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“Jasper!”
Jasper, rushing down the long hall of the Pemberton School, books in hand, turned to see Mr. Faber standing in the doorway of his private room.
“I want to see you, Jasper.”
Jasper, with an awful feeling at his heart, obeyed and went in. “It's all up with Pick,” he groaned, and sat down in the place indicated on the other side of the big round table, Mr. Faber in his accustomed seat, the big leather chair.
“You remember the conversation I had with you, Jasper,” he said slowly; and picking up a paper knife he began playing with it, occasionally glancing up over his glasses at the boy.
Jasper nodded, unable to find any voice. Then he managed to say, “Yes, sir.”
“Well, now, Jasper, it was rather an unusual thing to do, to set one lad, as it were, to work upon another in just that way. For I am sureI haven't forgotten my boyhood, long past as it is, and I realize that the responsibilities of school life are heavy enough, without adding to the burden.”
Mr. Faber, well pleased with this sentiment, waited to clear his throat. Jasper, in an agony, as he saw Pickering Dodge expelled, and all the dreadful consequences, sat quite still.
“At the same time, although I disliked to take you into confidence, making you an assistant in the work of reclaiming Pickering Dodge from his idle, aimless state, in which he exhibited such a total disregard for his lessons, it appeared after due consideration to be the only thing left to be done. You understand this, I trust, Jasper.”
Jasper's reply this time was so low as to be scarcely audible. But Mr. Faber, taking it for granted, manipulated the paper knife a few times, and went on impressively.
“I am very glad you do, Jasper. I felt sure, knowing you so well, that my reasons would appeal to you in the right way. You are Pickering's best friend among my scholars.”
“And he is mine,” exploded Jasper, thinking wildly that it was perhaps not quite too late to save Pickering. “I've known him always, sir.”He was quite to the edge of his chair now, his dark eyes shining, and his hair tossed back. “Beg pardon, Mr. Faber, but I can't help it. Pickering is so fine; he's not like other boys.”
“No, I believe you.” Mr. Faber smiled grimly and gave the paper knife another whirl. And much as Jasper liked him, that smile seemed wholly unnecessary, and to deal death to his hopes.
“He certainly is unlike any other boy in my school in regard to his studying,” he said. “His capacity is not wanting, to be sure; there was never any lack of that. For that reason I was always hoping to arouse his ambition.”
“And you can—oh, you can, sir!” cried Jasper eagerly, although he felt every word he said to be unwelcome, “if you will only try him a bit longer. Don't send him off yet, Mr. Faber.”
He got off from his chair, and leaned on the table heavily.
“Don't send him off?” repeated Mr. Faber, dropping the paper knife, “what is the boy talking of! Why, Jasper—I've called you in here to tell you how much Pickering has improved and—”
Jasper collapsed on his chair. “And is itpossible that you haven't seen it for yourself, Jasper?” exclaimed Mr. Faber. “Why, every teacher is quite delighted. Even Mr. Dinsmore—and he was in favor of at least suspending Pickering last half—has expressed his opinion that I did well to give the boy another trial.”
“I thought—” mumbled Jasper, “I was afraid.” Then he pulled himself together, and somehow found himself standing over by Mr. Faber's chair, unbosoming himself of his fright and corresponding joy.
“Pull your chair up nearer, Jasper,” said Mr. Faber, when, the first transport having worked off, Jasper seemed better fitted for conversation, “and we will go over this in a more intelligent fashion. I am really more pleased than I can express at the improvement in that boy. As I said before”—Mr. Faber had long ago thrown aside the paper knife, and now turned toward Jasper, his whole attention on the matter in hand—“Pickering has a fine capacity; take it all in all, perhaps there is none better in the whole school. It shows to great advantage now, because he has regained his place so rapidly in his classes. It is quite astonishing, Jasper.” And he took off his glasses and polishedthem up carefully, repeating several times during the process, “Yes, very surprising indeed!”
“And he seems to like to study now,” said Jasper, ready to bring forward all the nice things that warranted encouragement.
“Does he so?” Mr. Faber set his glasses on his nose, and beamed at him over them. The boys at the Pemberton School always protested that this was the only use they could be put to on the master's countenance. “Well, now, Jasper, I really believe I am justified in entertaining a very strong hope of Pickering's future career. And I see no reason why he should not be ready for college with you, and without conditions, if he will only keep his ambition alive and active, now it is aroused.”
“May I tell him so?” cried Jasper, almost beside himself with joy. “Oh, may I, Mr. Faber?”
“Why, that is what I called you in here for, Jasper,” said the master. “It seemed so very much better for him to hear it from a boy, for I remember my own boyhood, though so very long since; and the effect will, I feel sure, be much deeper than if Pickering hears it from me. He is very tired of this study, Jasper,” and Mr. Faber glanced around at the four walls, andagain came that grim smile. “And even to hear a word of commendation, it might not be so pleasing to be called in. So away with you. At the proper time, I shall speak to him myself.”
Jasper, needing no second bidding, fled precipitately—dashed in again. “Beg pardon, I'd forgotten my books.” He seized them from the table, and made quick time tracking Pickering.
“Where is Pick?” rushing up to a knot of boys on a corner of the playground, just separating to go home.
“Don't know; what's up, King?”
“Can't stop,” said Jasper, flying back to the schoolroom. “I must get Pick.”
“Dodge has gone,” shouted a boy clearing the steps, who had heard the last words. So Jasper, turning again, left school and playground far behind, to run up the steps of the Cabot mansion.
“Pickering here?”
“Yes.” The butler had seen him hurrying over the stairs to his own room just five minutes ago. And in less than a minute Jasper was up in that same place.
There sat Pickering by his table, his long legs upon its surface, and his hands thrust into his pockets. His books sprawled just where hehad thrown them, at different angles along the floor.
“Hullo!” cried Jasper, flying in, to stop aghast at this.
“Yes, you see, Jasper, I'm played out,” said Pickering. “It isn't any use for me to study, and there are the plaguey things,” pulling out one set of fingers to point to the sprawling books. “I can't catch up. Every teacher looks at me squint-eyed as if I were a hopeless case, which I am!”
“Oh, you big dunce!” Jasper clapped his books on the table with a bang, making Pickering draw down his long legs, rushed around to precipitate himself on the rest of the figure in the chair, when he pommelled him to his heart's content.
“If you expect to beat any hope into me, old boy,” cried Pickering, not caring in the least for the onslaught, “you'll miss your guess.”
“I'm hoping to beat sense into you,” cried Jasper, pounding away, “though it looks almost impossible now,” he declared, laughing. “Pick, you've won! Mr. Faber says you've come up in classes splendidly, and—”
Pickering sprang to his feet. “What do youmean, Jasper?” he cried hoarsely, his face white as a sheet.
“Just what I say.”
“Say it again.”
So Jasper went all over it once more, adding the other things about getting into college and all that, as much as Pickering would hear.
“Honest?” he broke in, his pale face getting a dull red, and seizing Jasper by the shoulders.
“Did I ever tell you anything that wasn't so, Pick?”
“No; but I can't believe it, Jap. It's the first time in my life I've—I've—” And what incessant blame could not do, praise achieved. Pickering rushed to the bed, flung himself face down upon it, and broke into a torrent of sobs.
Jasper, who had never seen Pickering cry, had wild thoughts of rushing for Mrs. Cabot; the uncle was not at home. But remembering how little good this could possibly do, he bent all his energies to stop this unlooked-for flood.
But he was helpless. Having never given way in this manner before, Pickering seemed determined to make a thorough job of it. And it was not till he was quite exhausted that he rolled over, wiped his eyes, and looked at Jasper.
“I'm through,” he announced.
“I should think you might well be,” retorted Jasper; “what with scaring me almost to death, you've made yourself a fright, Pick, and you've just upset all your chances to study to-day.”
Pickering flung himself off the bed as summarily as he had gone on.
“That's likely, isn't it?” he cried mockingly, and shamefacedly scrabbling up the books from the floor. “Now, then,” and he was across the room, pouring out a basinful of water, to thrust his swollen face within it.
“Whew! I never knew it used a chap up so to cry,” he spluttered. “Goodness me!” He withdrew his countenance from the towel to regard Jasper.
“How you look!” cried Jasper, considering it better to rail at him.
Whereupon Pickering found his way to the long mirror. “I never was a beauty,” he said.
“And now you are less,” laughed Jasper.
“But I'm good,” said Pickering solemnly, and flinging himself down to his books.
“You can't study with such eyes,” cried Jasper, tugging at the book.
“Clear out!”
“I'm not going. Pick, your eyes aren't much bigger than pins.”
“But they're sharp—just as pins are. Leave me alone.” Pickering squirmed all over his chair, but Jasper had the book.
“Never mind, I'll fly at my history, then,” said Pickering, possessing himself of another book; “that's the beauty of it. I'm as backward in all of my lessons as I am in one. I can strike in anywhere.”
“You are not backward in any now,” cried Jasper in glee, and performing an Indian war dance around the table. “Forward is the word henceforth,” he brought up dramatically with another lunge at Pickering.
“Get out. You better go home.”
“I haven't the smallest intention of going,” replied Jasper, and successfully coming off with a second book.
“Here's for book number three,” declared Pickering—but too late. Jasper seized the remaining two, tossed them back of him, then squared off.
“Come on for a tussle, old fellow. You're not fit to study—ruin your eyes. Come on!” his whole face sparkling.
It was too much. The table was pushed one side; books and lessons, Mr. Faber and college, were as things never heard of. And for a good quarter of an hour, Pickering, whose hours of exercise had been much scantier of late, was hard pushed to parry all Jasper's attacks. At the last, when the little clock on the mantel struck four, he came out ahead.
“I declare, that was a good one,” he exclaimed in a glow.
“Particularly so to you,” said Jasper ruefully. “You gave me a regular bear-hug, you scamp.”
“Had to, to pay you up.”
“And now you may study,” cried Jasper gaily; and snatching his books, he ran off.
“Oh, Pick,” putting his head in at the door.
“Yes?”
“If the lessons are done, come over this evening, will you?”
“All right.” The last sound of Jasper's feet on the stairs reached Pickering, when he suddenly left his chair and flew into the hall.
“Jap—oh, I say, Jap!” Then he plunged back into his room to thrust his head out of the window. “Jap!” he howled, to the consternation of a fat old gentleman passing beneath, whoon account of his size, finding it somewhat inconvenient to look up, therefore waddled into the street, and surveyed the house gravely.
Pickering slammed down the window, leaving the old gentleman to stare as long as he saw fit.
“I can't go over there to-night, looking like this.” He pranced up to the mirror again, fuming every step of the way, and surveyed himself in dismay. There was some improvement in the appearance of his countenance, to be sure, but not by any means enough to please him. His pale blue eyes were so small, and their surroundings so swollen, that they reminded him of nothing so much as those of a small pig he had made acquaintance with in a visit up in the country. While his nose, long and usually quite aristocratic-looking, had resigned all claims to distinction, and was hopelessly pudgy.
“Jasper knows I can't go in this shape,” he cried in a fury. “Great Cæsar's ghost! I never supposed it banged a fellow up so, to cry just once!” And the next moments were spent in sopping his face violently with the wet towel, which did no good, as it had been plentifully supplied with that treatment before.
At last he flung himself into his chair. “If Idon't go over, Jap will think I haven't my lessons, so that's all right. And I won't have them anyway if I don't tackle them pretty quick. So here goes!” And presently the only sound to be heard was the ticking of the little clock, varied by the turning of his pages, or the rattling of the paper on which he was working out the problems for to-morrow.
“Oh dear me! Jasper,” Polly exclaimed about half-past seven, “I don't believe Pickering is coming.”
“He hasn't his lessons, I suppose,” said Jasper. “You know I told him to come over as soon as they were done. Well, Polly, we agreed, you know, to let him alone as to invitations until the lessons were out of the way, so I won't go over after him.”
“I know,” said Polly, “but oh, Jasper, isn't it just too elegant for anything, to think that Mr. Faber says it's all right with him?”
“I should think it was,” cried Jasper. “Now if he only keeps on, Polly.”
“Oh, he must; he will,” declared Polly confidently. “Well, we can put off toasting marshmallows until to-morrow night.”
About this time, Pickering, whose lessons wereall done, for he had, as Mr. Faber had said, “a fine capacity” to learn, was receiving company just when he thought he was safe from showing his face.
“Let's stop for Pickering Dodge,” proposed Alexia, Clare having run in for her to go over to Polly Pepper's, “to toast marshmallows and have fun generally.”
“All right; so we can,” cried Clare. So they turned the corner and went down to the Cabot mansion, and were let in before the old butler could be stopped.
Pickering, whose uncle and aunt were out for the evening, had felt it safe to throw himself down on the library sofa. When he saw that John had forgotten what he told him, not to let anybody in, he sprang up; but not before Alexia, rushing in, had cried, “Oh, here you are! Come on with us to Polly Pepper's!” Clare dashed in after her.
“Ow!” exclaimed Pickering, seizing a sofa pillow, to jam it against his face.
“Whatisthe matter?” cried Alexia. “Oh, have you a toothache?”
“Worse than that,” groaned Pickering behind his pillow.
“Oh, my goodness me!” exclaimed Alexia, tumbling back. “What can it be?”
“You haven't broken your jaw, Pick?” observed Clare. “I can't imagine that.”
“I'll break yours if you don't go,” said Pickering savagely, and half smothered, as he tried to keep the pillow well before the two pairs of eyes.
This was a little difficult, as Clare, seeing hopes of running around the pillow, set himself in motion to that end. But as Pickering whirled as fast as he did, there was no great gain.
“Well, if I ever did!” exclaimed Alexia, quite aghast.
And the next moment Pickering, keeping a little opening at one end of the pillow, saw his chance; darted out of the door, and flinging the pillow the length of the hall, raced into his own room and slammed the door, and they could hear him lock it.
“Well, if I ever did!” exclaimed Alexia again, and sinking into the first chair, she raised both hands.
“What's got into the beggar?” cried Clare in perplexity, and looking out into the hall, as if some help to the puzzle might be found there.
“Well, I guess you and I, Alexia, might as well go to Polly Pepper's,” he said finally.
“And if I ever come after that boy again to tell him of anything nice that's going to happen, I miss my guess,” declared Alexia, getting herself out of her chair, in high dudgeon. “Let's send Jasper after him; he's the only one who can manage him,” she cried, as they set forth.
“Good idea,” said Clare.
But when Alexia told of their funny reception, Jasper first stared, then burst out laughing. And although Alexia teased and teased, she got no satisfaction.
“It's no use, Alexia,” Jasper said, wiping his eyes, “you won't get me to tell. So let's set about having some fun. What shall we do?”
“I don't want to do anything,” pouted Alexia, “only to know what made Pickering Dodge act in that funny way.”
“And that's just what you won't know, Alexia,” replied Jasper composedly. “Well, Polly, you are going to put off toasting the marshmallows, aren't you, till to-morrow night, when Pick can probably come?”
“Oh, I wouldn't wait for him,” Alexia burst out, quite exasperated, “when he's acted so.And perhaps he'd come with an old sofa pillow before his face, if you did.”
“Oh, no, he won't, Alexia,” said Jasper, going off into another laugh. But although she teased again, she got no nearer to the facts. And Polly proposing that they make candy, the chafing dish was gotten out; and Alexia, who was quite an adept in the art, went to work, Jasper cracking the nuts, and Polly and Clare picking out the meats.
And then all the story of Pickering's splendid advance in the tough work of making up his lessons came out, Jasper pausing so long to dilate with kindling eyes upon it, that very few nuts fell into the dish. So Polly's fingers were the only ones to achieve much, as Clare gave so close attention to the story that he was a very poor helper.
In the midst of it, Alexia threw down the chafing-dish spoon, and clapped her hands. “Oh, I know!” she exclaimed.
“Oh,” cried Polly, looking up from the little pile of nut-meats, “how you scared me, Alexia!”
“I know—I know!” exclaimed Alexia again, and nodding to herself wisely.
Jasper threw her a quick glance. It said, “Ifyou know, don't tell, Alexia.” And she flashed back, “Did you suppose I would?”
“What do you know?” demanded Clare, transferring his attention from Jasper to her. “Tell on, Alexia; what do you know?”
“Oh, my goodness me! this candy never will be done in time for those meats,” cried Alexia, picking up the spoon to stir away for dear life. And Jasper dashed in on what Mr. Faber said about Pickering's chances for college; a statement that completely carried Clare off his feet, so to speak.
“You don't mean that he thinks Pick will get in without conditions?” gasped Clare, dumfounded.
“Yes, I do.” Jasper nodded brightly. “If Pick will only study; keep it up, you know, I mean to the end. He surely said it, Clare.”
It was so much for Clare to think of, that he didn't have any words at his command.
“Now isn't that perfectly splendid in Pickering!” cried Alexia, making the spoon fly merrily. “Oh dear me! I forgot to put in the butter. Where—oh, here it is,” and she tossed in a big piece. “To think that—oh dear me, I forgot! Ididput the butter in before. NowI've spoilt it,” and she threw down the spoon in despair.
“Fish it out,” cried Polly, hopping up and seizing the spoon to make little dabs at the ball of butter now rapidly lessening.
“But it's melted—that is, almost—oh dear me!” cried Alexia.
“No, it isn't; there, see how big it is.” Polly landed it deftly on the plate and hopped back to her nut-meats again.
“And I should think you'd better shake yourself, Clare,” said Jasper, over at him. “We shouldn't have any nuts in this candy if it depended on you.”
“You do tell such astounding stories,” cried Clare, setting to work at once. And Jasper making as much noise as he could while cracking his nuts, Alexia's secret was safe.
But when the candy was set out to cool, and there was a pause in which the two boys were occupied by themselves, Alexia pulled Polly off to a corner.
“Where are they going?” asked Clare, with one eye after them.
“Oh, they have something to talk over, I presume,” said Jasper carelessly.
“Nonsense! they've all the time every day. Let's go over and see.”
“Oh, no,” said Jasper. “Come on, Clare, and let's see if the candy is cool.” But Clare didn't want to see if the candy was cool, nor anything else but to have his own way. So he proceeded over to the corner by himself.
“Oho! You go right away!” cried Alexia, poking up her head over Polly's shoulder. “You dreadful boy! Now, Polly, come.” And she pulled her off into the library.
“You see you didn't get anything for your pains,” said Jasper, bursting into a laugh. “You'd much better have staid here.”
“Well, I don't want to know, anyway,” said Clare, taking a sudden interest in the candy. “I believe it is cold, Jasper; let's look.”
“Polly,” Alexia was saying in the library behind the portières, “I know now; because I did it once myself: it was when you first promised you'd be a friend to me, and I went home, and cried for very joy. And I didn't want to see anybody that night.”
“Oh, Alexia!” exclaimed Polly, giving her a hug that satisfied even Alexia.
“No, I didn't; and I remember how I wantedto hold something up to my face. I never thought of a sofa pillow, and I couldn't have gotten it if I had thought, 'cause aunt had it crammed against her back. Oh, my eyes were a sight, Polly, and my nose was all over my face.”
Top
“You may go on those errands, Hortense, but first send Polly Pepper to me,” commanded Mrs. Chatterton sharply.
The French maid paused in the act of hanging up a gown. “I willre-quest her, Madame. I should not like to send Mees Polly Peppaire.”
“MissPolly Pepper!” Mrs. Chatterton was guilty of stamping her foot. “Are you mad? I am speaking of Polly Pepper, this country girl, who is as poor and low-born here in this house, as if in her little brown house, wherever that may be.”
Hortense shrugged her shoulders, and hung up the gown.
“Has Madame any further commands for me?” she asked, coming up to her mistress.
“Yes; be sure to get the velvet at Lemaire's, and take back the silk kimono. I will send to New York for one.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“That is all—besides the other errands. Now go.” She dismissed her with a wave of her shapely hand. “But first, as I bade you,sendPolly Pepper to me.”
Hortense, with another elevation of her shoulders, said nothing, till she found herself the other side of the door. Then she shook her fist at it.
“It ees not Miss Polly who will be sent for; it ees Madame who will be sent out of dees house,j'ai peur—ha, ha, ha!”
She laughed softly to herself all the way downstairs, with an insolent little fling to her head, that boded ill for her mistress's interests.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Chatterton was angrily pacing up and down the room. “What arrant nonsense a man can be capable of when he is headstrong to begin with! To think of the elegant Horatio King, a model for all men, surrounding himself with this commonplace family. Faugh! It is easy enough to see what they are all after. But I shall prevent it. Meanwhile, the only way to do it is to break the spirit of this Polly Pepper. Once do that, and I have the task easy to my hand.”
She listened intently. “It can't be possible she would refuse to come. Ha! I thought so.”
Polly came quietly in. No one to see her face would have supposed that she had thrown aside the book she had been waiting weeks to read, so that lessons and music need not suffer. For she was really glad when Mrs. Chatterton's French maid asked her respectfully if she would please be so good as to step up to her mistress's apartments, “s'il vous plait, Mees Polly.”
“Yes, indeed,” cried Polly, springing off from the window-seat, and forgetting the enchanted story-land immediately in the rush of delight. “Oh, I have another chance to try to please her,” she thought, skimming over the stairs. But she was careful to restrain her steps on reaching the room.
“You may take that paper,” said Mrs. Chatterton, seating herself in her favorite chair, “and read to me. You know the things I desire to hear, or ought to.” She pointed to the society news,Town Talk, lying on the table.
Polly took it up, glad to be of the least service, and whirled it over to get the fashion items, feeling sure that now she was on the right road to favor.
“Don't rattle it,” cried Mrs. Chatterton, in a thin, high voice.
“I'll try not to,” said Polly, wishing she could be deft-handed like Mamsie, and doing her best to get to the inner page quietly.
“And why don't you read where you are?” cried Mrs. Chatterton. “Begin on the first page. I wish to hear that first.”
Polly turned the sheet back again, and obeyed. But she hadn't read more than a paragraph when she came to a dead stop.
“Go on,” commanded Mrs. Chatterton, her eyes sparkling. She had forgotten to play with her rings, being perfectly absorbed in the delicious morsels of exceedingly unsavory gossip she was hearing.
Polly laid the paper in her lap, and her two hands fell upon it. “Oh, Mrs. Chatterton,” she cried, the color flying from her cheek, “please let me read something else to you. Mamsie wouldn't like me to read this.” The brown eyes filled with tears, and she leaned forward imploringly.
“Stuff and nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton passionately. “I command you to read that, girl. Do you hear me?”
“I cannot,” said Polly, in a low voice. “Mamsie wouldn't like it.” But it was perfectly distinct,and fell upon the angry ears clearly; and storm as she might, Mrs. Chatterton knew that the little country maiden would never bend to her will in this case.
“I would have you to know that I understand much better than your mother possibly can, what is for your good to read. Besides, she will never know.”
“Mamsie knows every single thing that we children do,” cried Polly decidedly, and lifting her pale face; “and she understands better than any one else about what we ought to do, for she is our mother.”
“What arrant nonsense!” exclaimed Mrs. Chatterton passionately, and unable to control herself at the prospect of losing Polly for a reader, which she couldn't endure, as she thoroughly enjoyed her services in that line. She got out of her chair, and paced up and down the long apartment angrily, saying all sorts of most disagreeable things, that Polly only half heard, so busy was she debating in her own mind what she ought to do. Should she run out of the room, and leave this dreadful old woman that every one in the house was tired of? Surely she had tried enough to please her, but she could not dowhat Mamsie would never approve of. And just as Polly had about decided to slip out, she looked up.
Mrs. Chatterton, having exhausted her passion, as it seemed to do no good, was returning to her seat, with such a dreary step and forlorn expression that she seemed ten years older. She really looked very feeble, and Polly broke out impulsively, “Oh, let me read the other part of the paper, dear Mrs. Chatterton. May I?”
“Read it,” said Mrs. Chatterton ungraciously, and sat down in her favorite chair.
Polly, scarcely believing her ears, whirled over the sheet, and determined to read as well as she possibly could, managed to throw so much enthusiasm into the fashion hints and social items, that presently Mrs. Chatterton's eyes were sparkling again, although she was deprived of her unsavory morsels.
And before long she was eagerly telling Polly to read over certain dictates of the Paris correspondent, who was laying down the law for feminine dress, and calling again for the last information of the movements of members of her social set, till there could be no question of her enjoyment.
Polly, not knowing or caring how long she had been thus occupied, so long as Mrs. Chatterton was happy, was only conscious that Hortense came back from the errands, which occasioned only a brief pause.
“Put the parcels down,” said Mrs. Chatterton, scarcely glancing at her, “I cannot attend to you now. Go on, Polly.”
So Polly went on, until the fashionable and social world had been so thoroughly canvassed that even Mrs. Chatterton was quite convinced that she could get no more from the paper.
“You may go now,” she said, but with a hungry glance for the first page. Then she tore her gaze away, and repeated more coldly than ever, “You may go.”
Polly ran off, dismayed to find how happy she was at the release. Her feet, unaccustomed to sitting still so long, were numb, and little prickles were running up and down her legs. She hurried as fast as she could into Mamsie's room, feeling in need of all the good cheer she could find.
“Mrs. Fisher has gone out,” said Jane, going along the hall.
“Gone out!” repeated Polly, “Oh, where? Do you know, Jane?”
“I don't exactly know,” said Jane, “but she took Miss Phronsie; and I think it's shopping they went for. Mr. King has taken them in the carriage.”
“Oh, I know it is,” cried Polly, and a dreadful feeling surged through her. Why had she spent all this time with that horrible old woman, and lost this precious treat!
“They thought you had gone to the Salisbury School,” said Jane, wishing she could give some comfort, “for they wanted you awfully to go.”
“And now I've lost it all,” cried Polly at a white heat—“all this perfectly splendid time with Grandpapa and Mamsie and Phronsie just for the sake of a horrible—”
Then she broke short off, and ran back into Mamsie's room, and flung herself down by the bed, just as she used to do by the four-poster in the bedroom of the little brown house.
“Why, Polly, child!” Mother Fisher's voice was very cheery as she came in, Phronsie hurrying after.
“I don't see her,” began Phronsie in a puzzled way, and peering on all sides. “Where is she, Mamsie?”
Mrs. Fisher went over and laid her hand onPolly's brown head. “Now, Phronsie, you may run out, that is a good girl.” She leaned over, and set a kiss on Phronsie's red lips.
“Is Polly sick?” asked Phronsie, going off to the door obediently, but looking back with wondering eyes.
“No, dear, I think not,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Run along, dear.”
“I am so glad she isn't sick,” said Phronsie, as she went slowly off. Yet she carried a troubled face.
“I ought to go and see how Sinbad is,” she decided, as she went downstairs. This visit was an everyday performance, to be carefully gone through with. So she passed out of the big side doorway, to the veranda.
“There is Michael now,” she cried joyfully, espying that individual raking up the west lawn. So skipping off, she flew over to him. This caught the attention of little Dick from the nursery window.
“Hurry up there!” he cried crossly to Battles, who was having a hard time anyway getting him into a fresh sailor suit.
“Oh, Dicky—Dicky!” called mamma softly from her room.
“I can't help it, mamma; Battles is slow and poky,” he fumed.
“Oh, no, dear,” said his mother; “Battles always gets you ready very swiftly, as well as nicely.”
Battles, a comfortable person, turned her round face with a smile toward the door. “And if you was more like your mamma, Master Dick, you'd be through with dressing, and make everything more pleasant to yourself and to every one else.”
“Well, I'm not in the least like mamma, Battles; I can't be.”
“No, indeed, you ain't. But you can try,” said Battles encouragingly.
“Why, Battles Whitney!” exclaimed Dick, whirling around on her. In astonishment, or any excitement, Dicky invariably gave her the whole name that he felt she ought to possess; “Mrs. Mara Battles” not being at all within his comprehension. “What anawfulstory!”
“Dicky—Dicky!” reproved Mrs. Whitney.
“Well, I can't help it, mamma.” Dick now escaped from Battles' hands altogether, and fled into the other room, the comfortable person following. “She said”—plunging up to her chairin great excitement—“that I could be like you.”
“I said you could try to be,” corrected Battles, smoothing down her apron.
“And she knows I can't ever be, in all this world,” declared Dick, shaking his short curls in decision, and glancing back to see the effect, “for you're a woman, and I'm always going to be a man. Why, see how big I am now!” He squared off, and strutted up and down the little boudoir.
“And you'd be bigger if you'd let me fix your blouse and button it up,” declared Battles, laughing, and bearing down on him to fasten the band and tuck in the vest. “And if you were more like your mother in disposition—that's what I mean—'twould be a sight comfortabler for you and every one else. Now, says I, your hair's got to be brushed.” And she led him back into the nursery, laughing all the way.
“What makes you shake so when you laugh, Battles?” asked Dick suddenly, and ignoring all references to his disposition.
“Can't help it,” said Battles, beginning work on the curls; “that's because there's so much of me, I suppose,” and she laughed more than ever.
“There's so very much of you, Battles,” observed Dick with a critical look all over her rotund figure. “What makes it?”
“Oh, I don't know,” said Battles. “Stand still, Dicky, and I'll be through all the sooner. Some folks is big and round, and some folks is little and scrawny.”
“What's scrawny?” asked Dick, who always got as many alleviations by conversation as possible out of the detested hair-brushing.
“Why, thin and lean.”
“Oh, well, go on, Battles.”
“And I'm one of the big and round ones,” said Battles, seeing no occasion in that statement to abate her cheerfulness. So she laughed again.
“I like you big and round, Battles,” cried little Dick affectionately, and whirling about so suddenly as to endanger his eye with the comb doing good execution. And he essayed to put his arms around her waist, which he was always hoping to be able to accomplish.
“That's good,” said Battles, laughing, well pleased. “But you mustn't jump around so. There now, in a minute you shall be off.” And she took up the brush.
“I must,” declared Dick, remembering his sight of Phronsie running across the lawn; “do hurry, Battles,” he pleaded, which so won her heart that she abridged part of the brushing, and let him scamper off.
Phronsie was kneeling down in front of Sinbad's kennel.
“Can't you untie him to-day, Michael?” she asked, a question she had propounded each morning since the boys went back to school.
“Yes, Miss Phronsie, I think I can; he's wonted now, and the other dogs are accustomed to him. Besides, I've locked up Jerry since he fit him.”
“I know,” said Phronsie sorrowfully; “that was naughty of Jerry when Sinbad had only just come.”
Michael scratched his head. He couldn't tell her what was on his mind, that Sinbad was scarcely such a dog as any one would buy, and therefore his presence was not to be relished by the high-bred animals already at home on the place.
“Well, you know, Miss Phronsie,” he said at last, “it's kinder difficult like, to expect some dogs to remember their manners; and Jerry ain't like all the others in that respect.”
“Please tell him about it,” said Phronsie earnestly, “how good Prince is to Sinbad, and then I guess he'll want to be like him.” For Phronsie had never swerved in her allegiance to Prince ever since he saved her from the naughty organ man in the little-brown-house days. And in all her conversations with the other dogs she invariably held up Jasper's big black dog, his great friend and companion since pinafore days, as their model.
And just then Dicky ran up breathlessly.
“Dick,” announced Phronsie excitedly, “Michael is going to let Sinbad out to-day.” And she clasped her hands in delight.
“Jolly!” exclaimed Dick, capering about.
“Now, Master Dick, you must let the dog alone,” cried Michael. “It's time to try him with his freedom a bit. He's chafin' at that chain.” He looked anxiously at Dick. “Stand off there, both of you,” and he slipped the chain off.
Sinbad gave a little wiggle with his hind legs, and stretched his yellow body. It was too good to be true! But it was, though; he was free, and he shot out from his kennel, which was down in the gardener's quarters, and quite removed fromthe other dogs, and fairly tore—his ragged little tail straight out—across the west lawn.
“Oh, he'll run back to Joel at school,” cried Dick, who had heard Joel say he must be tied at first when everything was strange; and he started on a mad run after him.
“You stay still,” roared Michael; “that dog is only stretchin' his legs. He'll come back.” But as well tell the north wind to stop blowing. Dicky's blouse puffed out with the breeze, as his small legs executed fine speed.
“Oh, Michael!” cried Phronsie in the greatest distress, “make Dicky come back.”
“Oh, he'll come back,” said Michael reassuringly, though he quaked inwardly. And so Dicky did. But it was now a matter of Sinbad chasing him; for as Michael had said, the dog, after stretching his legs as the mad rush across the lawn enabled him to do, now was very much pleased to return for a little petting at the hands of those people who had given him every reason to expect that he should receive it; and supposing, from Dick's chase after him, that a race was agreeable, he set forth; his ears, as ragged as his tail, pricked up in the fullest enjoyment of the occasion.
But Dick saw nothing in it to enjoy. And exerting all his strength to keep ahead, which he couldn't do as well for the reason that he was screaming fearfully, Sinbad came up with him easily. Dicky, turning his head in mad terror at that instant, stumbled and fell. Sinbad, unable to stop at short notice, or rather no notice at all, rolled over with him in a heap.
This brought all the stable-boys to the scene, besides Mrs. Whitney who had seen some of the affair from her window; and finally, when everything was beginning to be calmed down, Battles reached the lawn.
Sinbad was in Phronsie's lap, who sat on the grass, holding him tightly.
“Oh, Phronsie!” gasped Mrs. Whitney at that. “Michael, do take him away,” as she fled by to Dick. One of the stable-boys was brushing off the grime from his sailor suit.
“The dog is all right, ma'am,” said Michael, 'twas only play; I s'pose Master Joel has raced with him.”
“'Twas only play,” repeated little Dick, who, now that he found himself whole, was surprised the idea hadn't occurred to him before. “Hoh! I'm not hurt, and I'm going to race with him again.”
“Not to-day, Dicky,” said Mrs. Whitney, looking him all over anxiously.
“He's all right, ma'am,” declared Michael; “they just rolled over together, 'cause, you see, ma'am, the dog couldn't stop, he was a-goin' so fast, when the youngster turned right in his face.”
And Dick, to prove his soundness of body and restoration of mind, ran up to Phronsie, and flung himself down on the grass by her side.
Sinbad received him as a most pleasant acquaintance, cocked up his ragged ears, and tried to wag his poor little scrubby tail, never quite getting it into his head that it wasn't long and graceful. And then he set upon the task of licking Dick's hands all over, and as much of his face as was possible to compass.
“See that now,” cried Michael triumphantly, pointing, “that dog mayn't be handsome, but he hain't got a bad bone in his body, if he does look like the Evil One hisself.”
This episode absorbing all their attention, nobody heard or saw Alexia Rhys, running lightly up over the terrace. “Oh, my! whatareyou doing? And where's Polly?” she asked of Mrs. Whitney.
It being soon told, Alexia, who evidently hadsome exciting piece of news for Polly, ran into the house.
“Polly,” she called. “Oh, Polly Pepper, whereareyou?” running over the stairs at the same time.
But Polly, as we have seen, was not in her room.
“Now then,” Mother Fisher said at sound of Alexia's voice, “as we've finished our talk, Polly, why, you must run down and see her.”
But Polly clung to her mother's neck. “Do you think I ought to go next Saturday morning out shopping, Mamsie, after I've been so naughty?”
“Indeed, you ought,” cried Mrs. Fisher, in her most decisive fashion. “Dear me! that would be very dreadful, Polly, after we put it off for you, when we thought you had gone down to the Salisbury School. Why, we couldn't get along without you, Polly.”
So Polly, with a happy feeling at her heart that she was really needed to make the shopping trip a success, and best of all for the long talk with Mamsie, that had set many things right, ran down to meet Alexia, brimming over with her important news.
“Wherehaveyou been?” demanded Alexia, just on the point of rushing out of Polly's room in despair. “I've looked everywhere for you, even in the shoe-box.” And without waiting for a reply, she dragged Polly back. “Oh, you can't possibly guess!” her pale eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Then tell me, do, Alexia,” begged Polly, scarcely less wrought up.
“Oh, Polly, the most elegant thing imaginable!” Alexia dearly loved to spin out her exciting news as long as possible, driving the girls almost frantic by such methods.
“Well, if you are not going to tell me, I might as well go back again, up in Mamsie's room,” declared Polly, working herself free from the long arms, and starting for the door.
“Oh, I'll tell, Polly—I'll tell,” cried Alexia, plunging after. “Miss Salisbury says—I've just been up to the school after my German grammar—that Mr. John Clemcy and Miss Ophelia have invited the whole Salisbury School out there for next Saturday afternoon. Think of it, after that smashed vase, Polly Pepper!”
Polly Pepper sat down on the shoe-box, quite gone in surprise.
It was as Alexia had said: a most surprising thing, when one took into consideration how much Mr. John Clemcy had suffered from the carelessness of a Salisbury pupil on the occasion of the accidental visit. But evidently one of his reasons—though by no means the only one—was his wish to salve the feelings of the gentlewomen, who were constantly endeavoring to show him their overwhelming sorrow, and trying to make all possible reparation for the loss of the vase.
And he had stated his desire so forcibly on one of the many visits to the school that seemed to be necessary after the accident, that Miss Salisbury was unable to refuse the invitation, although it nearly threw her, self-contained as she usually was, into a panic at the very idea.
“But why did you promise, sister?” Miss Anstice turned on her on the withdrawal of the gentleman, whose English composure of face and bearing was now, in its victory, especially trying to bear. “I am surprised at you. Something dreadful will surely happen.”
“Don't, Anstice,” begged Miss Salisbury, nervous to the last degree, since even the support of “sister” was to be withdrawn. “It was theleast I could do, to please him—after what has happened.”
“Well, something will surely happen,” mourned Miss Anstice. “You know how unfortunate it has been from the very beginning. I've never been able to look at that gown since, although it has been washed till every stain is removed.”
“Put it on for this visit, sister,” advised Miss Salisbury, with a healthy disapproval of superstitions, “and break the charm.”
“Oh, never!” Miss Anstice raised her slender hands. “I wouldn't run such a chance as to wear that gown for all the world. It will be unlucky enough, you will see, without that, sister.”
But as far as anybody could see, everything was perfectly harmonious and successful on the following Saturday afternoon. To begin with, the weather was perfect; although at extremely short intervals Miss Anstice kept reminding her sister that a tremendous shower might be expected when the expedition was once under way.
The girls, when they received their invitation Monday morning from Miss Salisbury in the long schoolroom, were, to state it figuratively, “taken off their feet” in surprise, with the exception of those fortunate enough to have caughtsnatches of the news always sure to travel fast when set going by Alexia; and wild was the rejoicing, when they could forget the broken vase, at the prospect of another expedition under Miss Salisbury's guidance.
“If Miss Anstice only weren't going!” sighed Clem. “She is such a fussy old thing. It spoils everybody's fun just to look at her.”
“Well, don't look at her,” advised Alexia calmly; “for my part, I never do, unless I can't help it.”
“How are you going to help it,” cried Amy Garrett dismally, “when you are in her classes? Oh dear! I do wish Miss Salisbury would get rid of her as a teacher, and let Miss Wilcox take her place.”
“Miss Wilcox is just gay!” exclaimed Silvia. “Well, don't let's talk of that old frump any more. Goodness me! here she comes,” as Miss Anstice advanced down the long hall, where the girls were discussing the wonderful invitation after school.
And as the day was perfect, so the spirits of the “Salisbury girls” were at their highest. And Mr. Kimball and his associates drove them over in the same big barges, the veteran leader notrecovering from the surprise into which he had been thrown by this afternoon party given to the Salisbury School by Mr. Clemcy and his sister.
“Of all things in this world, this is th' cap-sheaf,” he muttered several times on the way. “A good ten year or more, those English folks have been drawin' back in them pretty grounds, an' offendin' every one; an' now, to get a passel o' girls to run over an' stomp 'em all down!”
Being unable to solve the puzzle, it afforded him plenty of occupation to work away at it.
Mr. Clemcy and Miss Ophelia, caring as little for the opinion of the stage-driver as for the rest of the world, received the visitors on the broad stone piazza, whose pillars ran the length of the house, and up to the roof, affording a wide gallery above. It was all entwined with English ivy and creepers taken from the homestead in Devonshire, and brought away when the death of the old mother made it impossible for life to be sustained by Miss Ophelia unless wrenched up from the roots where clustered so many memories. So Brother John decided to make that wrench, and to make it complete. So here they were.
“I didn't know it was so pretty,” cried Clem, after the ladies had been welcomed with the most gracious, old-time hospitality, and the schoolgirls tumbled out of the barges to throng up. “It rained so when we were here before, we couldn't see anything.”
“Pretty?” repeated Alexia, comprehending it all in swift, bird-like glances. “It's perfectly beautiful!” She turned, and Mr. Clemcy, who was regarding her, smiled, and they struck up a friendship on the spot.
“Miss Salisbury, allow me.” Mr. Clemcy was leading her off. Miss Anstice, not trusting the ill-fated white gown, rustled after in the black silk one, with Miss Ophelia, down the wide hall, open at the end, with vistas of broad fields beyond, where the host paused. “Let the young ladies come,” he said; and the girls trooped after, to crowd around the elder people.
Amongst the palms and bookcases, with which the broad hall was lined, was a pedestal, whose top was half covered with a soft, filmy cloth.
Mr. Clemcy lifted this, and took it off carefully. There stood the little vase, presenting as brave an appearance as in its first perfection.