Happy House Read online

  Produced by Al Haines

  HAPPY HOUSE

  BY

  JANE D. ABBOTT

  AUTHOR OF "KEINETH" AND "LARKSPUR"

  GROSSET & DUNLAP

  PUBLISHERS ---- NEW YORK

  Made in the United States of America

  COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

  TO MARTHA

  THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER

  I. THE LETTER II. WEBB III. HAPPY HOUSE IV. AUNT MILLY V. BIRD'S-NEST VI. IN THE ORCHARD VII. AUNT MILLY'S STORY VIII. B'LINDY'S TRIUMPH IX. DAVY'S CLUB X. THE HIRED MAN XI. MOONSHINE AND FAIRIES XII. LIZ XIII. THE FOURTH OF JULY XIV. MRS. EATON CALLS XV. GUNS AND STRING BEANS XVI. PETER LENDS A HAND XVII. NANCY PLANS A PARTY XVIII. THE PARTY XIX. THE MASTER XX. A PICNIC XXI. DAVY'S GIFT XXII. REAL LEAVITTS AND OTHERS XXIII. WHAT THE CHIMNEY HELD XXIV. PETER XXV. NANCY'S CONFESSION XXVI. EUGENE STANDBRIDGE LEAVITT XXVII. ARCHIE EATON RETURNS XXVIII. A LETTER FROM THE MASTER XXIX. BARRY

  HAPPY HOUSE

  CHAPTER I

  THE LETTER

  Through the stillness of a drowsy June day broke the intoning of thelibrary bell, chiming the hour.

  Three heads lifted quickly to listen. Three pairs of eyes met, thesame thought flashed through three minds.

  "Won't we miss that bell, though? I've seen grads when they've comeback stand perfectly still and listen to it with their eyes all weepylooking. That's the way we'll feel by and by," one of them said slowly.

  "And the chimes used to make me dreadfully homesick! Don't those froshdays seem ages ago?"

  The third girl slammed the lid of the trunk that occupied the centre ofthe disordered room. She crossed to the window.

  Over the stretch of green between the dormitory and the campus manypeople were slowly walking. Their fluffy dresses, their gay parasols,the aimlessness of their wandering steps marked them as visitors. Thegirl in the window frowned as she watched them.

  "I always hate it when the campus fills up with gawking, staringpeople! It ought to be kept--sacred--just for us!"

  One of the three laughed merrily in answer.

  "How selfish that sounds, Claire! Haven't all those people come to seeone of us graduate? This is their day--ours is past." She stoppedshort. "Did you see Thelma King's sister at the class-day exercises?She's a _peach_! She's going to enter next fall. She's a leader ineverything at the High where she goes. She'll make a good collegegirl; you could see the right spirit in her face. How I envy her!It's dreadful when you think of new ones--coming--taking our places! Iwish I was just beginning my Freshman year--I'd even be willing toendure Freshman math."

  The third of the group who had been sitting on, the floor staring outover the tree tops with the dreamy gravity of one who--as long ago asyesterday--graduated from the great University, suddenly interrupted.

  "Dear girls, cease your whining! What do those pieces of sheepskinreposing somewhere in the mess on yonder bureau stand for? Rememberwhat that man said yesterday--how we mustn't think this Commencement isthe end of anything--it's just the beginning. Why, this new worldthat's been born out of the frightful war is full of work for ourtrained minds and hands! We mustn't look back for a minute--we mustlook ahead!" Thrilled by her own words she leveled a reproachfulglance upon her two companions.

  Claire sighed. "I never could get the inspiration from things that youalways seem to, Anne. I guess I'm not built right! I couldn't makemyself listen to _half_ that man said. I can't think of anything rightnow but what a job it's going to be getting everything into that trunk.Mother was heartless not to stay over and do it for me!"

  "Never mind, Claire, we'll help you. Of course you and I can't seethings in the big, grand way that Anne can because she's found herselfand we haven't. But when our work _does_ come we'll do it! It may notbe off in Siberia or China or Africa--like Anne's--but, wherever it is,I guess our Alma Mater won't be ashamed of us!" The girl's eyessoftened with the passionate tenderness of the new graduate for herUniversity.

  Back in the freshman days a curious chance had drawn these threetogether. Then, for four years, years of hopeful effort, aspirationsand youthful problems, the currents of their young lives hadintermingled closely; now each must go its way. The moment brought thepang that comes to youth at such a parting. Their bonds were somethingcloser than friendship. Behind them were months of the sweetestintimacy that youth can know--ahead were the lives they must live apartout in a world that cared nothing for college ideals and inspirations,where each must find her "work" and do it, so that "her Alma Matermight be proud!"

  Statistics, even in a university, would be dull if, now and then, Fatedid not play a trick with them. Upon the roster of the class ofNineteen-nineteen had been entered two names: "Anne Leavitt, LosAngeles, California; Anne Leavitt, New York City."

  When one thinks that in the great world war there was an army of,approximately, seventy-five thousand Smiths alone, and a whole divisionof John Smiths, one need not marvel that two Anne Leavitts came thatOctober day to the old University. Doubtless, in those first tryingdays, they passed one another often and did not know, but a week later,when Professor Nevin in First Year French, read slowly from his littleleather book: "Miss Anne Leavitt," two girls jumped to their feet andin astonishment, faced one another.

  "_I_ am Anne Leavitt!" spoke the larger of the two.

  "And _I_ am Anne Leavitt, too!" laughed the smaller.

  A snicker ran around the room. Professor Nevin frowned andstared--first at his little worn book and then at the two offendingyoung women. Of course he was powerless to undo what had been doneyears before! And as he scowled, across the classroom one Anne Leavittsmiled at the other. When the hour ended the recitation they walkedaway arm in arm, laughing over the ridiculous situation.

  At the Library steps they were joined by another girl from the Frenchclass. She had run in her eagerness to overtake them.

  "Are you _really_ both Anne Leavitts?" she asked breathlessly.

  They assured her solemnly that they were and that they didn't know justwhat to do about it--old Professor Nevin had been so funny and upset.They all three laughed again over it all. And there in the goldenwarmth of that October day began the friendship of these three--for thethird girl was Claire Wallace.

  The students in the University found countless ways of distinguishingbetween the two Anne Leavitts. One was tall and grave with ameditative look in her deep-set eyes; the other, a head shorter, had alightness about her like an April day, reddish curly hair and anupturned nose. One Anne Leavitt had never been called anything butAnne, the other, since her baby days, had been Nancy. The moreintimate of the college girls called them Big Anne and Little Anne.The professors, dignified perforce, read from their rolls, "Miss AnneLeavitt, California--Miss Anne Leavitt, New York."

  In name only were the two girls alike. Anne had been born with thelegendary "silver spoon" and its mythical fortune. When her father andmother died a friend of her father's, as guardian, had continued thewell-regulated indulgence that had marked her childhood. Because shepossessed an iron will and early acquired a seriousness and dignitybeyond her years, she was always a leader in each of the boardingschools to which she progressed. Whatever Anne wanted to do she alwaysdid, and yet, in spite of it, she had reached her college daysunspoiled, setting her strong will only for the best and obsessed witha passionate longing for a service that would mean self-sacrifice.

  She thought now she had found it! Two weeks from this very day she,would sail for a far-off village in Siberia to teach the peasantchildren there and bring to the pitiful captivity of Russian ignorancethe enlightenment of Americ
an ideals. So big and wonderful seemed theadventure that, girl-like, she had paid little heed to the smalldetails. Nancy and Claire Wallace worried more than she!

  "You'll never get enough to eat and how will you ever keep your clothesclean," sighed Claire, who loved pretty frocks.

  "And we can't send you things, either, for they'd never reach you--someof those awful Bolshevists would be sure to steal them!"

  Madame Breshkovsky, the little Grandmother of the Russian Revolution,had made several visits to the University, and Anne, with the others,had listened over and over to her vivid, heartrending stories of thesuffering needs of the children of the real Russia. It had been aftersuch an evening that Anne had given herself to the cause. So that,when Nancy and Claire fretted excitedly over the hardships and dangersof the undertaking, she had only looked at them with the question inher grave, dark eyes: "What matters it if perhaps Anne Leavitt doeslack a few clothes and food and some silly luxuries if she is doing alittle, little bit to help her fellowmen?"

  Nancy Leavitt, like the beloved Topsy, had just "growed up." To herchums, in her own spirited way, she had once described how: "Ever sinceI can remember there were always just Dad and I. When he wanted to goanywhere he used to pick me up like a piece of baggage and off we went.Half the time I didn't go to the same school two years in succession.And he used to teach me, too. Oh, how homesick I was when I camehere--without him. We're just like pals!"

  Nancy's physical well-being had been watched over by nurses of almostevery race and color. She knew a little Hindoo and from the old Hindoo"ayah" she had caught bits of Hindoo mysticism. She had romped androlled with Japanese babies; she had lived on a ranch in Mexico untilbandits had driven them away; she had trudged along behind her fatherover miles of trail in Alaska. And the only place she had ever called"home" was a tiny flat in New York, where her father kept the prettyfurniture that Nancy's mother had bought when a bride. Back to thisthey would come after long intervals, for a little respite from theirwanderings, and for Nancy the homecoming was always an excitingly happyone from the moment she ran down to Mrs. Finnegan's door for the key tothe lugging out again of the two little trunks, which meant a suddendeparture for some distant land.

  College had brought a great change into this gypsy life and a grief atthe separation from her "Dad." But as the weeks had passed her lettersto him read less and less like a wail of homesickness, and were filledmore and more with the college happenings and whole passages devoted togirlish descriptions of her new friends.

  For the last two years her father had been overseas as senior newspapercorrespondent with the American Expeditionary Force, and it would beweeks before he could return. That thought added now to the lonelyache in Nancy's heart as she stared at her chums and wondered what itwould seem like to live day after day without seeing them!

  These three had trod together up the Paths of Learning until they werepassing now the Gateway of Life; and yet, right at that moment, all ofthem, even Anne, felt childishly lonely and homesick for the shelter ofthe University they were leaving.

  That was why the chiming of the Library clock, that had marked thepassage of happy time for more than one generation of youth, brought ashadow across each of the three young faces.

  A little wistfulness crept into Nancy's voice. "Your life's all cutout for you, Anne. It's positively thrilling! Though I'd make anawful mess out of any such undertaking. And Claire has her family.I'll just go to New York and get the key from Mother Finnegan and worklike mad on the 'Child.' I want to finish it before Dad comes home. Ishall send it, then, to Theodore Hoffman himself--I might as well hitchmy wagon to the tiptoppest star--or whatever it is you do! Of courseit isn't as grand as going to Russia, but I'm going to work, and someday, maybe, I'll be famous all over the world!"

  "Little Anne Leavitt, the great dramatist!" murmured Big Anne fondly.

  Claire Wallace, confronting nothing more serious than the squeezing ofher belongings into the huge trunk, was stirred with envy. Nancy hadher "Child"--not a youngster but a growing pile of manuscript, Anne hadher "crusade" among the unfortunate children of Siberia--she hadnothing ahead but to join her family at their summer home, an estatethat covered hundreds of acres on Long Island.

  "I wish you'd come home with me, first, Nancy! You heard mother sayhow much she wanted you to come and we will have a beautiful time andthen you can see Barry."

  Nancy frowned sternly. She had several reasons for frowning--shethought. Of course she would really like to go to Merrycliffe withClaire; she loved to frolic, and the last term had been a pretty hardgrind, but her whole future depended upon her finishing her play andClaire simply must _not_ coax her! Then the other reason was Barry.Barry was Claire's brother recently returned from long service inFrance, decorated by each of the allied countries. Toward him Nancyand Anne, quite secretly, felt an unreasonable and growing dislike.Neither of them had ever laid eyes on him but, ignoring the injustice,based their antipathy solely on the fact that "Claire talks of nothingbut Barry until you feel like shutting your ears!"

  Nancy had, more than once, declared that "she could just see himstrutting around with all his medals, letting everyone make a lion ofhim, and she loathed handsome men, anyway--they lacked character" andAnne said "_her_ heart went out to those boys whose every minute in thetrenches had been an unrecognized and unrecorded act of heroism." Ofcourse they both carefully kept their real feelings from little Claire,who was too dear to them to ever hurt in any way, so that, when shetalked "Barry," if they were only politely attentive, in her proudenthusiasm, she never noticed.

  Now Nancy, instead of saying truthfully that "_she_ wasn't going tospend her summer helping make a parlor pet out of the 'lion,'" simplyshook her head and frowned.

  "Claire, don't tease me! Of course I know how nice it would be to swimand dance and play tennis and all sorts of things, but I must work!"and she finished with the decided tone that was like Anne's.

  Claire looked unhappy. "_I_ don't want to go and dance and swim andplay around, though it is nice, but I can't write and I can't go toRussia, so I'll just _have_ to go and do what the others in my crowdall do, and I suppose you'll think I'm a butterfly when I'm _really_perfectly miserable!"

  Nancy controlled a smile. "Bless you, we won't think you're anythingbut just the apple of our eyes. The world needs butterflies to keep itbeautiful and gay. Your adventure, Claire, is waiting for you, maybe,around the corner. That's what Mother Finnegan is always saying! Andafter my 'Child' is finished I promise I'll come and play with you!"

  Claire was only a little cheered.

  "But Barry may not be there, then. Mother says he's dreadfullyrestless. He may be gone now!"

  A knock at the door saved Nancy from an answer.

  It was old Noah, the porter. He held a letter in his hand.

  "It's fer Mis' Anne Leavitt and I'm blessed if I know which one of yezso, I sez, I'll jes' take it to the two of yez and let you toss up ferit!"

  It was not unusual for the two girls to find their mail confused. Theygenerally distinguished by the handwriting or the postmarks. But nowthey both stared at the letter they took from Noah's hand.

  It was addressed in a fine, old-fashioned handwriting.

  "_I_ can't recognize it," exclaimed one Anne Leavitt.

  "I'm sure _I_ never saw it before!" cried the other.

  "Isn't this exciting? Let me see the postmark. F-r-e-e-d-o-m!"spelled Nancy. "I never heard of it," she declared.

  "I believe it's mine! I have some relatives--or did have--a great auntor something, who lived near a place like that way up on North HeroIsland. I'd forgotten all about them. Open it, Claire, and let's seewhat it is."'

  "You never told _us_ about any aunt on any North Hero Island! Itsounds like a romance, Anne," accused Nancy, who thought she kneweverything about her friend.

  Anne laughed. "I don't wonder you think so. I just barely rememberfather speaking of her. Read it, Claire!"

  Claire had seiz
ed the letter and opened it. "It is signed 'Your lovingaunt.' Isn't it the most ridiculous mystery? Why _couldn't_ it havebeen something else besides an aunt!"

  "Well, I'm awfully afraid it _is_ for me. We never could _both_ haveaunts on North Hero Island. Go on, blessed child--I'm prepared for theworst!"

  Claire rose dramatically.

  "My dear Niece," she read, adding: "I want you to _know_, Anne, thatshe honors you by spelling that with a capital." "Of later years ithas been a matter of deep regret to me that though the same blood runsin our veins we are like strangers, and that you have been allowed togrow to womanhood without knowing the home of your forefathers on thishistoric island. It is for that reason that now, after considerabledebate with my conscience, I am writing to you at your college addresswhich I have obtained through a chance article in an Albany newspaper('that was the Senior Play write-up,' interrupted Nancy, excitedly) tourge you to avail yourself of the earliest opportunity to visit me inthe old home.

  "I feel the burden and responsibility of my increasing years, and Iknow that soon I will be called to that land where our forefathers havegone before us. You are, I believe, my nearest of kin--the family, asyou must know, is dying out and I would have preferred that you hadbeen a boy--I will tell you frankly that I am considering changing mywill and that upon your visit depends whether or not you will be mybeneficiary. I would wish to leave the home and my worldly wealth--thewealth of the past Leavitts, to a Leavitt, but before I can do so tothe satisfaction of my own conscience, I must know that you are aLeavitt and that you have been brought up with a true knowledge andrespect for what being a Leavitt demands of you,

  "I await your reply with anxiety. Your visit will give me pleasure andI assure you that you will learn to love the spot on which, for so manygenerations, your ancestors have lived."

  "Your Loving Aunt, "SABRINA LEAVITT."

  "Well, I'll be----" In all her college vocabulary Anne could not findthe word to express her feelings.

  "Isn't that rapturous? A great-aunt and a fortune! And will you_please_ tell me why she had to debate with her conscience?" criedClaire.

  Nancy was gleeful over Anne's wrath.

  "I'm glad she's yours, Annie darling! Dad always said the whole worldwas _my_ only kin, but I never ran against anyone who wanted to look meover before she left me a fortune! Who ever heard of North Hero Islandand where in goodness is it?"

  "I remember, now, that her name was awfully queer--Aunt Sa-something orother, and North Hero Island isn't _utterly_ unknown, Nancy, to thecan't even remember! I wish it had happened to Lake Champlain. I sawit once on a road-map when I was touring last fall with Professor andMrs. Scott, and Professor Scott said it was a locality picturesquelyhistoric--I remember."

  Claire turned the letter over and over.

  "I think it's all awfully thrilling! An aunt you can't even remember!I wish it had happened to me! It would be something so different.It's just like a story. But what a _lot_ she does think of herforefathers!"

  "Well, the Leavitts are a very old family and they are a New Englandfamily, too, although I was born in California," interrupted Anne witha dignity that would have gladdened the great-aunt's heart.

  Nancy was again provoked to merriment.

  "Dad always said that the only other Leavitt _he_ knew was acow-puncher! He could lick anyone on the plains."

  Anne ignored this. She was frowning in deep thought.

  "The tiresome part is that--if I _don't_ go--if I tell her about goingto Russia--she may write to my guardian!"

  All three were struck dumb at the thought. Anne had not consulted herguardian before she had impulsively enlisted her services in MadameBreshkovsky's cause. Because she was three months past twenty-one,legally he could not interfere, but being so newly of age she had nothad the courage to meet his protest. So she had simply written thatshe was planning a long trip with friends and would tell him of thedetails when they had been completed. A letter lay now in her deskwhich she intended to mail the day before she sailed. It would be toolate, then, for him to interfere. If her conscience troubled her alittle about this plan, she told herself that the cause justified heraction.

  And now this Aunt Sa-something might upset everything!

  "I wish I could remember more about those relatives up there--fatherand mother used to laugh whenever they mentioned the old place. Ialways imagined they were dreadfully poor! She must be a terrible oldlady--you can sort of tell by the tone of her letter. Oh, dear!"

  "What will you do?" echoed Claire, still thinking it a much moreattractive adventure than Russia.

  "I have it!" cried Anne. "_You_ shall go in my place, Nancy!"

  "_I_! I should say not! Are you stark crazy, Anne Leavitt?"

  Anne seized her excitedly by the shoulder. "You could do it as easy asanything in the world, Nancy. She's never laid eyes on me and I knowmy father never wrote to her. You'll only have to go there for threeor four weeks----"

  "And pose as a real Leavitt when I'm a Leavitt that just belongs toDad! Well, I won't do it!" replied Nancy, stubbornly.

  "Nan-cy, please listen! You wouldn't have to do or say a thing--she'djust take it for granted. And you could always make some excuse to goaway if----"

  "If it looked as though I was going to be found out! Why, it'd be likeliving on a volcano. And I'd be sure to always say the wrong thing!"

  "But you could _try_ it," implored Anne. "It would make everythingsimple and you'd be doing _your_ bit, then, for Madame Breshkovsky!Think of all she told us of the suffering in Russia. Surely you coulddo a little thing now to help! And if Aunt _did_ like you and left meher money, it would _really_ be you and we'd give it to the cause!"

  "It'd be acting a lie," broke in Nancy.

  "Oh, not exactly, Nancy, for you really are Anne Leavitt and, anyway,it's just as though you were my other half. Way back I know we arerelated. If you don't love me well enough to help me out now--well,I'm disappointed. I'll never forget it!"

  Poor Nancy, mindful of the long separation that lay before her and herfriend, cried out in protest.

  "Oh, Anne, _don't_ say that!"

  Claire, her eyes brilliant with excitement, chimed in:

  "Nancy, it's a hope-to-die adventure. Maybe you could make up no endof stories and plays out of the things that happen up there! And,anyway, you can finish the 'Child' and come to Merrycliffe that muchsooner!"

  Claire had advanced the most appealing argument. North Hero Islandcertainly sounded more inspiring than a stuffy flat in Harlem with sixsmall Finnegans one floor below. And it was an adventure. Annehastened to take advantage of the yielding she saw in Nancy's face.

  "You can stay here with me until I have to go to New York, and we canlook up trains and I can tell you all about my forefathers, though Ireally don't know a single thing. But she won't expect you toknow--don't you remember she wrote that she regretted my being broughtup without knowing the home of my forefathers. And if you just act asthough you wanted more than anything else in the world to learn allabout the Leavitts, she'll just love it and she'll tell you everythingyou _have_ to know!"

  "It's the most _thrilling_ romance," sighed Claire, enviously.

  "Sounds more to _me_ like a conspiracy, and can't they put people injail for doing things like that?" demanded Nancy.

  "Oh, Nancy, you're _so_ literal--as if she would, way up there on anisland next to nowhere! And anyway, think of the boys who perjuredthemselves to get into the service. Wasn't that justified?"

  Nancy, being in an unpleasant mood, started to ask what _that_ had todo with _her_ pretending to be an Anne Leavitt who she wasn't, when BigAnne went on in a hurt tone:

  "Well, we won't talk about it any more! I'll have to give up going toRussia and my whole life will be spoiled. And I _am_ disappointed--Ithought our friendship meant something to you, Nancy."

  "_Anne_! There isn't a _thing_ I wouldn't do for you! You're nextdearest to Dad. For you I'll go to--Freedom or any
old place. I'll domy best to be you to the dot and I'll pay homage to your forefathersand will ask not a penny of the legacy--if you get it! It shall all befor the cause!"

  Anne read no irony in her tone. Her dignity flown, she caught herfriend in a strangling hug. "Oh, Nancy, you _darling_, will you? I'llnever forget it! We'll write to her right away--or you will. Fromthis _very_ minute you are Anne Leavitt!"

  "I wish I could go, too," put in Claire. "Perhaps I can coax Barry tomotor up that way."

  "Don't you _dare_!" cried Nancy in consternation. "It would spoil itall. I'll write to you every day every thing that happens. Goodness,if I'm as scared when I face your Aunt Sa-something as I am right nowwhen I think about it, she'll know at a glance that I'm just aneveryday Leavitt and not the child of her forefathers!"

  "Hark!" Claire lifted a silencing finger. "The seniors are singing."

  The lines they loved drifted to them.

  "Lift the chorus, speed it onward, Loud her praises tell!"

  "Let's join them." Suddenly Claire caught a hand of each. "_Girls_,think of it--what it _means_--it's the last time--_it's all over_!"Her pretty face was tragic.

  Big Anne, with a vision of Russia in her heart, set her lips resolutely.

  "Don't look _back_--look _ahead_!" she cried, grandly.

  But in Nancy's mind as, her arms linked with her chums', she hurriedoff to join the other Seniors in their last sing, the troublingquestion echoed: "To what?"