by Helen Wells
Lisette broke off short again.
Cherry’s curiosity was aroused. How did the girl know what Mrs. Harrison could afford if she was a newcomer to the school? Then, too, what was she doing here a week early? Was it because of some family problem?
“What about your papa?” Cherry asked, since it was obvious that Lisette was trying to change the subject. “What a cunning way to say it!”
“We spoke French a good deal at home in St. Louis,” Lisette said. “Especially Papa. He spoke beautiful French, although he was American-born. And he was a delightful host, and he knew dozens of funny stories, but that’s about all Papa could do. He just wasn’t a practical man. He tried hard to earn a living, but—My heavens, I am telling you a lot, Miss Ames.”
“I’ll respect your confidence.” Cherry thought the girl must be starved for companionship, she seemed to be so glad to make a new friend. “By the way, wouldn’t you rather call me Miss Cherry? It’s friendlier.”
Lisette looked pleased but suddenly shy again.
“You say your father was and had,” Cherry prompted.
“He died three years ago,” Lisette told her.
“Forgive me. You must miss him very much.”
“Yes, we do. It’s hardest on Mother. For another reason, too. She’s had to earn our living, you see—Papa only left us a tiny bit of insurance. And a collection of beautiful books of poetry,” Lisette said wryly. “Mother says one can’t be angry with a dreamer who simply couldn’t cope with life. Papa did mean well.” Lisette’s voice trailed off.
“Is your mother in business?” Cherry asked.
“She gives music lessons.”
No wonder Lisette was in need of a scholarship, Cherry thought. Teaching music was, as a rule, an uncertain way to make a small living.
Lisette was saying much the same thing, but in words chosen to save her pride. Her mother had made all of Lisette’s dresses for the coming school year—it was less expensive than buying the dresses at a shop. Lisette hoped that her mother would come to visit her at the school, but she was busy with her pupils, and then there was the matter of fare. It was clear to Cherry that Mrs. Gauthier was making a sacrifice to send Lisette away to boarding school, even with the aid of a scholarship.
“I’m going to make this year count,” Lisette told Cherry earnestly. “It’s my big chance. I must make it count.”
“I’m sure that you will,” Cherry encouraged her. “Attending a fine school is a wonderful chance for any girl.”
“No, no, you don’t quite understand. It’s something special for me! To come to this school, to the chateau, that’s what I’ve always wanted.”
Cherry wisely remained silent, touching the leaves which brushed the open car window. She knew from her nursing experience the importance of not asking questions. But she hoped that Lisette, of her own accord, would tell more. For Cherry sensed an unhappy situation here behind Lisette’s carefully chosen phrases, and she would like to help her.
“Do you suppose our driver is ever coming back?”
“I forgot to tell you,” Lisette said, “that the school station wagon is in the garage for repairs. Maybe we can beg a ride from the driver of that funny little wagon coming up the road.”
“But she’s heading away from the school,” Cherry commented.
A plump, jolly little woman was driving the horse. She wore an old-fashioned sunbonnet; a wide straw hat rested on the horse’s head, with holes for his ears to stick through. What captivated Cherry was the waves of flower scent from the wagon which held a few baskets of flowers. As the woman drew up alongside, she called:
“Whoa, Jupiter! Afternoon, young ladies! Is it hot enough for you?”
“We’ll have cooler weather soon,” Cherry answered. Lisette only managed to smile.
“You’re from Mrs. Harrison’s school, I’ll wager. I’m Molly Miller from Rivers’ Crossing—that’s more of a crossroads than a village. Maybe you’ve heard of me and my flowers? I have a real nice nursery. Been out selling bouquets today.”
“I’ve been admiring them,” Cherry said, intoxicated with the rich scents. Most of the baskets were empty but in the remaining bouquets were a bewildering variety of blossoms.
“Mrs. Miller, I’ve been brought up right here in Illinois,” Cherry said, “but I’ve never seen a home-grown bouquet with so many different kinds of flowers.”
“Oh, we pride ourselves around here on our flowers.” Molly Miller’s weather-beaten face beamed. “Now, this is a specially nice bunch—so many varieties, four kinds of roses, night-scented stock, a few zinnias, asters—”
Abruptly, Lisette leaned across Cherry to inquire, “Are those for sale?”
“Why, certainly, young lady.” Molly Miller named a small price. In her eagerness Lisette all but seized the bouquet from her. The farm wife looked pleased.
“Why don’t you come over and see my garden and hothouses some day?” she invited them. “It’s well worth a trip, if I do say so myself.”
Cherry thanked the friendly woman, who gathered the reins tighter and clucked to her horse. As the wagon wheels started to turn, Lisette called out:
“Wait a moment—please! What’s the name of this white spray—the one that smells both sweet and tangy? It’s an odd scent—”
“Now, young lady,” the farm wife called back, “I must hurry home. But you come and visit me—like I told you—” She waved good-by to them and the horse trotted merrily up the road.
Cherry waved back, then turned to Lisette, who was rapturously smelling the bouquet. She had never seen anyone enjoy flowers as much as Lisette.
“Miss Cherry, I didn’t mean to—well, snatch the bouquet for myself, you know. I’d like very much to put them in the infirmary. Or at least half of them.”
“For the empty beds to enjoy?” Cherry commented, hoping that there were no patients yet. “No, you keep the flowers, Lisette. Thanks, anyway.”
“Look at the roses! White, fawn-colored, yellow, and those big red cabbage roses. Don’t you love roses? What do you think this strange scent can be?”
Cherry and Lisette went through the bouquet, naming each flower. They were uncertain of one special rose, and unable to identify the silvery-white spray. Whether the odd, lovely odor came from flower or leaf of the silvery spray was a question, too.
Not until they heard gasoline gurgling into the taxi’s tank did they notice that their driver was back, dusty and disgusted.
“I’d better git me one of Molly Miller’s horses,” he said, noticing the bouquet. “Sorry to keep you waitin’.”
The taxi started off again. This time, they turned off the main highway and followed side roads. Birds sang on the boughs, a brook bubbled along.
Cherry sat up straighter, inquisitive to see where they were heading. She powdered her nose and straightened her hat, with one eye on the road. Presently she saw the tall, flat roof of a house, half hidden in trees but rising above them.
The taxi followed a gravel driveway which led into large, rather neglected grounds. Several smaller frame buildings stood among the grove of oak trees, but it was the main house which held Cherry’s attention.
“It does resemble a chateau!” Cherry exclaimed. The lovely old building, surrounded by gardens, gave an impression of dignity, even stateliness. Its tall, narrow style was more Victorian than French, with arched windows and two small formal entrance porches, at front and side.
“Yes, folks around here used to call it the Chateau Larose,” the driver said. He had appointed himself a sort of guide, as the three of them stood before the house, admiring it. “That’s to say, they called it that when a private family resided here. Before the school started up in here. That’s some years ago.”
Cherry turned to Lisette, expecting some natural tie might exist between the girl with the French name and the house of a style transplanted from France. But Lisette remained silent, though a stroke of pink appeared in each ivory cheek.
“I must be mistaken,” Ch
erry thought. “There are French descendants in St. Louis. The French founded the city—and it’s in this general area. Perhaps Lisette wanted to see this chateau simply because it is French!”
The driver was waiting for his fare. Both girls opened their handbags and Lisette fumbled.
“I’m afraid I didn’t bring enough. Or else spent too much—”
“Never mind,” Cherry said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Maybe I put my change in the inner pocket—” Lisette shook her purse, and as she did so, the bouquet and the heavy book on her arm dropped to the ground. The book fell open. Cherry, who stooped to retrieve it, saw the book snatched away and snapped shut. She was a little surprised at Lisette’s haste—as if she did not want Cherry to see what the book was about. Pretending not to notice Lisette’s strange action, Cherry picked up the bouquet, then turned to the driver and took care of the fare.
“Thank you very much, Miss Cherry,” Lisette said in a small voice. “I’m terribly embarrassed. I’ll repay you.”
“I’ll be embarrassed if you do. I’ll tell you what! You may contribute one red rose to the infirmary. Here are your flowers.”
Lisette smiled shyly at her as if to say, “I like you.” Then, as she stood silently before the house, the girl seemed to forget Cherry, seemed to be in a world of her own. Half to herself she murmured, “Papa and I always dreamed of this old house. Now I’m really here.”
Cherry was puzzled. “And you came early to look around?” she said sympathetically.
Lisette turned crimson. She withdrew into herself again and did not reply. Cherry regretted that she had spoken so hastily, though she intended only a friendly interest! Why was Lisette so evasive and touchy?
“Let’s go in the house,” Cherry said, still puzzled. “I’d like to meet Mrs. Harrison. Will you introduce me?”
Lisette led the way into the house, which was cool and quiet. No one was in the entrance hall. Lisette knocked on the open door of an attractive reception room, and, since no one was there, went on into the huge sitting room which was Mrs. Harrison’s office. The room was shaded, the walls were lined with books and photographs. At the desk a golden-haired woman sat writing.
Lisette said quickly, “Mrs. Harrison, here is Miss Cherry Ames,” and then the girl vanished.