Fairy solemnly rose and crossed the porch, and with a hand on Lark"s shoulder gave her a solemn shake. "Now, Lark Starr, you begin at the beginning and tell us. Do you think we"re all wooden Indians? We can"t wait until you make a newspaper out of the _Daily News_! We want to know. Talk."
Thus adjured, Lark did talk, and the little story with many striking embellishments from Carol was given into the hearing of the family.
"Five dollars a week," echoed Connie faintly.
"Of course, I"ll divide that with Carol," was the generous offer.
"No, I won"t have it. I haven"t any literary brains, and I can"t take any of your salary. Thanks just the same." Then she added happily: "But I know you"ll be very generous when I need to borrow, and I do borrow pretty often, Larkie."
For the rest of the week Lark"s literary career was the one topic of conversation in the Starr family. The _Daily News_ became a sort of literary center piece, and the whole parsonage revolved enthusiastically around it. Lark"s clothes were put in the most immaculate condition, and her wardrobe greatly enriched by donations pressed upon her by her admiring sisters. Every evening the younger girls watched impatiently for the carrier of the _Daily News_, and then rushed to meet him. The paper was read with avid interest, criticized, commended. They all admitted that Lark would be an acquisition to the editorial force, indeed, one sorely needed. They begged her to give Mount Mark the news while it was news, without waiting to find what the other Republican papers of the state thought about it. Why, the instructions and sisterly advice and editorial improvements poured into the ears of patient Lark would have made an archangel giddy with confusion!
During those days, Carol followed Lark about with a hungry devotion that would have been observed by her sister on a less momentous occasion. But now she was so full of the darling Career that she overlooked the once most-darling Carol. On Monday morning, Carol did not remain up-stairs with Lark as she donned her most businesslike dress for her initiation into the world of literature. Instead, she sulked grouchily in the dining-room, and when Lark, radiant, star-eyed, danced into the room for the family"s approval, she almost glowered upon her.
"Am I all right? Do I look literary? Oh, oh," gurgled Lark, with music in her voice.
Carol sniffed.
"Oh, isn"t it a glorious morning?" sang Lark again. "Isn"t everything wonderful, father?"
"Lark Starr," cried Carol pa.s.sionately, "I should think you"d be ashamed of yourself. It"s bad enough to turn your back on your--your life-long twin, and raise barriers between us, but for you to be so wildly happy about it is--perfectly wicked."
Lark wheeled about abruptly and stared at her sister, the fire slowly dying out of her eyes.
"Why, Carol," she began slowly, in a low voice, without music.
"Oh, that"s all right. You needn"t try to talk me over. A body"d think there was nothing in the world but ugly old newspapers. I don"t like "em, anyhow. I think they"re downright nosey! And we"ll never be the same any more, Larkie, and you"re the only twin I"ve got, and--"
Carol"s defiance ended in a poorly suppressed sob and a rush of tears.
Lark threw her gloves on the table.
"I won"t go at all," she said. "I won"t go a step. If--if you think for a minute, Carol, that any silly old Career is going to be any dearer to me than you are, and if we aren"t going to be just as we"ve always been, I won"t go a step."
Carol wiped her eyes. "Well," she said very affectionately, "if you feel like that, it"s all right. I just wanted you to say you liked me better than anything else. Of course you must go, Lark. I really take all the credit for you and your talent to myself, and it"s as much an honor for me as it is for you, and I want you to go. But don"t you ever go to liking the crazy old stories any better than you do me."
Then she picked up Lark"s gloves, and the two went out with an arm around each other"s waist.
It was a dreary morning for Carol, but none of her sisters knew that most of it was spent in the closet of her room, sobbing bitterly. "It"s just the way of the world," she mourned, in the tone of one who has lived many years and suffered untold anguish, "we spend our lives bringing them up, and loving them, and finding all our joy and happiness in them, and then they go, and we are left alone."
Lark"s morning at the office was quiet, but none the less thrilling on that account. Mr. Raider received her cordially, and with a great deal of unctuous fatherly advice. He took her into his office, which was one corner of the press room gla.s.sed in by itself, and talked over her duties, which, as far as Lark could gather from his discourse, appeared to consist in doing as she was told.
"Now, remember," he said, in part, "that running a newspaper is business. Pure business. We"ve got to give folks what they want to hear, and they want to hear everything that happens. Of course, it will hurt some people, it is not pleasant to have private affairs aired in public papers, but that"s the newspaper job. Folks want to hear about the private affairs of other folks. They pay us to find out, and tell them, and it"s our duty to do it. So don"t ever be squeamish about coming right out blunt with the plain facts; that"s what we are paid for."
This did not seriously impress Lark. Theoretically, she realized that he was right. And he talked so impressively of THE PRESS, and its mission in the world, and its rights and its pride and its power, that Lark, looking away with hope-filled eyes, saw a high and mighty figure, immense, all-powerful, standing free, majestic, beckoning her to come.
It was her first view of the world"s PRESS.
But on the fourth morning, when she entered the office, Mr. Raider met her with more excitement in his manner than she had ever seen before.
As a rule, excitement does not sit well on nicely-rounded, pink-skinned men.
"Lark," he began hurriedly, "do you know the Dalys? On Elm Street?"
"Yes, they are members of our church. I know them."
He leaned forward. "Big piece of news down that way. This morning at breakfast, Daly shot his daughter Maisie and the little boy. They are both dead. Daly got away, and we can"t get at the bottom of it. The family is shut off alone, and won"t see any one."
Lark"s face had gone white, and she clasped her slender hands together, swaying, quivering, bright lights before her eyes.
"Oh, oh!" she murmured brokenly. "Oh, how awful!"
Mr. Raider did not observe the white horror in Lark"s face. "Yes, isn"t it?" he said. "I want you to go right down there."
"Yes, indeed," said Lark, though she shivered at the thought. "Of course, I will." Lark was a minister"s daughter. If people were in trouble, she must go, of course. "Isn"t it--awful? I never knew of--such a thing--before. Maisie was in my cla.s.s at school. I never liked her very well. I"m so sorry I didn"t,--oh, I"m so sorry. Yes, I"ll go right away. You"d better call papa up and tell him to come, too."
"I will, but you run along. Being the minister"s daughter, they"ll let you right up. They"ll tell you all about it, of course. Don"t talk to any one on the way back. Come right to the office. Don"t stay any longer than you can help, but get everything they will say about it, and--er--comfort them as much as you can."
"Yes,--yes." Lark"s face was frightened, but firm. "I--I"ve never gone to the houses much when--there was trouble. Prudence and Fairy have always done that. But of course it"s right, and I"m going. Oh, I do wish I had been fonder of Maisie. I"ll go right away."
And she hurried away, still quivering, a cold chill upon her. Three hours later she returned to the office, her eyes dark circled, and red with weeping. Mr. Raider met her at the door.
"Did you see them?"
"Yes," she said in a low voice. "They--they took me up-stairs, and--"
She paused pitifully, the memory strong upon her, for the woman, the mother of five children, two of whom had been struck down, had lain in Lark"s strong tender arms, and sobbed out the ugly story.
"Did they tell you all about it?"
"Yes, they told me. They told me."
"Come on into my office," he said. "You must write it up while it is fresh in your mind. You"ll do it better while the feeling is on you."
Lark gazed at him stupidly, not comprehending.
"Write it up?" she repeated confusedly.
"Yes, for the paper. How they looked, what they said, how it happened,--everything. We want to scoop on it."
"But I don"t think they--would want it told," Lark gasped.
"Oh, probably not, but people want to know about it. Don"t you remember what I told you? The PRESS is a powerful task master. He asks hard duties of us, but we must obey. We"ve got to give the people what they want. There"s a reporter down from Burlington already, but he couldn"t get anything out of them. We"ve got a clear scoop on it."
Lark glanced fearfully over her shoulder. A huge menacing shadow lowered black behind her. THE PRESS! She shuddered again.
"I can"t write it up," she faltered. "Mrs. Daly--she--Oh, I held her in my arms, Mr. Raider, and kissed her, and we cried all morning, and I can"t write it up. I--I am the minister"s daughter, you know. I can"t."
"Nonsense, now, Lark," he said, "be sensible. You needn"t give all the sob part. I"ll touch it up for you. Just write out what you saw, and what they said, and I"ll do the rest. Run along now. Be sensible."
Lark glanced over her shoulder again. The PRESS seemed tremendously big, leering at her, threatening her. Lark gasped, sobbingly.