Cherry Ames Boxed Set 5-8

by Helen Wells

  “My father did not want me to go, because John was in a little mountain village miles from anywhere, difficult of access. My mother was undecided. You can’t imagine how I pleaded, when every minute counted! Finally, we rushed down by train and then had to go on by rented car. When we got there”—Mary Gregory choked—“it was too late. John had died alone. Asking for me.”

  She covered her face with her hands. She was barely able to go on. Cherry’s heart swelled with pity for her, and for young John Wheeler dying alone in the alien mountains.

  “You won’t believe this.” Mary Gregory looked up vaguely. She gripped the arms of her chair, the wedding ring in her lap. “My parents had dragged me from the crude hospital. I was half hysterical with grief. We started on our way back to the railroad in that rented car. Mountain roads—you know what they are, steep, narrow, hairpin curves, valleys miles below. It was night, and raining. And—our car plunged over the side.”

  Mary Gregory was in the hospital for months afterwards. It was feared she would never walk again. She kept asking for her parents. Why didn’t they come to her? Finally the hospital people told her.

  “I was left utterly alone. The three people I loved most were gone. The rest of the world, even Louise, seemed strangers to me. And after what had happened, I felt shyer, more terrified and crushed than ever. I—I just couldn’t start out to face people, all over again, all by myself. I couldn’t do it, I tell you! I couldn’t do it!”

  Some pitiful instinct to find a place of refuge led her back to this house, where as a very young child she had spent happy summers. Opening it up and finding all the dear, remembered things seemed to bring back her parents and their warm, safe, protective presence.

  “I knew it was cowardly to run away and hide,” Mary Gregory said gropingly. “I realized I was trying to return to my childhood, and that was wrong. But I wanted only to die, or to disappear.”

  Here in this house she had stopped all the clocks at quarter to three, the hour of her parents’ death. The downstairs rooms were left as her parents would have wished them, and perversely it comforted her. Her own childhood bedroom, too, she had kept unchanged, standing in its aura of memories. The house was peopled with friendly ghosts, shedding the faint perfume of a happier time.

  “Of John’s things I had nothing but this ring, and a photograph of him. I had his portrait painted from that picture, and portraits of my parents. Then I hung them at the stair landing, so that I could imagine”—Mary Gregory smiled sadly—“they were downstairs, moving around in the familiar rooms, right here in the house with me.”

  “But upstairs—” Cherry was puzzled. “Upstairs, at least in your bedroom and sitting room, you are living in the present. Your furniture, what I’ve seen of your clothes, your radio and books, are quite new.” She wondered, too, how Miss Gregory managed these things without ever leaving her house. “And I couldn’t help seeing all those letters—”

  Mary Gregory haltingly explained. She knew it was dangerous to shut herself away and that to retain her sanity, she must keep in touch with the outside world. More, though lacking courage to deal with people face to face, she wanted keenly to know them, at least through letters. Then, too, she felt guilty and selfish at using her wealth only for herself.

  So—indirectly, through her bank and her attorney, never releasing this address to anyone else—Mary Gregory had played Lady Bountiful. Whenever she read of a worth-while welfare fund, particularly if children needed help, she wrote to them and contributed. Gradually she established a wide and vital correspondence. She had kept up with the news by ordering newspapers delivered through Mr. Jonas. She had bought books and a radio and house furnishings and even up-to-date clothes from department stores. All this had been done by mail (the postman picked up her outgoing letters from a box fastened beside her door) and the bank had handled all bills and money matters.

  “So you see,” Miss Gregory smiled, “I am of the world, though not in it.”

  She had read and studied a great deal. She spent hours every day keeping her house immaculate, cooking, making these fine embroideries which she loved, sewing for organizations for needy persons.

  “I tried every sort of needlework I could think of. In the past year and a half, I even made these hooked rugs you see on the floor”—Cherry glanced down, noticing them for the first time—“and I still hook rugs occasionally.”

  “It’s quite a task,” said Miss Gregory, warming to her subject. “You need a big frame and a big hook. I experimented and devised a frame out of those large, wooden, curtain stretchers. Then I set the frame sideways to the window for a good light—though often I work at night, too, with a very strong light. You know, the threads hang down on the wrong side and I have to run from one side to the other.” She added, smiling, “I’m light on my feet and dancing from side to side of that frame is good exercise.”

  “Then—that’s what the children—” Cherry started but quickly silenced herself.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Cherry was thinking that this, then, was the innocent explanation of the “witch’s shadows” and the “gallows” which the soda fountain boy had fearsomely described. Of course! The strong light had silhouetted the curtain stretchers and Miss Gregory’s active figure against the window. Bogeyman, indeed! Cherry determined to spread this true story as early and widely as possible.

  “I was always busy,” Miss Gregory summed up. “I tried not to give myself time to be lonely. But I was lonely. It’s only in the past two years that I’ve come to admit it.”

  Cherry leaned forward, stirred by the strange story.

  “Miss Gregory, haven’t you anyone—any family—anyone at all?”

  “No,” she said. “There is really no one close to me except Louise Carewe. Louise and I have kept on writing to each other through the years. She lives in Thornwood where her husband was manager of a small store until his death. The last time I saw Louise,” Mary Gregory reminisced, “she was a young girl. She came to tell me how happy she was that I was to be John’s wife. She loved John, too. She named her boy for him.”

  Cherry thought she saw an opening here, a ray of hope. “Does she have more than one child?”

  “Yes, she has a girl, too,” Miss Gregory said warmly. “Louise sends me snapshots of them, to show me how they are growing up. I almost feel they are my children, too.” She hesitated, then added delicately, “When Louise’s husband died he left her almost nothing. I have been assisting financially, so her children may have a few more advantages.”

  “Then you do have a family!” Cherry said happily.

  “Yes, I—I care very much for Louise and her two children.”

  “Then Louise would be the very person you’d want to see.”

  The effect of Cherry’s words was like that of tossing a glass of cold water in the recluse’s face. She paled and shrank back in her chair.

  “Oh, no, no—I couldn’t actually see her! I couldn’t venture face to face. Letters, at a safe distance, are one thing, but to—”

  “But you said you wanted to ‘come back’!” Cherry cried.

  Mary Gregory wearily drew her hand across her forehead. “I do want to. But I don’t know whether I’ll actually be able to do it. It will be an ordeal. I won’t know what to say. I’ll draw back, and Louise will be offended—”

  “No, you won’t, Miss Gregory,” Cherry soothed. “Louise is no stranger to you, and she must love you for all you’ve done for her and her children.”

  “I haven’t the courage.” Her voice dropped. “No, I can’t do it, after all.”

  Cherry pleaded, reasoned, reassured. Miss Gregory mutely shook her head and sat there trembling.

  “I can’t. I can’t. It’s too late.”

  There was only one way left. Cherry took a deep breath.

  “Miss Gregory, you trust me, don’t you? Will you tell me Louise’s address?”

  “She lives in Thornwood. Mrs. Donald Carewe—Why? Oh, Miss Ames, you mustn’t�
��”

  “Ssh, now. You know I wouldn’t do anything that could possibly hurt you.”

  The woman looked up at her with pleading eyes. It was the same pathetic expression as when Cherry had first found her. It seemed to Cherry that, now as then, she was pleading to be rescued from her self-imposed prison. Her resistance and fears were automatic by now and less urgent than the pain in her eyes.

  Out of that house, and out on the street again, with night falling and all this to figure out, the last person Cherry wanted to see was Driver Smith. Yet it was his bus she boarded.

  As she stood beside him and opened her purse for fare, he favored her with a mock-elaborate nod.

  “So it’s the smart nurse! Good evenin’, madomoozelle, I’m tickled pink to see yah.”

  Cherry’s too-quick temper rose at this taunt. But she decided to take it as a joke.

  “Sir, I am tickled red, white, and blue to see you. I’ve missed you like anything.”

  He looked at her uncertainly, ready in his turn to grow angry. But he caught the merriment in Cherry’s eyes.

  “Y’know, lady, it kills me t’ hafta take yer nickel.”

  They grinned at each other, for the first time. The bus started off. Cherry took a seat right behind Driver Smith and said practically into his ear:

  “You’re so charming these days, Mr. Smith, I’d gladly pay a dime to ride on your bus.”

  “Chawmin’, she says. Lady, you ain’t kidding! You think I can’t be chawmin’? Huh! Watch this.”

  The bus slowed down and stopped at the next corner. A woman climbed aboard. She fished for a long time in her purse.

  “Take yer time, lady,” Driver Smith said, with only the slightest edge in his voice. “I wouldn’ hurry ya for the world.”

  The woman smiled delightedly. “You certainly are the nicest bus driver I’ve met in a long time! Here you are.”

  “Oh, thank you, lady.” Driver Smith was goggle-eyed at her reaction but he went on with his act. “Take a seat. Any seat you like.”

  The woman giggled and sat down. The other passengers who had overheard were smiling, too. As the bus started off again, Cherry hissed mockingly into Smith’s ear:

  “Didn’t turn out quite the way you meant it to, did it?”

  Driver Smith hissed back indignantly, “And why shouldn’ people like me? So what’s wrong with me? I can be chawmin’ again, I betcha. Watch this!”

  Corner after corner, Driver Smith was charming. He seemed astounded that he could actually play the part, and delighted with the novelty of it. Loudly enough for everyone to hear and appreciate him, he intoned:

  “Step right in, mister, we been waitin’ for yah!” “Glad t’ see yah, lady, sorry yah hafta get off now.” “So long, nurse, it wuz chawmin’ havin’ yah aboard.”

  Cherry left the bus giggling and wondering how long this transformation would last.

  CHAPTER XII

  A Welcome Guest

  SATURDAY BROUGHT DECEMBER’S FIRST SNOW FLURRY and a small avalanche of mail for Cherry. She had to retreat with it into her and Gwen’s bedroom, because the Spencer Club was in an uproar. The girls had collected dozens of Christmas dolls, which now populated the living room, and were debating mobilizing their districts’ small boys, to build Christmas toys at Laurel House.

  “Cherry Ames, you come right back here!” Gwen demanded with a toss of her red mane.

  “I agree to everything,” Cherry said hastily. “G’bye.”

  “Now, Cherry,” Vivian gently reproved. “What are we going to do about doll clothes? We can’t sew all of them ourselves.”

  “Have the little girls make some of ’em at Laurel House, maybe, and we’ll make some. Look, kids,” Cherry pleaded, “I have Mary Gregory’s affairs to straighten out, I’m going to see Evelyn Stanley about food for the Christmas party, and I’m longing to read this mail. Please just assign me some tasks and I’ll do my share, whatever you say.”

  “Fair enough,” Bertha Larsen mumbled, her mouth full of pins as she adjusted Josie’s hem. “Turn, Josie. And stand still!”

  Mai Lee was too busy gluing doll wigs into place to say anything at all. Cherry escaped into the bedroom and bounced down on the bed with her pile of letters.

  They all said much the same thing. Her mother wrote: “Are you coming home for Christmas and your birthday? We want so much to see you. Charlie is home nearly every week end, and we wish you weren’t so far away.” Midge enclosed proofs of some pictures of herself which would soon appear in the school paper. “Snappy? I’ll never live down the funny one. I’ve been elected chairman of the nominating committee. Aren’t you ever coming home?” And from the State University, Charlie scrawled: “Hi, twin! Our joint birthday, the 24th, and Christmas, the 25th, are getting close. We haven’t had a birthday party together for too long. Meet me at home?”

  She had no time to daydream over her mail, for the doorbell rang. It was a telegram for Miss Cherry Ames, sent en route from the Tucson–New York train:

  Your House Two Saturday Afternoon Love

  Love Love Love Love—Wade.

  Cherry let out a shriek. “And my hair isn’t fixed, and my best dress is at the dry cleaner’s!”

  She raced into the living room, cheeks crimson, waving the telegram.

  “Wade Cooper’s coming! This afternoon! You’ve got to help me!”

  The girls grinned. “She means curl her hair, get these dolls out of the way, and then try and make this place look presentable before Wade gets here.”

  “Yes,” Cherry stammered. “I mean no! I mean—Vivi, for heaven’s sake, will you give me a manicure? Right away?”

  The Spencer Club hooted and teased. But they loyally provided beauty aids, a hasty house cleaning, and whisked the dolls away to the back parlor.

  “Frankly,” Gwen sighed two hours later, dabbing Cherry with perfume, “I wish the handsome ex-Captain Cooper thought I was purty.”

  “Silly,” Cherry retorted. “Wade’s true love is planes and you know it. Ouch! This zipper is stuck!”

  By two o’clock Cherry was transformed from a sober nurse into her usual lively, vivid self. Wade liked bright colors, so she wore her red wool dress. Her cheeks and lips were nearly as brilliant, and her eyes glowed midnight black.

  “You look like a red and black poster,” Vivian said.

  “I feel like a reconverted—Oh! The doorbell!”

  The other girls scampered out of the living room. Cherry pulled open the blue door. A broad, navy broad-cloth back faced her, as Wade stared bewildered out on the street.

  “This Village place is plumb crazy!” he muttered.

  Then Wade turned. He was tall and husky, and brown as could be—brown hair, brown eyes, handsome face tanned by sun and wind. He grinned at Cherry, and pumped her hand until it ached.

  “Cherry! It sure is good to see you!”

  Cherry smiled up at him, delighted to see her old friend and ex-pilot. “I never was better and how are you?”

  Wade was all dressed up for this call in navy-blue suit, white shirt, red tie. Cherry was touched at the care he had taken. He strode into the living room, which suddenly looked smaller with this big lad in it, and thrust a beribboned box into Cherry’s hands.

  “Here. Candy. Who’s the crazy bird who pestered me at the door?”

  “Sam, our janitor, without a doubt. Wade, what a beautiful box. Thank you, thank you!”

  “Never mind the box, stuff’s inside. Isn’t that just like a girl?—the box! Say, I met a barefoot man with a beard and a woman with a baby tiger, coming over here. What kind of crazy place is this Greenwich Village?”

  His brown face crinkled into a smile. For a few seconds, he and Cherry just sat and beamed at each other. Then Wade told her he would be in New York for several days. “I’m staying with some fellows, fliers. Have to do some buying here for my business, and a couple of errands for my dad. But I’m saving plenty of time for you, Cherry. You’d better have time for me! Otherwise,” he looked her squ
arely in the eye and pulled her curls, “I’ll come along on your job with you.”

  “All dressed up in a blue nurse’s uniform?” Cherry giggled. “My assistant? What a nice assistant! But I do plan to go up to Thornwood tomorrow to see a Mrs. Carewe if I can arrange an appointment with her—I must phone her. It’s about an hour by train. Want to come along for the ride?”

  “Sure thing. You’re not going to run out on me, my first Sunday here. Say, will you please open that candy?”

  Cherry untied the bow, while Wade tried to look nonchalant.

  “Oh! Wade! These are the most gorgeous chocolates! How sweet of you.”

  They ate several chocolates and visited for a while. Then Cherry asked Wade to excuse her while she tried to reach Mrs. Carewe via long distance.

  While she waited for the call to be completed, Cherry peered anxiously down the hall. Muffled voices and bangings came from the rear rooms. She hoped the girls weren’t plotting any mischief.

  “Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Mrs. Carewe? Mrs. Louise Carewe? This is a nurse who has been taking care of your friend, Mary Gregory.”

  Cherry heard a gasp at the other end of the wire.

  “Yes, she’s all right. No, no, please don’t worry. But I want to talk to you about her…. Yes, I’d be glad to come to your house, Mrs. Carewe…. Tomorrow afternoon at three would be perfect…. I’m Miss Ames, Cherry Ames…. Until tomorrow, then. Good-bye.”

  Wade, with his mouth full of chocolates, popped a chocolate into Cherry’s mouth.

  “Why are we going where’re we going tomorrow afternoon?”

  “This is a funny, sad sort of situation, Wade. I’ve decided the only solution is for me to take action, because nobody else will—or can. My supervisor at the center gave permission.”

  Cherry started to tell Wade a little about the recluse. The young man’s eyes lost their mischief. At that point, Josie wandered in.

  “Has anyone seen my pearl necklace?” Josie inquired transparently. She was wearing it. “Oh, hello, Wade.”