Wired Love by Ella Cheever Thayer (summer beach reads .TXT) 📖

to his word, waited, saying nothing, she missed continually the sympathy, the gay talk, the companionship that had made the constantly-occurring annoyances endurable, and the days that dragged so now seem short. The office business did not fill half her time, and the constant confinement began to be irksome to her, whose nature demanded activity; in consequence, she often grew impatient and answered unnecessary questions of customers with a shortness that gave considerable offence; and had it not been for Cyn, who brought her sunny presence quite often into the office, heedless of the "no admittance" on the door, the monotony that had now displaced the romantic side of telegraphy would have plunged Nattie among the shadows almost constantly.

Of course the sudden cessation of the intimacy between "C" and "N" was a theme of much surprise and bantering comments along the line, especially from "Em." But these facetious remarks gradually became fewer as the wonder subsided. One day, nearly two weeks after the "collapse," Nattie was surprised to hear the old familiar "B m—B m—B m—X n." Wondering if he had grown tired of waiting and was about to attempt a renewal of their former friendship, Nattie rather impatiently answered. But it proved he had a message, an occurrence quite infrequent with him. This he sent without unnecessary words. But after she had given "O. K." and closed her key, he opened his to say,

"Please, don't you want to make up, N?"

"I have nothing to make up!" Nattie replied.

"O. K." was "C's" response as he again subsided.

"He snubs easily!" thought Nattie, much relieved.

The following Saturday night, however, as she was taking in from the shelf outside the blanks, ink, and bad pens that excited the ire of irascible customers, preparatory to closing, "C" once more called. With a devout hope that he was not going to be annoying, Nattie answered.

"Notwithstanding the late coolness between us, which was not my fault, and for which I cannot account" he began, and then some one with a rush message broke in.

"What is he coming at now I wonder—he commenced with a great display of words," thought Nattie curiously; and then with a little curl of her lip, "a sentence out of some book, I suppose."

But as soon as the wire was quiet she said,

"To 'C' Please g a—account"

"I could not leave, as I am about to do to-night, without saying good-by, in remembrance of our former pleasant intercourse," concluded "C."

"You mean you are leaving permanently?" queried Nattie, surprised.

"Yes, this is my last day here. Monday I leave town; and so, with much regret that anything unpleasant should have interrupted our acquaintance—although what it was I assure you I do not know, since you deign me no explanation—I will say, not as I would once, au revoir, but good-by."

"Good-by," answered Nattie, forgetting for the moment everything but "C," the old "C," the "C" who had enlivened so many hours, and about whom had dwelt that romantic mystery. "Good-by. Believe me, I shall always remember the many social talks we have enjoyed."

"Possibly we might enjoy them again, if you desired," "C" said then, as if he gave her a chance for explanation or to express such a wish.

But Nattie, recalling now the bears-grease, the musk, the cheap jewelry and their obnoxious possessor, answered only, "Good-by."

CHAPTER VIII THE FEAST.

Pondering discontentedly over the perplexities of life, a habit she had allowed herself to indulge in quite frequently of late, one day not long after the final exit of the once interesting but now obnoxious "C," Nattie suddenly became aware of a pair of merry brown eyes, belonging to a fine-looking young gentleman, observing her critically, and with apparently no intention of discontinuing their scrutiny. At which, in her present state of temper, Nattie turned very red and very angry. "I am not on exhibition," she thought, indignantly, and rising majestically, went towards him with the curt inquiry,

"Did you wish to send a message, sir?" The young gentleman hesitated, and appeared slightly embarrassed, but did not take his eyes from her face, nevertheless.

"I merely wished to ask the tariff to Washington," he replied, at length.

"Forty cents," Nattie answered, shortly.

"Thank you," he said, but without moving, and after a moment, as if desirous of opening a conversation, he continued, smiling, "I hardly think I will send a message to-day; I presume you will not object to being spared the trouble?"

Nattie, having been quarreling all day with intangible somethings, was rather glad than otherwise to find a real object upon which she could vent the unamiability resulting from her surplus discontent. The young man's evident desire to talk more than circumstances warranted, was displeasing to her, and she rejoined very stiffly,

"It is a matter of perfect indifference to me," and turned away.

With an amused smile, he looked at the back thus presented to his view, opened his lips to speak, hesitated, and finally walked away. Nattie, looking after him out of the corners of her eyes, saw him glance back as he opened the door, and had a remorseful feeling that perhaps she had been crosser to him than he really deserved, for he was certainly very fine-looking. But what was done could not be undone, and with no expectation of ever seeing him again, she dismissed the matter from her mind.

The best, perhaps the only really pleasant part of Nattie's life now, was her evenings, passed almost invariably with Cyn. Indeed, Cyn seemed to be a magnet, around which all gathered—Quimby, although, of course, Cyn herself was not his chief attraction—Celeste Fishblate, who determinedly pushed herself into an intimacy, and Jo Norton, who, had it not been for the fact so loudly proclaimed by himself, of his having no sentiment in his soul, would have been suspected of being on the road to falling in love with Cyn, so strangely was he attracted to her company. But this, of course, was impossible for him!

"That will not do, dear," Cyn remarked, when Nattie related her little adventure with the young gentleman. "Do you know you have been in a dreadful state of mind ever since 'C' intruded his personality?"

Nattie colored a little as she replied, discontentedly, "Oh, it isn't that, I assure you; the truth is, I am ambitious, Cyn. I suppose I forgot it, slightly, while I was so interested in 'C;' but I cannot be content with a mere working on from day to day, in the same old routine, and nothing more."

Cyn looked at her scrutinizingly, as she asked, "But in what particular way are you ambitious? to be rich, or what?"

"Oh! not for money!" Nattie answered, with a slight contempt for that necessary and convenient article. "I am ambitious for fame! I want to be a writer; but when I think of the obstacles in my way to an opening, even, in that direction, I am daunted. I have attacks of energy, it is true, but I fear it is fitful; it comes and goes."

"I understand," Cyn replied, with more than wonted seriousness. "Your ambition is great enough to render you useless and discontented, but you need something to stimulate your energy, else it will waste itself in idle dreams. Perhaps love may come to be that motive power; perhaps—" and a shade crossed her sunny face—"some great disappointment."

There was a moment's silence, Nattie pondering thoughtfully on these words; and then Cyn continued,

"But in the meantime, since you can at present accomplish nothing, why not get all the enjoyment you can out of life, as it goes? So, when the opportunity comes, and you seize it, you will not have to look back on years wasted in vain longings for the then unattainable. That is my philosophy—and I, too, am ambitious."

"Your philosophy is cheery, at least," said Nattie, smiling. "But I am afraid it is very hard for ambitious people to take life easy: and that is not all of my troubles," she continued, gayly, "I can't get anything good to eat!"

"Poor child," said Cyn, with mock seriousness, "this is coming from the sublime to the ridiculous. What is the cause of the lamentable fact?"

"Oh! I am so tired of both boarding-houses and restaurants. In the former they never have what one likes—and ah! such steak!—while in the latter you have to pick out all the cheap dishes, or ruin yourself at a meal."

Cyn laughed.

"I assure you I can appreciate your feelings, from sad experience! I, myself, am positively longing for a nice sirloin steak." Then, a sudden thought striking her, "I will tell you what we will do, Nat, we will have a little feast!"

"A feast?" repeated Nattie, not exactly comprehending.

"Yes—I have a little gas stove—low be it said, lest Mrs. Simonson hear and bring in a terrific bill for extra gas!—I use it sometimes to cook my dinner, when I do not feel like going out, and why should we not have a feast all to ourselves some day? and the sirloin steak shall be forthcoming! and what do you say to Charlotte Russe? In short, we will have everything we can think of, and you shall be assistant cook!"

"That would be splendid!" cried Nattie, delighted, "only it will have to be some Sunday, as that is my only leisure day, you know."

"All the better, for then we will be less liable to intrusion," responded Cyn, gayly. "So make a memorandum to that effect, for next week. We must not let Mrs. Simonson know, however, on account of the gas stove; I pay her too much rent now. I am afraid we shall have a little difficulty about dishes. The few I have are not exactly real Sevres china, or even decently conventional. But—"

"Oh! never mind the dishes!" interrupted Nattie. "Anything will do! I have myself a cracked tumbler, and a spoon, that will perhaps be useful for something."

Agreeing therefore to hold dishes in strict contempt, the following Sunday found the two girls with closed doors, in the midst of great preparations for a truly Bohemian feast, as Cyn termed it; Nattie with her crimps tied down in a blue handkerchief, and Cyn with her sleeves rolled up, and an old skirt of a dress doing duty as apron.

"Let me see," said Nattie merrily, taking account of stock. "Two pounds of steak—the first cut of the sirloin, I think you said?—waiting, expectant of making glad our hearts, on the rocking-chair, potatoes in plebeian lowliness under the table, tomatoes and two pies on your trunk, Charlotte Russes—delicious Charlotte Russes—where? Ah!—on your bonnet-box, in a plate ordinarily used as a card receiver, and sugar, butter, et cetera, and et cetera lying around almost anywhere, and the figs, oranges and homely, but necessary bread, where are they? I see, on top of 'Dombey & Son!'"

"And our dishes will not quarrel, because thev are none of them any relation to each other!" laughed Cyn, as she peeled the tomatoes. "I fear goblets will have to take upon themselves the duties of cups, and that cracked tumbler of yours must be used for something. I am sorry that saucepan is so dilapidated, but it is the best I own!"

"And in that saucepan we must both boil the potatoes and stew the tomatoes. Won't one cool while the other is doing?" queried Nattie, hovering lovingly over the steak.

"I think not;" Cyn answered. "You won't mind the coffee being boiled in a tin can, once the repository of preserved peaches, will you?"

"Ah, no!" replied Nattie emphatically, and sawing at the steak with a very dull knife, without a handle. "It will be just as good when it's poured out."

"I had a coffee-pot once, but I melted the nose off and forgot to buy another yesterday," Cyn said, putting on the potatoes.

"We will call our contrivance a coffee-urn; it sounds aristocratic," suggested Nattie, as she cleared the books from the least shaky table, and spread it with three towels, in lieu of a table-cloth. "But what shall we do for plates to put the pies on?"

"Take those two wooden box covers in the closet," promptly responded Cyn. "That is right, and see, here is room also for the coffee—pardon me, I had almost said commonplace coffee-pot!"

"But the tomato! what can we pour that in?" suddenly exclaimed Nattie, with great concern.

Cyn scanned every object in the room with dismay.

"The—the wash-bowl!" she insinuated at last, determined not to be daunted.

"Don't you think it rather large? to say nothing of its being too suggestive?" said Nattie, laughing.

Cyn did not press the point, but shook her head,