CHAPTER X

“Look here, Rick, what’s all this nonsense between you and Milly?” Lis asked this direct question a trifle impatiently, about a week after his return to Nantucket. Up to then he had made no comments, sought for no information on a situation that unfortunately could not fail to be obvious to anyone thrown much with the two girls.

According to his usual quiet, self-contained fashion, Lis had looked on for a time, until he felt fairly certain of the correctness of his observations, and had then made an opportunity to have a talk with Erica alone. He had suggested a walk across the commons to the South shore—their favorite tramp that led through the stretch of stunted pine woods Erica had long ago christened the Owls’ Country.

It was a wonderful spring morning, the wind fresh and bracing from the north, the air crisp with sea salt and that indescribable early-spring smell of wakening green things, and sweet, sun-warmed earth. The cousins had talked of every-day matters on the walk to the shore, but when they emerged on the wide, yellow stretch of beach that rose into dunes on one hand and sloped down to green, white-topped breakers on the other, Lis fell silent. He stood still, staring out to sea rather wistfully for a moment—as if, Erica thought, he were remembering his brief clipper voyagings. Then, swinging about, he asked his question regarding Milly Thorne abruptly.

The suddenness of it took Erica by surprise, and the unwonted impatience of his tone astonished her even more. It sounded a little—incredible notion—as if Lis were actually put out about something; as if it mattered to him whether Erica and Milly got on well together, or didn’t.

Erica’s own temper, never too securely in leash, slipped into view in a quick little flash of indignation peeping out of her blue eyes. Her red head lifted a half inch or so, and her chin took on the squarer, stubborn look that presaged an argument.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she retorted. “If you’ve noticed that we’re not bosom friends, well—that’s perfectly true. But I don’t see why you should call it nonsense. We’ll never be awfully fond of each other, I guess. We’re—we’re too different. Milly’s so bored and uninterested in things all the time, I lose my patience with her entirely. I—I just can’t understand her a bit.”

“Do you try to?” Lis asked, bluntly.

Erica bit her lip to keep back the sharp words that rushed to her tongue’s tip. She loved her cousin dearly, and up to a very few days ago she had feared never to see him again, so she was resolved not to let herself be angry with him now, no matter how unreasonable he might choose to be. Still, it was a shock—and a highly unpleasant one—to find Lis undertaking to champion Milly, who had brought all her present unpopularity on her own head, as Tommy, or any of their special little group of boys and girls, could have told him.

“I did try, Lis,” she said, after those two or three seconds of struggle with herself. “So did Tommy. When Milly first came last winter, I mean. But she showed us all pretty plainly that she didn’t care for our company, or our fun or our friends. At school she doesn’t make friends, either—only with teacher. It’s a pity I know, but—you can’t keep on forcing yourself on somebody; you’ll have to admit that.”

“I—see,” Lis said, slowly. “I guess there’s a big misunderstanding somewhere, Ricky. You’re not the sort to be unfair to a strange girl, particularly when she’s in trouble over losing her mother and her home like poor Milly. Neither is Tommy. Too bad, though. She seems to me a—kind of a sweet girl, if she’d only open up and talk a little about what’s worrying her, instead of moping round in corners, thinking of it, whatever it is, all the time. Say, look at that wave coming in!” he added, changing the subject without waiting for Erica’s reply. “Be ready to run, Rick; she’s sure coming clear up the beach to the dunes.”

In the breathless, laughing dash for higher ground that followed—for the wave _did_ wash far up the beach as Lis had predicted—there was no chance for words of any sort, and when the two had scrambled up to the dune-top they had both forgotten, temporarily at least, their short-lived irritation with each other.

They tramped for several miles down the beach after that, discussing China now, for the most part, and the absorbing possibility of Sun Li’s really coming to Nantucket one day in the future, or the still more exciting one of Captain Eric’s taking Erica to visit in those closed, palace rooms to which she wore the little silver-and-jade key about her neck.

That evening after supper, while Mrs. Folger was upstairs putting little Barbee Thorne to bed, Lis from his deep chair at one side of the hearth (spring evenings on Nantucket are quite cold enough for open fires), looked over with troubled eyes at a slight, black-frocked little figure curled up in the big chair just across from him, apparently absorbed in a book. It came over the boy that he seldom saw Milly in the house without a book for company—for her sole company; that was the pitiful part of it.

Safe in her evident unawareness of his very presence in the room, Lis studied the bent head with its smooth, thick braids of hair that looked in the firelight like lustrous black satin. Milly’s big, rather sulky dark eyes—her only real claim to beauty—were hidden by her lashes as she read, and the un-childish, thin young face seemed thinner and whiter than ever in the alternate play across it of fireshine and shadow. Lis felt his heart contract a little at the sight. She looked, he thought suddenly, like a lost and miserable black kitten; one that had been starved, as well as frightened pretty badly about something.

Of course Milly wasn’t physically starved in his mother’s hospitable house and at her bountiful table. And surely, since coming to the island at least, nothing could have actually frightened the girl. It must be some experience that had happened before Milly came to them, Lis decided, knitting his brows indignantly at the notion. Some one had been unkind—not just that foolishness of Erica’s and Tommy’s, of course. No, this was something big and real that was hanging about Milly’s poor little thin neck like a veritable Pilgrim’s pack. Well, then, if that were so, since no one else appeared to be trying to do anything about it, he was going to have a crack at it himself. She couldn’t do any more than snap at him as he’d heard her do to Ricky.

He put down his own book quietly, and leaned back in his chair.

“Milly,” he said as casually as he could, for he was suddenly a bit shy over what he was doing, now that he’d made up his mind. Suppose she thought him just plain impertinent, instead of friendly.

Milly’s dark eyes came up from her reading and regarded him with an unmistakable impatience, waiting for him to continue.

Lis felt his face grow red, and hoped the glow of the flames would account for it, if the girl across the hearth noticed. But he went on with his self-appointed task bravely.

“I’ve been doing some thinking.” Lis had a nice smile that very few people failed to respond to. He smiled now, and almost reluctantly a little flicker of answering friendliness softened the sharp black eyes watching him. “I wasn’t home when you and Barbee came to us,” he went on, encouraged by the change in her expression, slight as it was. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here then. But it was certainly mighty jolly to come home and find myself with two brand-new sisters. I’ve been wanting to tell you that I appreciate the company and help you’ve been to mother. She tells me you’ve taken over all the mending, and that you’ve even made over one of her dresses so it looks like new. That—that was real good of you, Milly. Mother hasn’t ever had much money for clothes, and she was as pleased as could be the way you made that black silk look.”

He didn’t think it was only the firelight that caused that warm sweep of color across Milly Thorne’s pinched little face. Her book slid off her lap unnoticed, and she sat up straighter in the big chair.

“I like to sew,” was all she said, however. “My—mother taught me when I was so little I could hardly hold a needle. I—kind of enjoy making over things—making them pretty, you know. It’s nothing to thank me for.”

“Say, you’re all off your reckoning there,” Lis said, his smile broadening. “Don’t you really know that’s the nicest way folks can do favors for you—as if it was something they enjoyed?”

Milly considered this in silence for a moment or two; then her grave face lighted with a smile so quick and brilliant that it was transfiguring.

“Why, I never thought of it like that,” she said. “But I guess you’re right.” She looked at Lis thoughtfully, that new, warm smile still curling up the corners of her lips. “I’m glad you are going to be here instead of Tommy,” she announced, unexpectedly. “He and Erica don’t like me, but I sort of think maybe—maybe you might let me be your friend.” That last was said so humbly and wistfully, without any of her usual sharpness and discontent, that the boy was genuinely touched.

“You bet I’ll let you be my friend, Milly,” he said, decidedly. “You just count on me, and when you feel homesick, or things—go kind of wrong, you come and tell me about it. See? It always helps a lot if you can talk your worries over with some one. And I know,” he added, more awkwardly, “that Ricky and Tom will want to be your friends, too, if you’d only give ‘em an idea you’d meet them halfway. I guess they think you don’t like them, either.”

To this Milly made no answer, but as she did not argue the point Lis felt encouraged.

“I know what homesickness is,” he volunteered after a second little silence had fallen between them. “I would have given most anything at times, on that voyage to China, to be back here on Orange Street. You see, I’d never been away from home before, and I missed everyone—specially Tom.”

“It isn’t all homesickness with me,” Milly said, honestly. “I haven’t a nice disposition, really. If I know people round me love me and want me with them, why I—I’d do just _anything_ for them. I always thought of my mother first, and I do now of Barbee, and—and I’m fond of Cousin Callie. But—it’s a horrid feeling,” she burst out, vehemently, her face flushing hotly, “to know you’re not wanted—that you’re only in the way, and—and that you’re—dependent on—on charity for your food and home and—and clothes. Mother didn’t leave any money for Barbee and me. Poor little mother, she worked hard at dress-making up to the very last, to keep a roof over our heads. I used to wish so hard I was a few years older, so I could earn money, too—somehow. Of course, uncle helped as much as he could, but he has only his pay as mate on a packet, you know, and there are others in the family to call on him, too.”

Lis’s face was very grave and sympathetic.

“Yes, that was hard—seeing your mother troubled about money, I mean,” he agreed. “We haven’t much ourselves, but we’re—not poor. We’ve got our home, and mother has a small income, and some day Tom and I’ll be earning more, of course. So you mustn’t ever feel you and Barbee are any burden. It doesn’t cost us anything to have you two sleep in the house—now, does it? Be sensible,” he urged, anxiously. “And you more than pay for the little you eat, by helping mother as you do with the housework and the sewing. You’re not—not dependent at all, Milly Thorne. I think that’s an unkind word to use between relations—truly I do.”

“Well, all the same,” Milly said, stubbornly, though she smiled at him again with a flash of gratitude in the big, troubled eyes, “I do wish there was some way I could earn even a little bit, so at least I’d know I was paying for part of what we cost Cousin Callie.”

“Mother wouldn’t like to have you feel that way, if she knew,” Lis reminded her.

Milly appeared to hesitate as if deliberating her next words. Then suddenly she pulled the big armchair nearer, and leaned toward the boy.

“Lis, I—I do know of a way I—could earn something—not much, but—_something_,” she breathed, her thin hands clasping and unclasping each other in her lap as she talked. “If I told you—asked you to help me and—and keep it a secret from—everyone—even Cousin Callie, and—Erica—would you promise?”

Lis looked a little doubtful. “But I don’t know what it is, you see,” he pointed out, coloring. “Maybe——”

“There’s nothing _wrong_ in it—you’ll agree when you hear,” Milly broke in, feverishly. “But I—don’t want anyone to know till I’ve proved I can do it—successfully. If you think it’s something your mother would really mind, of course you can tell her. But will you promise not to, otherwise?”

“Sure, that sounds fair enough,” Lis assented, heartily. “Go ahead; I’m all ears.”

But in spite of his flippant words his tone was kind, and the friendly sympathy in his face not to be mistaken. Milly drew a long, relieved breath, and put her hand impulsively on his coat sleeve.

“I guess we—we _are_ going to be friends, Lis,” she said, gratefully, and turned her head at the sound of footsteps behind her.

Lis, following with his own glance the direction of hers, swung about in his chair as Erica burst into the sitting room in her usual headlong hurry.

“Aunt Charity’s sick,” the latter announced in a tone that shook slightly from running and alarm combined. “Where’s Aunt Callie, Lis? I think she’d better come over, if she can.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lis said, jumping up, his expression full of concern. “What’s the matter, Rick? She was all right this afternoon, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, she seemed to be,” Erica agreed, dubiously. “But I guess she wasn’t letting on how she felt. Right after supper she had a funny sort of faint turn—took me most ten minutes to bring her to. I was awfully scared, I can tell you. But she’s in bed now, and doesn’t want me to send for the doctor. So I thought I’d better come over and tell your mother.”

“I’ll call her,” Lis offered, and pulled his chair closer to the hearth. “Sit down here, Rick; you’re all worked up and excited. I’m sure there’s nothing really to worry about,” he added. “Don’t most women faint?” he asked, naïvely.

Erica laughed scornfully. “Not Aunt Charity. That’s what scared me. I don’t believe she ever did such a thing before in her whole life. You ask Aunt Callie to hurry down, please. I don’t want to leave her alone over there longer than I can help.”

Milly had tried valiantly to feel a proper anxiety, but she was sharply disappointed at having her talk with Lis interrupted just at the crucial point when he had seemed ready to pledge his aid to her still unexplained plan. Her own mother had often fainted, so it did not strike her as particularly alarming to hear of Miss Charity’s sudden collapse. Of course she’d be all right in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. But if only—_only_ it hadn’t had to happen at just this special moment!

She directed a pleading glance at Lis as he passed her chair, and spoke in a half whisper.

“May I tell you my plan when you come back, Lis? After your mother and Erica go, I mean? I do need advice awfully, and—there doesn’t seem to be anyone else who cares what I do.”

Lis nodded, smiling down into the raised, tense young face with his gentlest expression. Milly looked particularly like a forlorn and lost black kitten at that moment, and all that was chivalrous and kindly in the boy responded to the appeal.

“‘Course you can,” he said. “But we all care, really, Milly, and want to help. You’ll find that out some day.”

Erica’s quick ears had caught every word of Milly’s whispered plea and Lister’s low-toned, emphatic rejoinder, and her own eyes opened a little wider with a touch of curiosity, that was swiftly followed by resentment. So Milly Thorne was having secrets with Lis already. Probably telling him long tales of how Tommy and she and the rest of their little group left her out, and abused her. And that very afternoon when she—Erica—had tried to tell him the real version of the difference between them, he hadn’t agreed with a word she’d said; had tried to talk about Milly being a “sweet girl” and misunderstood, and similar ridiculous nonsense. It was really too bad of old Lis. Stupid, too. If Tommy were only at home, they’d be able to make him see, together, that Milly had actually started in repelling all friendly advances from the very start.

Erica looked rather defiantly over at Milly, still curled up comfortably in her chair, and debated whether or not to come right out with a straightforward question or two. It might clear the air a bit, if she did. But the swift thought of Aunt Charity alone at home, sick, and needing her, decided her to postpone the discussion she foresaw any opening of the subject would be sure to entail.

She hesitated, bit her lip, and began, half-heartedly, “Milly—I——”

Milly had bent over to pick up her dropped book, and she did not trouble to look up at the sound of her name.

“Well?” she asked, coolly, sitting up at last, a trifle flushed, and apparently more absorbed in straightening some crumpled page corners than in anything Erica might choose to say.

“Oh—nothing,” Erica returned in a flat tone, and sprang to her feet in relief as her aunt entered the room, followed by Lis. She was suddenly and vehemently surer than ever that never had she met so disagreeable and utterly aggravating a girl as this dark, silent, aloof young person with whom she was expected to live on terms of close intimacy for perhaps years and _years_ to come.

And then, swiftly, she remembered Aunt Charity again, and catching at Mrs. Folger’s arm with cold, frightened fingers, hurried her out of the house and across the lawn next door. The petty annoyance of Milly’s unfriendliness was completely swallowed up for the time being in the larger worry.