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CHAPTER III
THE OUTBREAK
There comes a time
After white months of ice —
Slow months of ice – long months of ice —
There comes a time when the still floods below
Rise, lift, and overflow —
Fast, far they go.
Miss Orella sat in her low armless rocker, lifting perplexed, patient eyes to look up at Dr. Bellair.
Dr. Bellair stood squarely before her, stood easily, on broad-soled, low-heeled shoes, and looked down at Miss Orella; her eyes were earnest, compelling, full of hope and cheer.
"You are as pretty as a girl, Orella," she observed irrelevantly.
Miss Orella blushed. She was not used to compliments, even from a woman, and did not know how to take them.
"How you talk!" she murmured shyly.
"I mean to talk," continued the doctor, "until you listen to reason."
Reason in this case, to Dr. Bellair's mind, lay in her advice to Miss Elder to come West with her – to live.
"I don't see how I can. It's – it's such a Complete Change."
Miss Orella spoke as if Change were equivalent to Sin, or at least to Danger.
"Do you good. As a physician, I can prescribe nothing better. You need a complete change if anybody ever did."
"Why, Jane! I am quite well."
"I didn't say you were sick. But you are in an advanced stage of arthritis deformans of the soul. The whole town's got it!"
The doctor tramped up and down the little room, freeing her mind.
"I never saw such bed-ridden intellects in my life! I suppose it was so when I was a child – and I was too young to notice it. But surely it's worse now. The world goes faster and faster every day, the people who keep still get farther behind! I'm fond of you, Rella. You've got an intellect, and a conscience, and a will – a will like iron. But you spend most of your strength in keeping yourself down. Now, do wake up and use it to break loose! You don't have to stay here. Come out to Colorado with me – and Grow."
Miss Elder moved uneasily in her chair. She laid her small embroidery hoop on the table, and straightened out the loose threads of silk, the doctor watching her impatiently.
"I'm too old," she said at length.
Jane Bellair laughed aloud, shortly.
"Old!" she cried. "You're five years younger than I am. You're only thirty-six! Old! Why, child, your life's before you – to make."
"You don't realize, Jane. You struck out for yourself so young – and you've grown up out there – it seems to be so different – there."
"It is. People aren't afraid to move. What have you got here you so hate to leave, Rella?"
"Why, it's – Home."
"Yes. It's home – now. Are you happy in it?"
"I'm – contented."
"Don't you deceive yourself, Rella. You are not contented – not by a long chalk. You are doing your duty as you see it; and you've kept yourself down so long you've almost lost the power of motion. I'm trying to galvanize you awake – and I mean to do it."
"You might as well sit down while you're doing it, anyway," Miss Elder suggested meekly.
Dr. Bellair sat down, selecting a formidable fiddle-backed chair, the unflinching determination of its widely-placed feet being repeated by her own square toes. She placed herself in front of her friend and leaned forward, elbows on knees, her strong, intelligent hands clasped loosely.
"What have you got to look forward to, Rella?"
"I want to see Susie happily married – "
"I said you– not Susie."
"Oh – me? Why, I hope some day Morton will come back – "
"I said you– not Morton."
"Why I – you know I have friends, Jane – and neighbors. And some day, perhaps – I mean to go abroad."
"Are you scolding Aunt Rella again, Dr. Bellair. I won't stand it." Pretty Susie stood in the door smiling.
"Come and help me then," the doctor said, "and it won't sound so much like scolding."
"I want Mort's letter – to show to Viva," the girl answered, and slipped out with it.
She sat with Vivian on the stiff little sofa in the back room; the arms of the two girls were around one another, and they read the letter together. More than six months had passed since his last one.
It was not much of a letter. Vivian took it in her own hands and went through it again, carefully. The "Remember me to Viva – unless she's married," at the end did not seem at all satisfying. Still it might mean more than appeared – far more. Men were reticent and proud, she had read. It was perfectly possible that he might be concealing deep emotion under the open friendliness. He was in no condition to speak freely, to come back and claim her. He did not wish her to feel bound to him. She had discussed it with Mrs. St. Cloud, shrinkingly, tenderly, led on by tactful, delicate, questions, by the longing of her longing heart for expression and sympathy.
"A man who cannot marry must speak of marriage – it is not honorable," her friend had told her.
"Couldn't he – write to me – as a friend?"
And the low-voiced lady had explained with a little sigh that men thought little of friendship with women. "I have tried, all my life, to be a true and helpful friend to men, to such men as seemed worthy, and they so often – misunderstood."
The girl, sympathetic and admiring, thought hotly of how other people misunderstood this noble, lovely soul; how they even hinted that she "tried to attract men," a deadly charge in Bainville.
"No," Mrs. St. Cloud had told her, "he might love you better than all the world – yet not write to you – till he was ready to say 'come.' And, of course, he wouldn't say anything in his letters to his aunt."
So Vivian sat there, silent, weaving frail dreams out of "remember me to Viva – unless she's married." That last clause might mean much.
Dr. Bellair's voice sounded clear and insistent in the next room.
"She's trying to persuade Aunt Rella to go West!" said Susie. "Wouldn't it be funny if she did!"
In Susie's eyes her Aunt's age was as the age of mountains, and also her fixity. Since she could remember, Aunt Rella, always palely pretty and neat, like the delicate, faintly-colored Spring flowers of New England, had presided over the small white house, the small green garden and the large black and white school-room. In her vacation she sewed, keeping that quiet wardrobe of hers in exquisite order – and also making Susie's pretty dresses. To think of Aunt Orella actually "breaking up housekeeping," giving up her school, leaving Bainville, was like a vision of trees walking.
To Dr. Jane Bellair, forty-one, vigorous, successful, full of new plans and purposes, Miss Elder's life appeared as an arrested girlhood, stagnating unnecessarily in this quiet town, while all the world was open to her.
"I couldn't think of leaving Susie!" protested Miss Orella.
"Bring her along," said the doctor. "Best thing in the world for her!"
She rose and came to the door. The two girls make a pretty picture. Vivian's oval face, with its smooth Madonna curves under the encircling wreath of soft, dark plaits, and the long grace of her figure, delicately built, yet strong, beside the pink, plump little Susie, roguish and pretty, with the look that made everyone want to take care of her.
"Come in here, girls," said the doctor. "I want you to help me. You're young enough to be movable, I hope."
They cheerfully joined the controversy, but Miss Orella found small support in them.
"Why don't you do it, Auntie!" Susie thought it an excellent joke. "I suppose you could teach school in Denver as well as here. And you could Vote! Oh, Auntie – to think of your Voting!"
Miss Elder, too modestly feminine, too inherently conservative even to be an outspoken "Anti," fairly blushed at the idea.
"She's hesitating on your account," Dr. Bellair explained to the girl. "Wants to see you safely married! I tell her you'll have a thousandfold better opportunities in Colorado than you ever will here."
Vivian was grieved. She had heard enough of this getting married, and had expected Dr. Bellair to hold a different position.
"Surely, that's not the only thing to do," she protested.
"No, but it's a very important thing to do – and to do right. It's a woman's duty."
Vivian groaned in spirit. That again!
The doctor watched her understandingly.
"If women only did their duty in that line there wouldn't be so much unhappiness in the world," she said. "All you New England girls sit here and cut one another's throats. You can't possible marry, your boys go West, you overcrowd the labor market, lower wages, steadily drive the weakest sisters down till they – drop."
They heard the back door latch lift and close again, a quick, decided step – and Mrs. Pettigrew joined them.
Miss Elder greeted her cordially, and the old lady seated herself in the halo of the big lamp, as one well accustomed to the chair.
"Go right on," she said – and knitted briskly.
"Do take my side, Mrs. Pettigrew," Miss Orella implored her. "Jane Bellair is trying to pull me up by the roots and transplant me to Colorado."
"And she says I shall have a better chance to marry out there – and ought to do it!" said Susie, very solemnly. "And Vivian objects to being shown the path of duty."
Vivian smiled. Her quiet, rather sad face lit with sudden sparkling beauty when she smiled.
"Grandma knows I hate that – point of view," she said. "I think men and women ought to be friends, and not always be thinking about – that."
"I have some real good friends – boys, I mean," Susie agreed, looking so serious in her platonic boast that even Vivian was a little amused, and Dr. Bellair laughed outright.
"You won't have a 'friend' in that sense till you're fifty, Miss Susan – if you ever do. There can be, there are, real friendships between men and women, but most of that talk is – talk, sometimes worse.
"I knew a woman once, ever so long ago," the doctor continued musingly, clasping her hands behind her head, "a long way from here – in a college town – who talked about 'friends.' She was married. She was a 'good' woman – perfectly 'good' woman. Her husband was not a very good man, I've heard, and strangely impatient of her virtues. She had a string of boys – college boys – always at her heels. Quite too young and too charming she was for this friendship game. She said that such a friendship was 'an ennobling influence' for the boys. She called them her 'acolytes.' Lots of them were fairly mad about her – one young chap was so desperate over it that he shot himself."
There was a pained silence.
"I don't see what this has to do with going to Colorado," said Mrs. Pettigrew, looking from one to the other with a keen, observing eye. "What's your plan, Dr. Bellair?"
"Why, I'm trying to persuade my old friend here to leave this place, change her occupation, come out to Colorado with me, and grow up. She's a case of arrested development."
"She wants me to keep boarders!" Miss Elder plaintively protested to Mrs. Pettigrew.
That lady was not impressed.
"It's quite a different matter out there, Mrs. Pettigrew," the doctor explained. "'Keeping boarders' in this country goes to the tune of 'Come Ye Disconsolate!' It's a doubtful refuge for women who are widows or would be better off if they were. Where I live it's a sure thing if well managed – it's a good business."
Mrs. Pettigrew wore an unconvinced aspect.
"What do you call 'a good business?'" she asked.
"The house I have in mind cleared a thousand a year when it was in right hands. That's not bad, over and above one's board and lodging. That house is in the market now. I've just had a letter from a friend about it. Orella could go out with me, and step right into Mrs. Annerly's shoes – she's just giving up."
"What'd she give up for?" Mrs. Pettigrew inquired suspiciously.
"Oh – she got married; they all do. There are three men to one woman in that town, you see."
"I didn't know there was such a place in the world – unless it was a man-of-war," remarked Susie, looking much interested.
Dr. Bellair went on more quietly.
"It's not even a risk, Mrs. Pettigrew. Rella has a cousin who would gladly run this house for her. She's admitted that much. So there's no loss here, and she's got her home to come back to. I can write to Dick Hale to nail the proposition at once. She can go when I go, in about a fortnight, and I'll guarantee the first year definitely."
"I wouldn't think of letting you do that, Jane! And if it's as good as you say, there's no need. But a fortnight! To leave home – in a fortnight!"
"What are the difficulties?" the old lady inquired. "There are always some difficulties."
"You are right, there," agreed the doctor. "The difficulties in this place are servants. But just now there's a special chance in that line. Dick says the best cook in town is going begging. I'll read you his letter."
She produced it, promptly, from the breast pocket of her neat coat. Dr. Bellair wore rather short, tailored skirts of first-class material; natty, starched blouses – silk ones for "dress," and perfectly fitting light coats. Their color and texture might vary with the season, but their pockets, never.
"'My dear Jane' (This is my best friend out there – a doctor, too. We were in the same class, both college and medical school. We fight – he's a misogynist of the worst type – but we're good friends all the same.) 'Why don't you come back? My boys are lonesome without you, and I am overworked – you left so many mishandled invalids for me to struggle with. Your boarding house is going to the dogs. Mrs. Annerly got worse and worse, failed completely and has cleared out, with a species of husband, I believe. The owner has put in a sort of caretaker, and the roomers get board outside – it's better than what they were having. Moreover, the best cook in town is hunting a job. Wire me and I'll nail her. You know the place pays well. Now, why don't you give up your unnatural attempt to be a doctor and assume woman's proper sphere? Come back and keep house!'
"He's a great tease, but he tells the truth. The house is there, crying to be kept. The boarders are there – unfed. Now, Orella Elder, why don't you wake up and seize the opportunity?"
Miss Orella was thinking.
"Where's that last letter of Morton's?"
Susie looked for it. Vivian handed it to her, and Miss Elder read it once more.
"There's plenty of homeless boys out there besides yours, Orella," the doctor assured her. "Come on – and bring both these girls with you. It's a chance for any girl, Miss Lane."
But her friend did not hear her. She found what she was looking for in the letter and read it aloud. "I'm on the road again now, likely to be doing Colorado most of the year if things go right. It's a fine country."
Susie hopped up with a little cry.
"Just the thing, Aunt Rella! Let's go out and surprise Mort. He thinks we are just built into the ground here. Won't it be fun, Viva?"
Vivian had risen from her seat and stood at the window, gazing out with unseeing eyes at the shadowy little front yard. Morton might be there. She might see him. But – was it womanly to go there – for that? There were other reasons, surely. She had longed for freedom, for a chance to grow, to do something in life – something great and beautiful! Perhaps this was the opening of the gate, the opportunity of a lifetime.
"You folks are so strong on duty," the doctor was saying, "Why can't you see a real duty in this? I tell you, the place is full of men that need mothering, and sistering – good honest sweethearting and marrying, too. Come on, Rella. Do bigger work than you've ever done yet – and, as I said, bring both these nice girls with you. What do you say, Miss Lane?"
Vivian turned to her, her fine face flushed with hope, yet with a small Greek fret on the broad forehead.
"I'd like to, very much, Dr. Bellair – on some accounts. But – " She could not quite voice her dim objections, her obscure withdrawals; and so fell back on the excuse of childhood – "I'm sure Mother wouldn't let me."
Dr. Bellair smiled broadly.
"Aren't you over twenty-one?" she asked.
"I'm twenty-five," the girl replied, with proud acceptance of a life long done – as one who owned to ninety-seven.
"And self-supporting?" pursued the doctor.
Vivian flushed.
"No – not yet," she answered; "but I mean to be."
"Exactly! Now's your chance. Break away now, my dear, and come West. You can get work – start a kindergarten, or something. I know you love children."
The girl's heart rose within her in a great throb of hope.
"Oh – if I could!" she exclaimed, and even as she said it, rose half-conscious memories of the low, sweet tones of Mrs. St. Cloud. "It is a woman's place to wait – and to endure."
She heard a step on the walk outside – looked out.
"Why, here is Mrs. St. Cloud!" she cried.
"Guess I'll clear out," said the doctor, as Susie ran to the door. She was shy, socially.
"Nonsense, Jane," said her hostess, whispering. "Mrs. St. Cloud is no stranger. She's Mrs. Williams' sister – been here for years."
She came in at the word, her head and shoulders wreathed in a pearl gray shining veil, her soft long robe held up.
"I saw your light, Miss Elder, and thought I'd stop in for a moment. Good evening, Mrs. Pettigrew – and Miss Susie. Ah! Vivian!"
"This is my friend, Dr. Bellair – Mrs. St. Cloud," Miss Elder was saying. But Dr. Bellair bowed a little stiffly, not coming forward.
"I've met Mrs. St. Cloud before, I think – when she was 'Mrs. James.'"
The lady's face grew sad.
"Ah, you knew my first husband! I lost him – many years ago – typhoid fever."
"I think I heard," said the doctor. And then, feeling that some expression of sympathy was called for, she added, "Too bad."
Not all Miss Elder's gentle hospitality, Mrs. Pettigrew's bright-eyed interest, Susie's efforts at polite attention, and Vivian's visible sympathy could compensate Mrs. St. Cloud for one inimical presence.
"You must have been a mere girl in those days," she said sweetly. "What a lovely little town it was – under the big trees."
"It certainly was," the doctor answered dryly.
"There is such a fine atmosphere in a college town, I think," pursued the lady. "Especially in a co-educational town – don't you think so?"
Vivian was a little surprised. She had had an idea that her admired friend did not approve of co-education. She must have been mistaken.
"Such a world of old memories as you call up, Dr. Bellair," their visitor pursued. "Those quiet, fruitful days! You remember Dr. Black's lectures? Of course you do, better than I. What a fine man he was! And the beautiful music club we had one Winter – and my little private dancing class – do you remember that? Such nice boys, Miss Elder! I used to call them my acolytes."
Susie gave a little gulp, and coughed to cover it.
"I guess you'll have to excuse me, ladies," said Dr. Bellair. "Good-night." And she walked upstairs.
Vivian's face flushed and paled and flushed again. A cold pain was trying to enter her heart, and she was trying to keep it out. Her grandmother glanced sharply from one face to the other.
"Glad to've met you, Mrs. St. Cloud," she said, bobbing up with decision. "Good-night, Rella – and Susie. Come on child. It's a wonder your mother hasn't sent after us."
For once Vivian was glad to go.
"That's a good scheme of Jane Bellair's, don't you think so?" asked the old lady as they shut the gate behind them.
"I – why yes – I don't see why not."
Vivian was still dizzy with the blow to her heart's idol. All the soft, still dream-world she had so labored to keep pure and beautiful seemed to shake and waver swimmingly. She could not return to it. The flat white face of her home loomed before her, square, hard, hideously unsympathetic —
"Grandma," said she, stopping that lady suddenly and laying a pleading hand on her arm, "Grandma, I believe I'll go."
Mrs. Pettigrew nodded decisively.
"I thought you would," she said.
"Do you blame me, Grandma?"
"Not a mite, child. Not a mite. But I'd sleep on it, if I were you."
And Vivian slept on it – so far as she slept at all.
CHAPTER IV
TRANSPLANTED
Sometimes a plant in its own habitat
Is overcrowded, starved, oppressed and daunted;
A palely feeble thing; yet rises quickly,
Growing in height and vigor, blooming thickly,
When far transplanted.
The days between Vivian's decision and her departure were harder than she had foreseen. It took some courage to make the choice. Had she been alone, independent, quite free to change, the move would have been difficult enough; but to make her plan and hold to it in the face of a disapproving town, and the definite opposition of her parents, was a heavy undertaking.
By habit she would have turned to Mrs. St. Cloud for advice; but between her and that lady now rose the vague image of a young boy, dead, – she could never feel the same to her again.
Dr. Bellair proved a tower of strength. "My dear girl," she would say to her, patiently, but with repressed intensity, "do remember that you are not a child! You are twenty-five years old. You are a grown woman, and have as much right to decide for yourself as a grown man. This isn't wicked – it is a wise move; a practical one. Do you want to grow up like the rest of the useless single women in this little social cemetery?"
Her mother took it very hard. "I don't see how you can think of leaving us. We're getting old now – and here's Grandma to take care of – "
"Huh!" said that lady, with such marked emphasis that Mrs. Lane hastily changed the phrase to "I mean to be with– you do like to have Vivian with you, you can't deny that, Mother."
"But Mama," said the girl, "you are not old; you are only forty-three. I am sorry to leave you – I am really; but it isn't forever! I can come back. And you don't really need me. Sarah runs the house exactly as you like; you don't depend on me for a thing, and never did. As to Grandma!" – and she looked affectionately at the old lady – "she don't need me nor anybody else. She's independent if ever anybody was. She won't miss me a mite – will you Grandma?" Mrs. Pettigrew looked at her for a moment, the corners of her mouth tucked in tightly. "No," she said, "I shan't miss you a mite!"
Vivian was a little grieved at the prompt acquiescence. She felt nearer to her grandmother in many ways than to either parent. "Well, I'll miss you!" said she, going to her and kissing her smooth pale cheek, "I'll miss you awfully!"
Mr. Lane expressed his disapproval most thoroughly, and more than once; then retired into gloomy silence, alternated with violent dissuasion; but since a woman of twenty-five is certainly free to choose her way of life, and there was no real objection to this change, except that it was a change, and therefore dreaded, his opposition, though unpleasant, was not prohibitive. Vivian's independent fortune of $87.50, the savings of many years, made the step possible, even without his assistance.
There were two weeks of exceeding disagreeableness in the household, but Vivian kept her temper and her determination under a rain of tears, a hail of criticism, and heavy wind of argument and exhortation. All her friends and neighbors, and many who were neither, joined in the effort to dissuade her; but she stood firm as the martyrs of old.
Heredity plays strange tricks with us. Somewhere under the girl's dumb gentleness and patience lay a store of quiet strength from some Pilgrim Father or Mother. Never before had she set her will against her parents; conscience had always told her to submit. Now conscience told her to rebel, and she did. She made her personal arrangements, said goodbye to her friends, declined to discuss with anyone, was sweet and quiet and kind at home, and finally appeared at the appointed hour on the platform of the little station.
Numbers of curious neighbors were there to see them off, all who knew them and could spare the time seemed to be on hand. Vivian's mother came, but her father did not.
At the last moment, just as the train drew in, Grandma appeared, serene and brisk, descending, with an impressive amount of hand baggage, from "the hack."
"Goodbye, Laura," she said. "I think these girls need a chaperon. I'm going too."
So blasting was the astonishment caused by this proclamation, and so short a time remained to express it, that they presently found themselves gliding off in the big Pullman, all staring at one another in silent amazement.
"I hate discussion," said Mrs. Pettigrew.
None of these ladies were used to traveling, save Dr. Bellair, who had made the cross continent trip often enough to think nothing of it.
The unaccustomed travelers found much excitement in the journey. As women, embarking on a new, and, in the eyes of their friends, highly doubtful enterprise, they had emotion to spare; and to be confronted at the outset by a totally unexpected grandmother was too much for immediate comprehension.
She looked from one to the other, sparkling, triumphant.
"I made up my mind, same as you did, hearing Jane Bellair talk," she explained. "Sounded like good sense. I always wanted to travel, always, and never had the opportunity. This was a real good chance." Her mouth shut, tightened, widened, drew into a crinkly delighted smile.
They sat still staring at her.
"You needn't look at me like that! I guess it's a free country! I bought my ticket – sent for it same as you did. And I didn't have to ask anybody– I'm no daughter. My duty, as far as I know it, is done! This is a pleasure trip!"
She was triumph incarnate.
"And you never said a word!" This from Vivian.
"Not a word. Saved lots of trouble. Take care of me indeed! Laura needn't think I'm dependent on her yet!"
Vivian's heart rather yearned over her mother, thus doubly bereft.
"The truth is," her grandmother went on, "Samuel wants to go to Florida the worst way; I heard 'em talking about it! He wasn't willing to go alone – not he! Wants somebody to hear him cough, I say! And Laura couldn't go – 'Mother was so dependent' —Huh!"
Vivian began to smile. She knew this had been talked over, and given up on that account. She herself could have been easily disposed of, but Mrs. Lane chose to think her mother a lifelong charge.
"Act as if I was ninety!" the old lady burst forth again. "I'll show 'em!"
"I think you're dead right, Mrs. Pettigrew," said Dr. Bellair. "Sixty isn't anything. You ought to have twenty years of enjoyable life yet, before they call you 'old' – maybe more."
Mrs. Pettigrew cocked an eye at her. "My grandmother lived to be a hundred and four," said she, "and kept on working up to the last year. I don't know about enjoyin' life, but she was useful for pretty near a solid century. After she broke her hip the last time she sat still and sewed and knitted. After her eyes gave out she took to hooking rugs."
"I hope it will be forty years, Mrs. Pettigrew," said Sue, "and I'm real glad you're coming. It'll make it more like home."
Miss Elder was a little slow in accommodating herself to this new accession. She liked Mrs. Pettigrew very much – but – a grandmother thus airily at large seemed to unsettle the foundations of things. She was polite, even cordial, but evidently found it difficult to accept the facts.
"Besides," said Mrs. Pettigrew, "you may not get all those boarders at once and I'll be one to count on. I stopped at the bank this morning and had 'em arrange for my account out in Carston. They were some surprised, but there was no time to ask questions!" She relapsed into silence and gazed with keen interest at the whirling landscape.
Throughout the journey she proved the best of travelers; was never car-sick, slept well in the joggling berth, enjoyed the food, and continually astonished them by producing from her handbag the most diverse and unlooked for conveniences. An old-fashioned traveller had forgotten her watchkey – Grandma produced an automatic one warranted to fit anything. "Takes up mighty little room – and I thought maybe it would come in handy," she said.
She had a small bottle of liquid court-plaster, and plenty of the solid kind. She had a delectable lotion for the hands, a real treasure on the dusty journey; also a tiny corkscrew, a strong pair of "pinchers," sewing materials, playing cards, string, safety-pins, elastic bands, lime drops, stamped envelopes, smelling salts, troches, needles and thread.
"Did you bring a trunk, Grandma?" asked Vivian.
"Two," said Grandma, "excess baggage. All paid for and checked."
"How did you ever learn to arrange things so well?" Sue asked admiringly.
"Read about it," the old lady answered. "There's no end of directions nowadays. I've been studying up."
She was so gleeful and triumphant, so variously useful, so steadily gay and stimulating, that they all grew to value her presence long before they reached Carston; but they had no conception of the ultimate effect of a resident grandmother in that new and bustling town.
To Vivian the journey was a daily and nightly revelation. She had read much but traveled very little, never at night. The spreading beauty of the land was to her a new stimulus; she watched by the hour the endless panorama fly past her window, its countless shades of green, the brown and red soil, the fleeting dashes of color where wild flowers gathered thickly. She was repeatedly impressed by seeing suddenly beside her the name of some town which had only existed in her mind as "capital city" associated with "principal exports" and "bounded on the north."
At night, sleeping little, she would raise her curtain and look out, sideways, at the stars. Big shadowy trees ran by, steep cuttings rose like a wall of darkness, and the hilly curves of open country rose and fell against the sky line like a shaken carpet.
She faced the long, bright vistas of the car and studied people's faces – such different people from any she had seen before. A heavy young man with small, light eyes, sat near by, and cast frequent glances at both the girls, going by their seat at intervals. Vivian considered this distinctly rude, and Sue did not like his looks, so he got nothing for his pains, yet even this added color to the day.
The strange, new sense of freedom grew in her heart, a feeling of lightness and hope and unfolding purpose.
There was continued discussion as to what the girls should do.
"We can be waitresses for Auntie till we get something else," Sue practically insisted. "The doctor says it will be hard to get good service and I'm sure the boarders would like us."
