Miss Susan and Phoebe

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 8, 1915

Miss Susan and Phoebe

A Story for Mothers and Aunts and Others

With four grimy, incriminating lumps of sugar in her outstretched hand, gaunt Miss Susan stood and frowned sternly at Phœbe; Miss Susan’s niece sewed swiftly in the corner by the window.

“I’ll never do it again!” whimpered Phœbe.

“Not in my house,” replied Miss Susan, grimly. “I can put up with a good deal, but I’ll never harbor a thief. Go to bed now, and tomorrow I’ll go to Ellenden and see the matron about taking you back to the orphan asylum.”

With a cry, Phœbe ran to Clarissa, who dropped her work and opened her arms to receive her.

“O, don’t send me back!” sobbed Phœbe, from the shelter of Clarissa’s embrace. “I’ll be awfully good. I won’t ever touch another thing. I’ll pay you for the sugar. I’ve got a nickel. Please don’t send me back.”

“You can’t pay for stolen goods,” answered Miss Susan, shortly. “Go to bed now.”

Without a word, Clarissa let the child go; and Phœbe, sobbing loudly, left the room. Her progress through the hall and up the stairs was marked by the walls that floated back. Clarissa shut her lips tight and sewed harder. Miss Susan sat down by the lamp with her workbasket.

“Clarissa, tell that child to keep quiet!” she commanded.

Clarissa followed Phœbe upstairs, and presently all was quiet above. With flushed cheeks, Clarissa came back to her chair.

“Couldn’t you forgive her this once, Aunt Susan? Won’t you try her just once more?” she begged. “She feels so bad.”

“Anything but a thief and a liar,” said Miss Susan sternly. “That can’t be forgiven.”

“But she’s such a little thing,—such a lonely little thing,—only eleven. She’s never had a real place in the world, and no one has really loved her.”

“Loved her!” said Miss Susan, with a sniff. “You’re as sentimental as if you were fifteen instead of twenty-five. If people want to be loved, let ’em act so as to deserve it.”

“But we’ve got to help her be good.”

“Once a thief, always a thief. If stealing and lying are in that girl’s blood, you’ll never get ’em out, and I don’t propose to waste my time trying to.”

Clarissa rose and folded her work. “You can love people into almost anything,” she murmured. “If you’ll try her once more, Aunt Susan, I’ll watch out for her. I don’t believe she’ll do it again. This is the first time. Just think of her temptation!”

“Temptation is to be resisted,” answered Miss Susan, firmly. “Right is right, and wrong is wrong. We can’t excuse sin. You might as well save your breath, for even if you talk all night you won’t make me believe anything else. I am going to Ellenden tomorrow to see the matron about taking Phœbe back, and I’m going by boat in order to get an early start, for I’ve some trading to do. I won’t get back till the boat at night. I wanted to see Squire Perkins tomorrow to find out what he’s going to do about Jabez Brown, but that will have to wait.”

“I suppose he’ll lock him up,” said Clarissa in a dull voice. Arguing with Aunt Susan or the squire was useless. “You want breakfast at five?”

“Yes. The boat leaves at six. You needn’t get much. I’m never hungry when I’m starting on a journey.”

Miss Susan was up before four the next morning. Breakfast was ready at five, but Miss Susan merely nibbled a little toast. Clarissa waited on her silently. Phœbe did not come downstairs.

“Lock that child in the garret and keep her there all day,” was Miss Susan’s parting injunction as she started for the wharf.

The “Emma Carleton” started daily from one end of the lake, and, with various stops, consumed half the day in running to the other end; then it turned round, and ran home. Miss Susan was to get off at Pottstown, where she could take the train to Ellenden. There was a more direct route to Ellenden by train, but the trip by boat cost less, and that appealed to Miss Susan’s thrifty soul.

It promised to be a hot day, but on the deck of the “Emma Carleton” the breeze over the water and the blue sky overhead made one feel only the freshness of the early morning. Miss Susan enjoyed it in her grim fashion, although daybreak to her spoke usually not so much of poetry as of the exhilaration of a duty to be done—a wash out of the way, or an extra room cleaned before breakfast. Although it was a moral house cleaning that she had risen early to accomplish this time, it had the usual soothing effect upon her. She had no tolerance for sin or a sinner—even in the shape of a trembling little child who had been starved of all the delights of childhood.

For two hours Miss Susan sat on deck, bolt upright on her stool. At eight o’clock she took her best gloves from her shopping bag, and put them on in place of her second-best, which she had been wearing on the boat. Her best gloves were new and stiff; and she hung her bag on a convenient hook while she put them on.

“There!” she said to herself as she fastened the last button, “I never told Clarissa to keep that child on bread and water today. With that shortcake for dinner, and green peas and new potatoes, likely she’ll pamper her to death! And me not there to look after her!”

It was a discouraging thought; and while she pondered it, the boat made the Pottstown wharf. It was behind schedule time, and as there were only two passengers to set ashore, it made short work of its landing. Within three minutes the “Emma Carleton” was steaming down the lake again.

Miss Susan and her fellow passenger—an Italian with a huge basket of bananas—walked up the hot street to the station. Pottstown was a manufacturing town, ugly and dirty, with no excuse for existence except its factories, its wharf, and its railway station.

“How they did hustle us off that boat!” thought Miss Susan as she entered the station. “I like to be prompt, but I’m no hand to hurry. Let’s see! The train doesn’t go for half an hour. I think I’ll buy a glass of cold milk. I’m real hungry already.”

She made a movement toward her shopping bag and stopped short—petrified. There was no shopping bag! Unless some one had stolen it, it was hanging on that convenient hook on the “Emma Carleton,” bound on a trip to the far end of the lake.

“How ever did I come to do it!” groaned Miss Susan. “I knew when I put it there that I had no business to. And then, thinking of this thing and that, and landing so suddenly—I just came off and left it. Think of my doing a thing like that! Why, I never lost even a shoe button in my whole life!”

Stupefied, she sat down on one of the hard station benches. The times were rare in Miss Susan’s well-ordered life when she had blamed herself.

After she had sat for some moments, full of self-reproach, it dawned on her that she could not buy the milk. She must wait until she reached Ellenden. Then to her dismay came the thought that she could not reach Ellenden. She had no money to buy a ticket, and she knew not a soul in Pottstown. She would have to go home. Then with a sudden sinking of her heart, she realized that she could not even go home, at least not until seven o’clock in the evening, when the “Emma Carleton” would return. Whether or not Captain Sanders found her bag, he would remember that she had bought a return ticket in the morning.

As she sat, dazed, on the hard bench, passengers hurried by, bought tickets for Ellenden, mounted into the waiting train, and finally rolled off out of the station. Vainly Miss Susan tried to find some way out of her difficulty. She had always ruled circumstances, but now they ruled her inexorably.

It was such a foolish predicament for a well-to-do, perfectly ordered spinster to find herself in—to be marooned, penniless, for twelve hours on a hot day in a sordid little town where there was not one friend to whom she could turn! Already she was hungry and thirsty and hot and tired. What would she be before the day was over!

After the bustle of the departing train the station dropped back into silence. The big clock monotonously ticked away the slow minutes. She walked restlessly to the door and looked out, but there was nothing to be seen through the heat dancing above the pavement except her fellow passenger on the “Emma Carleton;” he had transferred his bananas to a pushcart, and was moving slowly down the street. She went back to her bench and sat down, for it was cooler in the dim station. Into her mind came a vision of Phœbe, shut all day in the attic. She wondered whether it would be very hot there. She was parched with thirst herself, but she had always made it an iron rule not to drink from a common fountain. She thought of the well at home, and the cool dripping of the bucket as it came up. Clarissa would certainly see to it that Phœbe had a drink.

What time was it?—Not yet ten. On the tips of her best gloves Miss Susan told off the hours until seven at night,—nine hours before the boat would rescue her from misery.

She no longer worried over her loss nor blamed herself for her carelessness. She thought only of the long hours ahead,—hours of heat and thirst and hunger. Never had she imagined that a person could be as hungry as she was at that minute.

At twelve o’clock a train arrived from Ellenden. Miss Susan eagerly scanned the faces of the descending passengers. Might there not be one among them whom she knew? But they passed through the room indifferently, with only a careless glance at the erect, indomitable figure on the bench.

The heat was almost unendurable. She untied her bonnet strings and took off her best gloves. She almost wished she had not told Clarissa to keep Phœbe in the attic; it would be a stifling place to spend a long, hot day. Clarissa would be setting out dinner about this time. Miss Susan winced as she thought of the delicious shortcake, the new potatoes and green peas, and of the white cloth and the cool dining room. Without doubt, Clarissa would have Phœbe down to eat dinner with her. Clarissa always had been foolish about children.

Then suddenly she felt no longer strong and self-reliant, but only helpless and lonely. She longed to put her head down on Clarissa’s shoulder and cry.

When Clarissa had said that Phœbe was lonely, with no place in the world, did it mean that the child felt always as Miss Susan felt now? For the first time in her busy, capable life, Miss Susan questioned whether there were perhaps more in life than early washes, and notable housekeeping, and the punishing of sinners. Were there also lonely, ignorant, bewildered souls that must be discovered and saved by the gentleness of Clarissas?

Unable to sit still, Miss Susan went out into the street. Courageously she tramped miles through the glare and grime, but nowhere was anything refreshing. She would have given ten dollars, had it been in her power, for one slice of her own bread.

As she turned the last corner back to the station, she came suddenly upon the Italian’s pushcart laden with large yellow bananas. The Italian was nowhere in sight.

Miss Susan stood and looked. Outwardly she saw the dirty street and the pushcart. Inwardly she saw a child before the sugar basin,—a child with outstretched hand and startled eyes. Could it be possible that Phœbe had wanted the sugar as she wanted those bananas? Miss Susan turned and fled.

Almost running, she went back to her hard seat on the bench. “Temptation was to be resisted.” She had not forgotten Mr. Perkins’s sermon. But in her mind she still saw a picture of those tempting bananas. At two o’clock she felt that she never could stand it. She wondered whether the man had come back. Almost without knowing what she did, she left her seat and went out into the street again. The pushcart still stood against the wall; its owner was not in sight. She walked by the cart to the end of the block, turned, and came back. Near the edge of the cart two bananas lay detached from the others. With a sweep of her hand, Miss Susan seized them as she passed, and hid them in her folded arms.

The ticket agent was gone from his booth. She was quite alone in the station. Greedily she devoured the two bananas, and took a long drink from the fountain. Then she carried the banana skins down to the wharf and threw them into the water. She had expected them to sink; but they floated, and seemed to point accusing fingers at her as she fled back to the station.

She had quieted her physical pangs only to waken those of the spirit. She had been tempted and had not resisted; she was a sinner. At any moment she might lift her eyes to see a policeman advancing to lead her away to jail. A glimpse of herself in a mirror startled her; in her eyes was the hunted look she herself had brought to Phœbe’s. She remembered the child’s instinctive rush to Clarissa—from punishment to sympathy and love.

Through five hours of torture Miss Susan sat, dropping her eyes when people came and went at train times, shrinking when the ticket agent addressed a good-natured remark to her, and cowering

when a policeman strolled through the station. Before her eyes danced always the accusing banana peels. There was no comfort anywhere—except in Clarissa. Life seemed one long line; at one end stood the policeman; at the other, Clarissa.

Seven o’clock came finally, after long, lonely hours, and the boat came, too. The policeman was on the wharf, and Miss Susan’s world turned black. He did not accost her, however, and she walked across the gangplank with eyes straight ahead, in order to avoid seeing the convicting banana skins. The Italian crossed before her, with his goods again in his basket. He stood the basket against the rail and went below. Captain Sanders had her bag, and restored it to her with the genial wish that its loss had not caused her any inconvenience. Miss Susan shook her head; she could not speak. When the captain left her, she glanced furtively round. No one seemed to be noticing her. She took a quarter from her purse, and dropped it into the Italian’s basket.

“You can’t pay for stolen goods,” she murmured, and turned almost into the arms of Squire Perkins. For the first time in her life she shrank from him.

He beamed joyfully. “Why, Miss Susan, what a pleasant surprise! Have you been to Ellenden?”

“Yes,” answered Miss Susan, instinctively flying to cover.

“I wish I’d met you. It’s funny I didn’t, for I was in and out of all the shops. I want your advice. Can we sit down here?”

Miss Susan sat down dumbly. She had lied; she had lied and stolen. How could she advise Squire Perkins?

“It is Jabez Brown,” the squire said, stretching out his long, thin legs. “He’s been drinking again, as you know. Miss Clarissa begged him off last time, but clemency has had no effect. The fellow needs punishment.”

Miss Susan had always been Mr. Perkins’s unflagging lieutenant in seeing that sinners were properly punished. The two together had been a strong guard against Clarissa’s gentle pleas for mercy. The squire looked at Miss Susan hopefully, and waited for her reply.

“It’s been some months since he drank, hasn’t it?” she asked.

“Four. But he’s fallen again. For the sake of reputable society we must make an example of him.”

Miss Susan did not answer. She was thinking that she stood side by side with Jabez Brown, and with the poor miserable little sinner whom she had convicted and sentenced so harshly last night.

“It is only punishment that will touch him,” said Mr. Perkins.

“It is only love that will save him,” said Miss Susan, looking straight before her. “It is love he needs, not punishment.”

“Judicious love—” began Mr. Perkins, but Miss Susan interrupted him.

“Any kind of love!” she said, obstinately. “Any kind of love is better than any kind of punishment.”

Mr. Perkins stared at Miss Susan,

and then elaborately changed the subject. On the few occasions when he had differed from her, he had not enjoyed the argument. He could ascribe her present strange attitude only to the sun on the hot streets of Ellenden.

Miss Susan heard few of his platitudes. Perfectly erect, she sat on her stool, reconstructing a universe. At seven in the morning it had been dominated by Miss Susan, vicegerent of strict justice. At seven in the evening it was swayed by Clarissa, from whose eyes there shone the broad love that heals human hearts.

When Miss Susan reached home, supper was set forth; she sat down to it hungrily without even removing her bonnet. She did not speak until the warmed-over peas and potatoes had disappeared. Then she asked in her usual short way, “Where’s Phœbe?”

“She’s in bed,” Clarissa answered.

“Was it hot in the attic today?”

Clarissa turned defiantly. “Aunt Susan, I didn’t put her there. It was her last day in the country, and I had to let her spend it outdoors.”

“I’ll go up and see her,” said Miss Susan.

“O,” cried the girl, “don’t make her feel any worse tonight! She’s been crying ever since she went to bed.”

Without a word Miss Susan went into the hall with her candle, and mounted the stairs to Phœbe’s room, where she set the candle down on the table. Clarissa trailed after her.

For an instant Miss Susan stood looking at the child, while Clarissa held her breath.

“Would you rather stay here, Phœbe, or go back to the asylum?” Miss Susan asked, looking fixedly at the child.

“O,” cried Phœbe, “I’d rather stay here! Miss Clarissa’s here.”

Miss Susan laughed shortly. “Yes, Miss Clarissa’s here. If she thinks she can keep us both in order, I guess the house will cover the three of us.”

Clarissa, with her eyes shining, flung her arms round her aunt and kissed her. Then she turned and gathered into her arms the hot, moist, tear-stained Phœbe.

Miss Susan, half wonderingly, touched the cheek that Clarissa had kissed. She had almost forgotten how a kiss felt. For a moment she feared that she, too, might sit down on the bed and mingle her tears with the others.

“I’m going to be so good!” cried Phœbe.

Miss Susan looked at her gravely. “We mustn’t steal,” she said. “It is a sin.”

“I won’t! I won’t!” the child declared.

Miss Susan went to the door, and then turned and came back into the room. “Phœbe,” she said, “when you want sugar, you show Miss Clarissa what you take. I don’t want you to overeat.”

To the amazement of both, Miss Susan suddenly bent her straight back and kissed first the big girl and then the little one; then, picking up her candle, she went out of the room and left them together.—Selected.