like fashion. They had not dared to laugh very loud for fear of being heard. Stella had then played “mamma,” while she and Susan had committed all sorts of offenses, keeping their make-believe mamma busy trying to handle them. At last they had all grown sleepy at the same time and it was the most fun undressing and climbing into the tall bed with the aid of a chair. Then, they had played some more “mamma” games until the other two got so sleepy they couldn’t hold their eyes open, while she, Eliza, grew wider and wider awake.

Sh — ! What was that scraping against the chimney?

It must have been the maple branches rubbing against the house. Eliza made up her mind to begin counting the multiplication table backwards — a dull enough proceeding to produce sleep in anybody. Which was the best way to rest? On your left side with one of your arms back so and the other under your head. It must be the bolster that kept her from feeling comfortable. She had never used one before.

It had been a strange day — quite the strangest she had ever spent. She had made a bonfire and burnt all her precious manuscripts. She did not regret it, although she wondered a little at herself for doing it. She couldn’t help crying when she saw the name “Robin Moore” just before the paper turned into a red sheet. Robin had been her favorite. She had loved him all the time he was being created, weaving dreams about him continually. At first he was her little brother, then as he grew older she had bestowed on him all the love she would have given the father she had never known ; but even had it been possible she would not have taken him from the ashes. Mrs. Charlton’s words had made a deep impression. “I will never write another book,” she whispered sadly. “And it is such a pity. Of course I will go on dreaming tales, for I can’t seem to help that, but I won’t write a book to be printed. I wish I never had seen Mrs. Charlton, for she has killed my Robin Moore and he seems perfecter than ever now he’s dead. For two whole years I have loved him and now I’ve burnt him up — oh, I didn’t think I could ever do that.”

Of her father, Eliza only knew the things her mother had told her, imagining the rest, and he became her ideal of a great, good man. Every night she lay awake dreaming of him and had real conversations with him of her own making. “You say he was so bright and happy, Mother,” she said one day; “then why don’t you put on a white dress with blue rosebuds in it and a red rose in your hair. Wouldn’t he like that. Mother?” Or another time : “That same sparrow is in the mulberry tree, the one whose little birds were killed by that big wind storm last year, and you would never know she was the same bird that mourned, she’s so happy. She thinks a year is enough for mourning, Mother.” Mrs. Dudley looked at the earnest little face and replied, “She has another nest now, dearie, and has f orgotten everything. ’ ’

“Couldn’t you forget, Mother?” “Hush, Eliza; I am better for remembering,” answered her mother gently. She was a wise little mother in most things and made confiding companions of her two daughters.

There were other times, though, when Eliza played, played, all day long. When she was happy she was wildly, recklessly, so. She sometimes dared too much, but rarely got into trouble by it. Often when too late she discovered her own errors and was very repentant. Now she began to ask herself if it were really safe to spend a whole night up here — just three girls. Supposing Stella had not locked the door when she said she had. Eliza thought she remembered trying it herself, but could not feel quite sure. It would be easier to get up and see than to lie there wondering.

Slowly she began working herself out from between the others. The bed was so tall she was compelled to lie on her stomach and slide down. Something cold on the floor made her draw back quickly. She found an apple seed sticking to the bottom of her foot. She brushed it off and slid to the floor.

The door was really locked after all. She walked to the window and looked out. Lights gleamed from every window of the big house. How silly to feel afraid with everybody up there so close. A grateful breeze sprang through the half-turned shutter slats and blew through her flowing curls. The hot September day had been followed by a cool night ; the maple trees bowed and rustled like a much beflounced maiden, casting fitful shadows over the grass now heavy laden with dew. All of this, with the constant chirping of Katy-dids from the tree-tops, soothed Eliza as she knelt there and looked out. Nothing could 'possibly happen to harm any one. What was it she had heard Mr.

Champe call it? His “Joy Day.” It was a pretty expression, and she believed she liked Mr. Champe better than any man she had ever known. In her next book she certainly would — but then she remembered there was to be no next book.

Soberly she went back to bed, deciding to compose herself and sleep. Placing one arm around comfortable Susan and the other under her head, she closed her eyes.

To her surprise she found she was not going to sleep. Her eyes would not stay shut, and no matter on which side she turned there was always the convincing feeling that the other one would have been better. After becoming a perfect corkscrew, she decided to go to the window once more and see if the house was still lighted. Just as she began crawling out of bed, the peculiar scratching commenced again. It seemed to be under the very window where she had lately knelt.

“Stella!”

No answer. Stella and Susan were no good. How could she stand it ! A distinct thumping now began on the far end of the office. She could feel every hair on her head standing up like a bristle brush. If ever she was to make her escape, now was the time. She wouldn’t stop to wake the others but would send back for them. Quick as a flash she was out of the bed and, wrenching open the door, was bounding over the grass as fleetly as a fawn. Not a child anywhere could catch Eliza if she was given a slight start. Feeling the thing still chasing her she rushed right into the parlor full of guests.

“Send for the others, Mother — now!” she cried.

“Why, Eliza Dudley!”

Her mother’s shocked tones produced self-consciousness. Her night-gown and bare feet before everybody! Her fright became minimized and she felt very foolish. The faces and furniture began to swim as she stammered out something that sounded like a lame excuse :

“I was scared, Mother, up in the old office. We were sleeping there for fun and something began scratching on the weather boarding and” — Her voice refused to emit another sound. She was thoroughly abashed at the outrageous position into which she had jumped. The man known as Mr. Champe found a scarf and threw it around her, drawing her to his lap as he did so. She was soon put at ease by his companionship.

“Come and help me eat my ice cream,” he said. “I was just wishing for some one, because it was such a big plateful.”

“Another plate of cream, Johnson,” called Mother. A heaping pink mass was brought and placed before her on a table, Mr. Champe put her in an armchair and she sank back, drawing a deep breath. The roses that had held her spellbound that afternoon were everywhere. Heaps of them stood right by her side in the largest jardiniere and the lamp light turned them a warm yellowish pink. Across the room there were more and to her left more. Everybody was smiling at her. She did not know what a perfect little picture princess she made with her sparkling eyes and red cheeks.

“I wish I had on my shoes,” she whispered to Mr. Champe. “Mother doesn’t let us appear before company bare-footed after we are nine.”

Mr. Champe assumed the teasing role: “Here now,” he said, holding the ice cream just beyond her reach. “What are you going to give me for this? You must pay, you know. What can you do, dance, sing, say a speech, or what?”

“I can’t do anything except sing,” said Eliza, humbly, feeling her insignificance in that company of grown-ups. “I can’t sing without the piano anyway.”

“Why, that’s the girl! Of course you’ll sing for us. What do you say?”

“I’ll try if Mother will play,” said Eliza.

“Then Mother will, I know. Mrs. Dudley,” he called, “play for Eliza to sing.”

Mrs. Dudley smiled, saying, “Stand up then, Eliza, and let your voice out. There, stand facing them all — that’s it.”

“You may hold my hand if it will help any,” whispered Mr. Champe, but Eliza refused.

The song her mother chose was a simple little love ballad that she had known all her life, but unfortunately it recalled her lost Robin to mind, which made her voice tremble so much she could scarcely control it. When she began the second verse she found it almost impossible to continue. From under the scarf her little hand sought the kind clasp of Mr. Champe’s. A new strength seemed to come when he pressed it in his. She threw her head back and started afresh. Her tones rang exquisitely true, and her audience listened spellbound.

“I met you at the wicket gate.

You al-ways let me through.

It’s ve — ry har-d to open But you never come and try.

Won’t you tell me why, Robin,

Won’t you tell me why?”

There were a few tears in her eyes and possibly a little trembling in her voice, but it only added to the charm.