The Wyndham Girls

by Marion Ames Taggart

  CHAPTER VI

  MARK TAPLEY'S KIND OF DAYS

  Phyllis was finding her occupation trying. The children had not beenaccustomed to obedience, and Muriel proved intractable; Phyllis couldneither win her affection nor subdue her by sternness. Lionel mindedher because he loved her; in a week's time the boy had become herdoglike adorer, and Phyllis loved him with pitying tenderness. The babywas like a little garden patch with the sun shining upon it through thetree branches, in alternate sunshine and shadow, and her obedience waspatchy, too; no child more properly deserved the insignia of "a littlecurl right in the middle of her forehead." But she was only the baby;no one could take very seriously the misdemeanors of a mite of three,and Gladys was a dear mite when she was not the other sort.

  It was hard to assume the charge of three children for six hours aday; hard to bring them, and herself as well, into the discipline ofstated hours and tasks; not easy to take them out to walk, and feelperfectly independent and indifferent to the possibility of meeting oldacquaintances when thus employed.

  But the hardest thing about her new life to Phyllis was the insight itgave her into a manner of living which shocked and tortured her, forPhyllis was a conscientious girl, and the first actual contact with theworldly side of the world is bitter to such as she. Mrs. Haines didnot love her children. Sometimes, when they were beautifully dressed,she flattered them and devoured them with kisses; but more frequentlyshe repulsed them, scolded them petulantly and unjustly, and answeredtheir questions with a fretful "Don't bother me! I don't know; askMiss Wyndham." Sometimes she would say in their hearing that shedetested children; that they all ought to be fastened up in the barrelHolmes suggested and fed through the bunghole; and that she would giveanything if she were free to have a good time like other young women.And Phyllis could see Lionel's lips quiver and then set hard at thesespeeches, and she knew the little lad understood that though he had amother, he had not her love, but was a burden to her.

  It made her sick at heart; less experienced than her tiny charges, shehad never for a moment dreamed that a woman who had children coulddo less than love them beyond all the world, holding no pleasure, noadmiration, worth a thought while her babies' little arms clung to her.But Mrs. Haines boasted the flattery she received. Evidently husband,as well as children, was nothing to her beside her idea of pleasure;and honest Phyllis went home daily, heavy in mind and foot, weary withloathing more than with work.

  Tom saw that she was looking blue and ill, and he made it hisbusiness to come home her way and meet her, and try to cheer her intoforgetfulness of the annoyances of which he was ignorant; for Phylliscould not reconcile it with her standard of honor to talk to any one ofwhat she saw in the home to which she had been admitted. Yet she longedto ask some one if all the world, but her own narrow one, was like thisnew one; Jessamy and Bab knew no better than she, and her aunt was tooill to be troubled.

  Mrs. Haines soon discovered the handsome young fellow who came to meether governess, and rallied Phyllis on what she called "her conquest.""I hear you have an admirer, my dear," she said.

  Phyllis flushed scarlet with indignation. "Tom is a dear boy, likea brother to all of us," she said. "There isn't the least sillything about him; we are only girls, and we don't want nor think offlirtations."

  Mrs. Haines laughed with contemptuous good nature. "Would it be sillyin him to admire you?" she asked. "As to the rest of it, girls you maybe, but children you are not; I was no older than you when I married,and am only seven years older than you are now."

  "My aunt has taught us that love and marriage are so sacred and solemnthat we must never think nor speak of them lightly, and, above allthings, never spoil our lives and hearts by flirting," said Phyllis,trying to speak without excitement.

  "Very good teaching; very poor practice, my dear," laughed Mrs. Haines."Do you want to be three little gray nuns? But I hoped this 'Tom' ofyours might prove something more serious than a flirtation--that is, ifhe has any money; your business is to marry well, under your presentcircumstances; don't go in for romance."

  "I never think of marrying, Mrs. Haines; I am much too young andgirlish. But I would rather die than marry just for money," saidPhyllis.

  "See here, Miss Wyndham; I was a poor girl too," said Mrs. Haines. "Ihad just about enough money for gloves and hats, but not for gowns andshoes. My husband is fourteen years older than I; do you think I caredfor him? Not a bit, but I married him at nineteen, and now I have afine house, carriage, everything I want, and more beaux to say I'mpretty than most girls of my age. Don't you think I was sensible?"

  In spite of herself, Phyllis shuddered; she thought of Mr. Haines'ssolitary breakfasts, frequent dinners at the club, the unlovedchildren, and realized how blessed she had been in her bringing up.

  "There are better things than money, Mrs. Haines," she said, almostpitying the little creature before her, hardly, as she said, older thanherself, yet so frankly pagan and sordid. "I would rather work till Idied working than--"

  She stopped, frightened at her own boldness. Mrs. Haines looked ather, understanding what she did not say. "There will always be thesetwo kinds of people," she said, and Phyllis wondered, not quitecomprehending.

  Phyllis met Tom with a sensation of relief, as well as pleasure; helooked so manly, so reliable. "It's no use, Tom," she said. "I've beentrying not to tell you, but I must. Is it I or the world that's out ofjoint?"

  "On general principles, I can assure you that it's not you, Phyllis;you're all right. But, if I might, I should like to have something moreexplicit," said Tom, looking very kindly down on the flushed, earnestface.

  Phyllis began at the beginning, and poured forth to Tom all the mattersthat had distressed her in the Haines household, ending with theconversation of the afternoon, suppressing his part in the theme.

  "Well, what do you want me to tell you, Phyllis?" asked Tom. "Surelyyou don't have to question whether you or a heartless, flirting,worldly woman is right? Or whether any woman worth the name will sellherself for an establishment and clothes?"

  "No, not that; right is right, and wrong is wrong--" began Phyllis.

  "Always," broke in Tom.

  "Yes, I know; but what makes me downright sick is the fear that dearauntie has kept us shut away from a world that is full of this sortof thing--that all the world is like this," cried Phyllis. "Arewe different from the rest of the world? These last months havefrightened me."

  "Not much wonder," said Tom, heartily. "Poor little soul! Now, lookhere, Phyllis; you're not different from all the world, but you'redifferent from lots of it. The best never gets run out, but it runslow often. You've been given the highest standards in all things, andthey can never be common. It is much easier to be bad than good forpeople who start crooked; you started straight, you and Jessamy andBab. All you've got to do is to be yourself and not worry. Keep yourown ideas, and steer by them, and let the rest go. Do you suppose Idon't see heaps and piles of things I hate? More than you ever will,because a fellow runs up against the world as no girl does. I'd liketo be able to tell you I see none but sweet, modest, true girls; but,honest, I see fewer of them than the other kind. Girls make me sick,though I feel mean to say it; they wouldn't if I didn't think they areso much better than we are when they are nice. You see, Phyllis, girlsdon't understand that the whole world is in their hands; we're all whatwomen, young and old, make us. Now, you and I had good mothers andsisters. When I went away my oldest sister--she's past thirty--talkedto me. 'Shut your eyes to the bold girls, Tom,' she said, 'and makeno woman friend you would not introduce to your sisters. Keep yourideals, and be sure there will always be sweet, wholesome girls tosave the world.' So I have been shutting my eyes to the strong-mindedsisterhood, and the giddy ones too; and just when I needed you,because I was getting too lonely, the Wyndhams turned up, thank heaven!So you'll find it, Phyl; it's a queer, crooked old world, but there arestraight folk in it. Keep your ideals, miss, as my sister told me, and'gang your ways,' And don't take it so hard that there is wrong
andinjustice in the world. That's being morbid. You'll get used to it;it's only your first plunge that costs; the world's like the ocean inthat. And there's heaps of good lying around, mixed up with bad too,sometimes, and that's what no young person sees at first. You know Iam ever so much older than you because I've had my eyes opened longer.Don't you get to thinking it's a bad world; it's a good one. The Lordsaw that, and said so, when it was first made. Thus endeth my firstlesson. I never talked so much in my life at a stretch. Come into thisdrug-store for hot coffee; you look fagged."

  "You're such a comfort, Tom," said Phyllis. "I feel much better. Therewas no use in talking to Jessamy or Bab, because we all know no morenor less than one another, but I wanted straightening out. And auntielooks so ill of late, don't you think so?"

  Tom looked very serious. "I think she is ill, Phyllis," he said. "Thereis nothing the matter with her, except one of the worst things: sheis exhausted, worn out with fret and trouble. She doesn't get enoughnourishment; she needs nursing."

  "Oh, I see it, Tom," cried Phyllis, as they left the soda-fountain."What can I do?"

  "Take care of yourself, for one thing; you don't look right, either,"said Tom.

  "I feel dragging--that's the only word I know for it," said Phyllis."And Lionel is pale and languid. I wonder if the child and I are bothgetting ready to be ill."

  "Poor little beggar, I hope he isn't," said Tom; "but that would benothing to your coming down. I'm going to fix you up some quinine andcalisaya; I am not pleased with you of late, Miss Phyllis."

  Four days later Phyllis trailed her weary way homeward. The end ofher first month of servitude had come; the twenty-five dollars shehad thus earned lay in her pocket-book in four new bills. Her headached, her knees felt strangely unreliable, her spine seemed to be someone else's, so burning and painful it felt in its present place, andher eyes played her tricks by showing her objects in false positionsand sizes and occasionally flaring up and darkening completely for adreadful few seconds.

  Jessamy met her at the door with an anxious face. "Mama has given outwholly, Phyl," she said. "She is in bed and frightens me, she looks soweak, and her heart beats unevenly and feebly."

  "That's bad," said Phyllis, so indifferently that Jessamy stared inamazement, then saw with utter sinking of her heart that Phyllis lookeddesperately ill herself; if Phyllis, the rock they all leaned on, gaveout now, what should she do?

  "What is the matter, Phyl?" she cried, putting her arm around hercousin.

  "I have no idea. My head aches unbearably, and it seems to be aheadache that reaches to the soles of my feet," answered Phyllis,miserably. "What does Tom say about auntie?"

  "He thinks it is just complete giving out, as though that weren't badenough! And he made me send for Doctor Jerome; he says he wouldn't daretake the responsibility of our resting on his opinion, so the doctor isto come soon, I hope." said Jessamy.

  "Yes, that's right. I have twenty-five dollars in my purse; that willpay for several visits, won't it?" asked Phyllis, uncertainly; shedropped her hat on the floor beside her and pushed the hair back fromher temples as she spoke, resting both elbows on her knees. "I shallhave only the little girls, I am afraid, for a time; Lionel is ill."

  "What ails him?" demanded Jessamy, her breath shortening; suppose itwere something dreadful, and Phyllis had caught the infection!

  "The doctor thought it might be typhoid; it was too soon to tell, hesaid," replied Phyllis.

  "Typhoid! Is that contagious?" demanded Jessamy.

  "I don't know. Don't be afraid, Jessamy; I am too full of pain foranything else to get in; I couldn't catch it," said Phyllis, with nointention to be humorous.

  Jessamy waited to hear no more. Running across to Tom's room, sheknocked impatiently. "Oh, Tom, dear Tom, do come into my room," shecried. "Phyllis has come home so ill I am more frightened about herthan about mama now."

  They found Phyllis exactly as Jessamy had left her. Tom felt herpulse; her hands were burning, the pulses galloping. "She must liedown and wait till the doctor comes," said Tom, looking grave. "I'llgive her something sedative that can't do any harm, but I'd rathernot do anything more. Doctor Jerome ought to prescribe. Help her intobed, Jessamy, and don't look so hopeless, dear girl; all's not lostsave honor, even though that's a good deal to have left. Phyllis isvery likely going to have grip--the real thing, not a cold under thatname--and though that is bad to go through, it does not need such atragic face to meet it."

  But Jessamy would not smile. "The Haines boy has a fever; the doctorthinks it may be typhoid; is that contagious?"

  For the life of him, Tom could not repress a slight start; thenhe bethought himself, and answered cheerfully: "Not a bit--onlyinfectious. Get Phyllis quiet in bed, and try not to borrow trouble."

  But as he crossed the hall he shook his head like an old practitioner."Not contagious--only infectious, is true; but Phyl has been in thesame atmosphere as the boy, and may have contracted it under the sameconditions," he said, rubbing Nixie's head absent-mindedly, as thelittle dog poked it into his hand. "I don't like it, Nixie, old man;I confess I don't like it."

  Doctor Jerome came to find two patients instead of one. His verdictas to Mrs. Wyndham corroborated Tom's; she needed nursing, constantnourishing, utter rest, and cheer. And, to make sure of the latterprescription, there was Phyllis! On her case the doctor said it wasmuch too early to pronounce; typhoid was misleading in its firstsymptoms, sometimes; but--yes, it might be typhoid. He would do all hecould to break it up, but Phyllis was decidedly ill. Jessamy must havea nurse, even though Barbara gave up her employment to help her; theywere both too inexperienced, not strong enough to undertake cases inwhich everything depended on the nursing.

  Phyllis did not resist the doctor's verdict that she should giveherself up to being ill, though Jessamy fully expected to have hardwork persuading her. She lay quite passive, her dark lashes sweepingher crimsoned cheeks, and only lifted her eyes to say, "Tell Mrs.Haines," and then sank into unnatural slumber again.

  Barbara came home into the trouble very tired and discouraged overher own uselessness; she who had felt so confident that she could doanything had thus far been able to earn but three dollars and a halffor many hours' labor; in the old days she had spent that in a week atHuyler's.

  Jessamy and she had a consultation, at which Tom assisted, as totheir possibilities. By their prudence in living within their incomethe Wyndhams had nearly four hundred dollars a year more than theiractual living expenses cost them. But this income came in quarterly; atrained nurse would cost them twenty-five dollars a week, besides herboard, yet Tom and Doctor Jerome said it was of the utmost importanceto have the best of nurses. "I have an inspiration!" cried Tom."There's a fine woman I know of, disengaged now; she has nursed in ourfamily, and she's all right. If Doctor Jerome approves, I'll see if Ican get her, and I am nearly certain she would come for me for fifteendollars a week."

  "Then I must see Mrs. Black as to her terms; and how about thearrangement of the rooms?" asked Jessamy.

  "The two patients must be separate; that goes without saying," saidTom. "You and Bab will use my room, and the nurse will take her shareof rest where it suits her."

  "And where will you sleep, you dear, generous boy?" cried Jessamy.

  "I have a friend I can bunk with till you are through with the room,"said Tom. "It won't trouble me a bit, so don't call me names, princess."

  Jessamy interviewed their landlady, and had a tempestuous time. Mrs.Black refused at first to allow her house to be turned into a hospital;then she demanded an exorbitant sum for the nurse's board, althoughthe room was not to be included. At last, when Jessamy, calling up thespirit which usually lay dormant under her quiet manner, threatenedremoving both her charges to a hospital and leaving the house at once,Mrs. Black compromised, with a mental reservation to get even in theend, as the girls suspected from her subsequent behavior.

  It would have been wiser to have taken Mrs. Wyndham and Phyllis to agood hospital, where a private room woul
d have been no heavier drainon their purse than the present arrangement, and the accommodationsbetter; but Jessamy was so shocked at the proposition that DoctorJerome waived the point, and the nursing began at home. Tom's goodwoman came; she was the kindest soul in the world, and no lesscompetent than kind. Barbara gave up her envelops to help Jessamy. Withtwo patients she was needed, and even then there were hardly handsenough to render the service required. Tom ran in and out at all hoursof the day and night; Jessamy felt that if she lived ninety-nine yearsshe never could repay him for his help and cheer, though she devotedher life to trying to do so.

  Mrs. Wyndham lay in that wearying state of feebleness peculiar toexhausted nerves; there was no actual danger, unless it were the dangerof continued prostration. But Phyllis grew more ill; twice a day theold doctor came to watch her progress. The typhoid symptoms did notdevelop positively, but she burned with a low fever, and no one couldforetell the end.

  Out of the five hundred dollars coming to the Wyndhams quarterly fromtheir total income, there was an excess over necessary expendituresamounting to something like ninety dollars. This was all the capitalJessamy had in hand to meet the present emergency; and underlyingall her other anxieties was the dreadful fear that she should beobliged to borrow of Aunt Henrietta to tide herself through the doubleillness which had come upon them. For her mother required all sortsof expensive food preparations, and Jessamy realized that her littlefund would not take them further on the hard road than three weeks'distance, when out of it she had to pay a nurse, and that nurse's board.

  Christmas was coming--the Christmas they had dreaded, at best, to meetin a boarding-house, the first since they had become homeless; but nowwhat a Christmas it was! Barbara, sitting, as she did every moment thatthe nurse would intrust Phyllis to her, close by her cousin's bed,thought, with quietly falling tears, of what Phyllis had always said,that nothing mattered while they had one another. What if they were notalways to have one another? What if Phyllis herself--dear, unselfish,sweet Phyllis--was to be the one to go away, leaving forever a voidwhich no one could fill?

  For Phyllis had become delirious, and raved ceaselessly of the horriblefaces grinning and mowing around her bed; of the recent troubles,begging pitifully to be taken home and laid in her own big, pretty roomwhere her head would not ache so. And she did not know Barbara norJessamy, but confounded them with Mrs. Haines, and implored them byturns to love the children, for Lionel was ill, and his head was achinginside of hers, which made him and "poor Phyllis" both worse, and theymight die, and then his mother would never forgive herself. She alwaysspoke of herself as "poor Phyllis," apparently with some dim idea thatshe was unlike herself--another personality--and invariably ended everyburst of delirium with the same appeal for mercy, and to be taken homeagain. Barbara had never seen delirium; these ravings nearly brokeher heart, and took every particle of hope out of her. In vain DoctorJerome and Tom, whom she trusted even more, told her it was nothingunusual. Bab, the light-hearted, refused to fulfil her title, but satstonily, looking forward to Phyllis's death.

  Jessamy, more equable, kept up a little courage; but she too wasutterly inexperienced, and it was very hard for her to hope forPhyllis's recovery.

  And so Christmas eve dawned grimly enough upon the two poor girls, andon them alone, for Mrs. Wyndham was too weak to give more than a sickwoman's passing thought to the day, and to Phyllis there was neitherday nor night.

  Doctor Jerome came that morning, and looked more anxious than ever."Your mother is doing fairly," he said; "but this little girl does notmend. Nurse, if you will get your scissors, I think this heavy hairmust come off."

  "Oh, don't--please don't cut off Phyllis's beautiful hair," cried Bab,while Jessamy clasped her hands, mutely making the same appeal.

  "Nonsense, Bab; it will relieve her more than you can imagine," saidTom, sharply, who had followed the doctor into the room. "It would allfall, anyway, after such an illness. It is better for the hair; but ifit weren't, it would still require doing. Pray, be sensible."

  The nurse brought the scissors, and with a few strokes the long, warm,dark masses of hair lay on the quilt. "That's better," said the doctor,as Phyllis moved her head as though at once conscious of relief.He left a few additional directions for the nurse, and went away.Phyllis's hair lay on a paper on the table; the sunlight, resting onit, brought out its rich reddish tint. Tom lifted a tress tenderly."Poor, sweet Phyllis," he said. Jessamy turned away to the window,without a word. What a Christmas eve, indeed!