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Ebook has 1058 lines and 70920 words, and 22 pages

NATALIE PAGE

BY KATHARINE HAVILAND TAYLOR

HODDER AND STOUGHTON LIMITED LONDON

MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BILLING AND SONS, LTD., GUILDFORD AND ESHER

DEDICATION

VERY DEAR "AUNT EVA"

Contents

I think it is strange how the scenes surrounding big events stay in your memory. And sometimes with years they become more clear than the happening which impressed them. I know this, because I remember a big four-posted bed, and a lot of people around it--crying. And then I remember someone lifting me up to kiss the woman who was on the bed, but I do not remember how she looked, and she was my mother. She died at that time, and now I only recall the crying people and the big four-posted bed, and thinking it funny that a bed should wear petticoats. It had a valance on it, you see, and I evidently had not noticed it before.

Just in that same way I remember coming to live with Uncle Frank Randolph, who is my mother's brother. And all I remember about that is whiskers and the fact that it was raining. And now--somehow--when I think of home and saying good-bye to it, all I can see is swirling yellow leaves and the dust and peanut shells and bags that were flying in the wind around the station.

But I must start this story properly. It really all began the day I rode a bicycle down the Court-house steps on a bet. At that time I saw nothing wrong in doing this, and to be frank I was quite proud that I could do it, for there are fifteen of those steps, and they're quite steep. After I did it I went over to the drug store with Willy Jepson and had a soda, and then we rode down to the ball field, and I pitched nine innings for the Red Socks, after which I thought I'd go home. I usually went home, when I had a funny hollow feel under my belt. And Uncle Frank didn't mind my not being on time for meals, so it didn't matter. But when I got in that night I knew something had happened.

In the first place, Uncle Frank wasn't reading any of his bug books , nor did he have on two pairs of glasses. In fact, he was acting entirely unnatural and quite as people of his age do when they are preparing to be disagreeable.

"Ho hum! Where have you been?" he asked, as I sat down at the table.

"Down at the flats," I answered. "Pitched nine innings against Corkey McGowan's Gang, and we licked 'em." And then, feeling some pride, I reached for the spiced peaches and chocolate cake and began to satisfy my craving for food.

"Don't you"--he began, hesitated, fumbled for words, and then went on--"ah--like the--ah--gentler pursuit of maidens?"

I said I didn't.

"Ho hum!" he said. And he wagged his head several times, which means he is perplexed.

"How old are you?" he asked next.

I told him I was sixteen , and then I asked him to pass the strawberry preserve, because I found that I was still hungry. He did, and then he asked me whether I had eaten any meat. I had always depended upon his absent-mindedness, and I was surprised to see him so obviously upset and, truth to be told, also a little annoyed; for I knew that my life would be one series of explanations, if he began to notice.

I told him that I hadn't felt the need for anything but chocolate cake and preserves, but he wagged his head again and then he drew forth a letter, and I knew by the shade and the address which was engraved on the envelope that it was from Aunt Penelope Randolph James, who lives in New York.

"Penelope," said Uncle Frank, "intimated as much--where is it?--ho hum--oh, here we are," and then he read aloud this:

"'With your erratic habits, my dear, she is probably growing up like a young Indian, and I dare say she eats whatever she pleases, and does whatever she likes.'"

I said: "Why shouldn't I?" And then, "Will you please pass the cake?" for I realized that Uncle Frank was absorbed. He passed it to me as he turned the page, and went on with: "'Obviously, she must have two or three years in a good school, and one here, after her coming out. I think she will be happy with Evelyn and Amy, and we will love having her. I want to know her, to have a few years of her, and a chance to do whatsoever I can--because of Nelly.'"

And after that Uncle Frank stooped and stared down at the letter. "Nelly" was the name of my mother, and everyone who knew her loved her a great deal; so much, in fact, that they can't speak of her easily. I always wish, and so much, that it was hard for me to speak of her. But, as I said before, I can only remember the big four-posted bed and the crying people. And I never did think that was quite fair, for as I look on girls with mothers I realize I have missed a great deal. I do think that I at least might have been allowed to have a few years of mine. But--that attitude doesn't help me. In this world you have to make up your mind to lots that isn't happy. For, if it IS, all your complaints won't change it.

But--to get on. I was not impressed with my aunt's letter. I knew I wouldn't have a good time with my cousin Evelyn, because I wear her old clothes sometimes, and by their architecture I realize that our tastes are not in common. They are very flossy. Usually she chooses the kind of colour that soils when you shin up a tree, and they have lots of buttons on them that sort of catch when you take any mild exercise, such as sliding down a barn roof on your stomach , and once, when I went down the spouting from the Jepsons' third floor , I got hung up by a button three feet from the ground and had to scream for someone to loosen me, and was consequently "It;" beside which I might have been killed if it had been higher and the button had not held. This is all mixed, but English is not my strong point. I like gym. work best of any study, and do best in it.

Then, beside that, I have a photograph of Evelyn, and I realized from it that we wouldn't mean much to one another; also I have never got along very well with girls.

So I said: "But I feel that my education is finished."

My uncle didn't think so, and he tried not to smile, which I think is a very impolite habit of older people. I'd rather they would really smile at you any time.

I went on. I said, and heatedly, I must admit: "I can say the multiplication table up to the twelves, and what more can you ask?" And just to prove it I did, up to "twelve times twelve is one hundred and fifty-nine;" but even then he didn't look convinced.

"There are other things," he said. I asked what, but he wasn't concrete.

She was washing lettuce and splattering a good deal of water.

"Bradly-dear," I said, "do you know about this letter?"

But of course I knew from that that he had never felt that poetic longing, or whatever it is, that I felt that night when Mrs. Bradly was washing lettuce and I asked her about the letter.

"Well, I'll stop!" I said, after a deep drawn breath. I sighed, because playing ball means a great deal in my life.

Bradly-dear sniffed and flopped the lettuce terribly.

"I didn't play at Parsons," I went on. She didn't reply.

"I wanted to frightfully," I said. "It is quite an honour, Bradly-dear, to pitch on a business men's team. And they had to let Mr. Horner do it, and he has a glass eye and let three men sneak in to third, because he couldn't see out of the glass one."

I didn't reply. There wasn't anything to say. For all that Bradly-dear had said was true. I am very awkward--but--I like being so.

I stood up.

I went out in the garden, and Willy Jepson yelled over from the kitchen roof where he was mending a fish line.

"Come over and play catch," he howled.

"Don't believe I can," I said, sort of stiffly, I guess.

"Why not?" he yelled.

"I'm not going to tell the whole town!" I answered, and after that he slid down, by way of a grape arbour, and came over to stand near the fence.

"Why not?" he repeated.

"My last game of ball is played," I said. "It seems--I am too old for it, or something. They--they don't want me to. At least not in big games, and I couldn't indulge as an amateur."

"My gosh," he said, "that's fierce!"

I nodded. I almost never cry--in fact, I don't cry any oftener than Willy Jepson does, but I was near it then, so I looked down at the hedge and broke twigs.

"Just because you're a girl?" he asked. I admitted it. I had to.

"That's fierce!" he said again. His kindness helped me a great deal. And his commendation was not a light thing, for Willy does the best spit balls in our county. They are really dreams of poetic beauty and almost never fail him. I looked up and said: "Thank you."

I went to the kitchen, but I only stood in the door for a moment, and then I backed away, for Mrs. Bradly was crying--awfully hard--her face buried in the roller towel. And I knew it was because I was going away. . . . I felt that way too, but I never cry, so I went up to my room and got out my fishing tackle and tried to make a fly for a shallow, shady stream out of some gray and green silk and a grasshopper wing. . . . But it didn't divert me much. . . . I didn't think I could exist very long in real civilization. I knew I didn't want to. All the loveliness that I felt earlier in the evening was gone, and all that was left was an ache, a dull, sodden, gray, growing-larger-all-the-time ache. . . . You see, I cared awfully for outdoors and the sports that keep you there. They were all I really knew of life. . . . And my New York relatives live in an apartment.

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