’ w .'P
HAPPY HOUSE
By Jane D. Abbott
COPYRIGHT, 1920. BY J. B. LJPPINCOTT COMPANY
Something in the vision frigh
tened her, but challenged the
best in her, too. One had only
one life to live and each wasted
day counted so muck— each
wasted hour cost so detn'lv! In
the striving for the far goal one
must not leave undone the little
things that lay close art hand, the
little, worth while, sometimes
hard things. She had gone a
long way down the wrong road,
t»ut she’d turn squarely! Her
bead went high—she would make
a clean breast of it all—to them
all; Aunt Sabrina, Aunt Milly—
Peter Hyde.
Her face went down against
her arms; she wanted to hide,
even in the darkness, the flush
that mantled her cheeks She
could see his eyes as they had
seemed to caress her—out there
in the orchard. Oh, why had she
not told him the truth, then and
there; if she had he would have
despised her, but it would have
killed forever the hope she had
read in his face.
Nancy, girlishly eager to strug
gle in life's tide, now, facing the
greatest thing in life, shrank
back, afraid- She wanted, oh so
much, to be little again; there
had always been someone, then,
to whom to turn when problems
pressed—Daddy, even Mrs. Fin
negan—the seniors in college, the
Dean herself. Now — she felt
alone.
Lighting her lamp, she pulled a
chair to tlie table and spread out
sheets of paper. She wanted to
tell it. all, while her courage last
ed. She wrote furiously, her
lips pressed in a straight line.
She would not spare herself one
bit —Peter Hyde must know just
what she had done.
Hut, at the end, she yielded to
a longing too strong to resist.
“ 1 Mease, please don’t think too
badly of me. You see you don’t
know Aime and how her heart
was set on going to Russia, and
she was sure that if she told her
relatives about going they’d stop
her. And that seemed, then, the
only important thing—neither ot
us thought of the wrong we’d be
doing the people—here. It
seemed, too, a very little thing for
ine to do for her. But I just can’t
bear to have you hate me!” For
a moment she held her pencil
over the last words, then hastily
scaled the letter and addressed it.
The last paragraph stayed in
her mind. ‘‘How silly we were,
Anne,” she said aloud, mentally
arraigning those two very young
creatures of college days.
Her confession made, a load
rolled from Nancy’s heart.
“Anyway, he’ll know the truth,”
was her soothing though as she
crawled into bed. In the morn
ing she would tell Aunt Sabrina.
But Nancy’s first waking
thought—at a very late hour, for
her over tired body had taken
its due iu sound sleep—was that
she was very, very unhappy. As
she dressed, with trembling haste,
she wondered if she had not bet
ter plan to catch the afternoon
train at North Hero.
She sought out Jonathan first
and dispatched hitn with her let
ter, then walked slowly back into
the house to face Aunt Sabrina.
On the newel post of the stairs
were letters that Jonathan had
just brought up from the post
office. One was addressed to
her iu Anne’s familiar handwrit
ing and was postmarked New
York I
As though she had been struck,
Nancy dropped down on the
stairs.
Anne’s valiant spirit of sacri
fice and service had given way to
complaint.
“All these weeks couped up in
a little room in London waiting
for further orders, only to have
them dare to tell me—after all
the encouragement I’d had—that
1 was too young and inexperi
enoed to go on into Russia, and
that I could be of greater ser
vice in organization work back
home. Think of it, Nancy I And
then shipping me back as though
I was a little child. 1 have worn
myBelf out with disappointment,
rage and disgust. I came here to
your rooms and slept last night
in your bed (as much as any one
could sleep with the Finnegan
baby cutting a tooth downstairs)
and I shall stay here until I can
calm down euough to make some
definite plans.
“ . . . You’ve beeu a dear,
Nancy, and I've beeu quite curi
ous to know how you’ve gotten
on. I never dreamed you’d stay
21
so long! And now I must ask
you to stay just a little longer,
until I know what I want to do.
Under no circumstances let my
aunt know the truth. ...”
Nancy read the letter three
times—she could scarcely believe
her eyes. Poor Anne, her splen
did dreams had come to noth
ing.
In her own desire to clean her
soul by confession, she had for
gotten Anne! Of course she
could not tell Aunt Sabrina—at
least not now. She must wait,
as Anne had asked.
“Oh, what a tangled web we
weave when first we practice to
deceive,” Nancy repeated, bitter
ly, feeling as though the web she
had made was tying her hand and
foot.
’Blindy, looking in from the
kitchen, saw her. B'lindy’s face
was strangely brightened; she
gave a mysterious crook to her
finger as she beckoned to Nancy
to come into the kitchen.
‘‘I set some coffee by for you
—I guessed you’d be tuckered
out after yesterday, ridin’ round
in that storm and then findin’
the wallet was ’nough to tucker
anybody.” Before she poured the
coffee she closed the door lead
ing into the front of the house.
‘‘Miss Nancy, there’s been more
changes in Happy House even
than findin’ that wallet!”
‘‘What do you mean,
B’lindyt”
B’lindy leaned a radiant face
over Nancy.
‘‘It’s Miss Sabriny—she’s been
just like she was born again! I
guess folks won’t know her. And
you’ll never guess what we’re
goin' to have up here. A baby!”
Nancy was frankly astonished.
Then B’lindy told her what, in
the excitement of the afternoon
before, she had not hear—of find
ing the baby and Davy’s note.
‘‘I guess that little mite opened
up somethin’ that was all dried
up in Sabriny Leavitt’s heart!
Seems while we was all fussin’
over the mess in the settin’ room
Davy Hopworth come up after
that baby lookin’ like he’d been
scared to death. And then this
inornin’ Sabriny Lea'dtt comes
to me ’n asks me to go down to
Timothy Hopkins with her while
she asks him for that baby back.
Well, we went—she couldn’t even
wait for me to pick up. And
Timothy Hopkins refused her
flat! You wouldn’t have be
lieved your ears, Nancy, Sabriny
Leavitt took most to cryin’ and
she told him how lonesome it was
up to Happy House and how her
whole lifeVI been wasted ’cause
she’d never done for others and
he’d be doin’ a kindness to an
old woman to let her take the
baby and do for it. But it wa’n’t
until she’d promised that she’d
just sort o’ bring him up and he
could always go home and play
with the nine others, and the nine
o’ them could come to Happy
House’s often as they wanted
that he’d as much as listen. So
we’re goin’ to have a baby!”
B’lindy said it with unconcealed
triumph. ‘‘Cunnin’ little thing
—smart 's can be. You should a’
seen it grab for the spoon when
I was fcedin’ it!”
Nancy’s eyes were shining.
‘‘Oh, that will be wonderful,”
she cried. ‘‘Where is Aunt Sa
brina?”
As though in answer to her
question, Miss Sabrina’s voice
called her from the front hall
and at the same moment Miss
Sabrina opened the door. Yes, it
was a transformed Sabrina Leav
itt—her face was deeply lined by
all she had gone through, but
there was a humility in her eyes
that softened them and brought
a deeper glow as though, indeed,
from some new-born spirit
within.
Impulsively, Nancy threw two
strong arms about her neck and
kissed her.
‘‘Come into the sitting room
with me, Anne, I have a great
deal I want to say to you.” She
led Nancy through the hall into
the sitting room and they sat
down together upon the old horse
hair sofa. In Miss Sabrina’s tone
there was a dignified tranquility
that made Nancy look at her
with a little wonder. As though
in answer to Nancy’s thought
Miss Sabrina said, quietly:
‘‘God alone knows what I’ve
lived through—since yesterday
afternoon. Nancy, it is a terri
ble thing for an old woman to
look back upon a life she has
wasted—through pride and pre
judice. The storm and finding
the wallet—that was God's own
way of opening my eyes! I have
been a wicked, proud, selfish
woman. But I've hurt myself
worst of all. For here I am an
old woman, and not a soul in the
world really loves me-”
Nancy put out a protesting
hand. Miss Sabrina patted it.
“I am right, my dear, I know
it now. But if God will be good
to me He will give me a few more
years to live, so that I may make
up, in a small way, for the wrong
I have done—to others and to
myself. Do you know, Nancy, it
was you who first brought home
to me the truth—that happiness
comes as it is given. It was a
fortunate thing for Happy
House when I brought you here,
dear.”
Nancy had to bite her lips to
strangle the wrords of confession
that sprang to them. Aunt Sa
brina went on:
“I cannot bring back the years
or atone to my brother for the
wrong I did to him. I do not
know how 1 can make up to your
own father. Perhaps, if you ask
him, to, he will forgive me, some
day. But I shall, as soon as I
can see my lawyers in North
Hero, make a newr will, leaving
Happy House and my share of
my father s fortune to you
“Good gracious-” thought
Nancy; “she thinks Anne’s fath
er is still living!” In dismay
Nancy sprang to her feet. But
Miss Sabrina paid no heed to her
agitation. She- rose and went to
the table and opened a leather
bound book that lay there.
“I have brought down some
papers and letters that belonged
to your grandfather—when he
was a young man. Here is a pic
ture of him. Come and see it,
ray dear.”
Unwillingly Nancy crossed to
the table. Miss Sabrina reverent
ly placed the faded picture in her
hand.
“My only brother,” she whis
pered, brokenly. “Your grand
father.”
“No, Anne’s grandfather,”
Nancy almost screamed.
She looked at the picture with
intent interest. It portrayed a
strikingly handsome young man.
She turned the.card in her hand.
Across the back had been written
the name. “Eugene Standbridge
Leavitt.”
Astounded, Nancy cried out:
‘.“Why, that—that is my fath
er’s name!”
CHAPTER XXVI.
Eugene Standbridge Leavitt.
For a moment Nancy thought
she had gone quite crazy! She
put her hand to her head to
steady its whirling. This was her
grandfather—her own father’s
father! She was the real Anne
Leavitt!
Aunt Sabrina was hissing over
a note book in which clippings
had been pasted. She thought
Nancy’s agitation quite excus
able ; she was trembliug herself.
“That is a family name. The
Standbridge comes from our
great grandmother’s side. I
knew your father had been called
Eugene — yes, here’s what
B’lindy cut out of the newspa
per.” She placed the open page
of the book in Nanoy’s hands.
She told Nancy how, after the
quarrel, her father had ordered
her to destroy everything about
the house that might remind any
one of the disowned son.
“I carried out his wishes. Af
ter our mother’s death my fath
er and I had been constant com
panions. I was terribly angry at
my brother for having brought
this grief and shame to my father
in his old age. Now-•” she
caught her breath sharply. “But
B’lindy was fond of the boy. She
packed these letters and the pic
ture away, and after that, for
years, whenever she’d read any
thing about him in the papers,
or hear a word, she’d enter it in
this little book. I never knew
that until years later. See—
here’s an account of his wedding.
It says he went abroad—he’d al
ways wanted to, even when he
was a young lad. Here it tells
that he bought a newspaper.
Here’s where it speaks about his
son Eugene.”
It seemed to Nancy as though
the little pages of the book, with
their age-yellow clippings and
curious entries, were opening to
her a new side of her father's
life. She remembered some
stuffed birds in her father’s cabi
net that she had known in a
vague sort of way had come from
Africa; it was intensely interest
ing to read from the little book
that “the well known newspaper
man, Eugene Leavitt, and his
young son, ‘Eugene, had gone on
a six months’ trip to Africa.”
“Milly wrote once to our
brother, though I never knew it
until I found this book. After a
long while he answered with this
note. B’liudy's qua it huco,”
turning a page.
The few lines were strangely
characteristic of Nancy’s own
father. They told the younger
sister that he’d found the world
a very kind and a very good
place to live in.
Another letter had been writ
ten by Nancy’s father. It told,
in a boyish, awkward way, of his
father’s death and that his fath
er, before his death, had asked
him to write to the relatives in
Freedom and tell them that
“there was no hard feeling.”
Nancy pondered over this let
ter for a moment. A great many
questions came into her mind.
Her father must have inherited
from his father a sense of hurt
and injustice, or why, through all
the years, and years of poverty,
too, had he refrained from any
mention of the aunts in Free
dom?
Like links in a chain the little
entries in B’lindy’s book con
nected the three generations, for
the last clipping told how the
young wife of Eugene Leavitt,
jr., had been killed in a runaway
in Central Park, leaving mother
less the little 3-year-old daugh
ter. Anne Leavitt. >»
“Once Milly told me of find
ing this. Sometimes she used to
wonder what you were like. But
I was always angry when she
mentioned you—I wanted to feel
that I had rooted out all affection
for my brother and his kin! As
the years went by, though, I
grew afraid—what was I going
to do with this earthly wealth I
possessed? Then I wrote that
letter to you in college.”
As though it had been but the
day before Nancy saw again the
beloved dormitory room, old
Noah and his letter.
Then the whole truth flashed
across her mind! Anne’s Aunt
Sa-something was the dear little
Saphonia Leavitt, who lived with
her sister Janie on the lonely
road out of Freedom!
With a glee she made no effort
to suppress, Nancy caught Aunt
Sabrina by the elbows, danced
her madly around, and then en
veloped her in an impetuous hug.
“Oh, you don’t know—you
can’t ever, ever know how nice
it all—is,” she cried, laughing
and wiping away a tear at the
same time. “To know that I
really, truly belong to you and to
Happy House!” Nancy’s words
rang true. They brought a flood
of color to the old woman’s
cheeks.
rou see 1 never Knew now
long I could stay—I was sort of
on probation and I love you all
so much—now! But, tell me, are
those two funny Leavitt sisters
any relation of—ours?” Nancy
emphasized the last word with a
squeeze of Miss Sabrina’s hand.
“No—or if they are, it is so far
back it’s been lost. When I was
little I used to see them occas
ionally, but they’ve never gone
around much. They have always
been very poor. They had a
brother, but he went away from
the Island when he was young—
I think he must have died.”
“I am going to pretend we’re
related,” declared Nancy, “be
cause I just love them. They took
us in during the storm. And—•
and I have a dear chum, my very
best chum, whose name is Anne
Leavitt, too, and I am sure they
are her aunts.” She told Aunt
Sabrina, then, in a sketchy way,
of her four years friendship with
the other Anne Leavitt.
The windows of the sitting
storm to let out the dust from the
strm to let out the dust from the
fallen mortar and brick. The
blinds had not been closed again.
Through the wijidows streamed a
flood of sunshine.
With an impulsive movement
Nancy closed the book and laid
it down on the table. Her man
ner said plainly that thus they
would dispose of all the past-and
gone Leavitts. She nodded to
ward the gaping fireplace.
“Let’s have a new mantel
made with Happy House carved
in it, Aunt Sabrina. And, I think,
it will be a Happy House, now. ’ ’
There was a great deal Nancy
wanted to tell Aunt Sabrina—
of her father, and of their happy
life together. But she had sud
denly, with consternation, re
membered the eloquent confes
sion she had sent off to Peter
Hyde.
“And I didn’t need to—for I
am Anne Leavitt 1”
As quickly as she could break
away from her aunt, she ran off
in search of Jonathan. She found
him tying up some of his vines
that had been beaten down in
the storm.
“Jonathan—that letter I gave
you—did—did you give it to—
to Mr. Hyde?” she asked with a
faint hope that he had not.
(To be continued next week).
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