25CHAPTER IVCOUNTING THE HOURS
“You’re right, Margaret,” Lucile was saying. “I did call you all together just to speak of our guardian.”
The girls leaned forward eagerly. “What about her?” they demanded.
“Oh, Lucy, don’t keep us waiting,” begged Marjorie. “Is she coming to Burleigh?”
“Not so fast,” cried Lucile. “Give me half a chance. I haven’t heard from our guardian personally, but Phil got a letter from Jim the other day and he said——” Lucile paused dramatically.
“Yes, yes; go on,” they demanded, excitedly.
“And she said that Mr. and Mrs. Wescott were going to visit Burleigh very soon.”
“Soon,” cried Margaret. “That sounds good. Always before it’s been something that was going to happen in the dim future.”
“Did she say any special time, Lucy?” Ruth broke in, impatiently.
“No, there was nothing definite about it,” said Lucile, “but I expect to hear from her almost any minute now.”
“There comes the postman—perhaps he will bring you a letter,” suggested Evelyn.
“Oh, what’s the use of raising our hopes?” admonished Jessie. “There’s just about one chance in a thousand that the letter will come when we want it.”
“All we can do is wait,” said Lucile, philosophically. “In the meantime, suppose we all suggest something that26we can do to welcome her—make her feel how truly glad we are to see her. Somebody suggest something.”
“For goodness’ sake, Lucy,” Marjorie exclaimed, “you might better have left me out of this. I’m no good at all when it comes to using any imagination.”
“You have probably as much as any of us, and youcan’tget out of helping that way,” said Lucile, decidedly.
“From things she has said, I should give her credit for a good deal of imagination,” quoth Jessie, slyly.
“Oh, I’ll get even for all those awful things you have said to me and about me, Jessie Sanderson,” Marjorie threatened, good-naturedly. “I’d do it now, only I’m too busy trying to think up a plan.”
“Good girl; keep it up,” commended Lucile, and then, as she caught a murmured “That’s just an excuse” from Jessie’s direction, she cried, with a scarcely suppressed laugh, “Perhaps you would be doing a little more good in the world, Jessie, if you would follow her example.”
“Bravo!” cried Evelyn. “That’s one for you, Jessie,” and promptly received a withering glance from that young lady, which said as plainly as words, “You just wait; there’ll be a day of reckoning, and then——”
“Here comes the postman,” cried Margaret. “Shall I take the mail, Lucy?”
“Please,” she answered, and a moment later Margaret handed her half a dozen envelopes, while the girls looked on in eager silence.
“Is it there?” cried one of the girls, at last.
“Not yet,” said Lucile, but as she turned over the last letter, she uttered a cry of amazement and delight that sent all the girls crowding about her.
“That is her handwriting,” exclaimed Evelyn, and then there ensued such a babble of wonder and delight and excited speculation as to its contents that Lucile was finally27obliged to shout, “If you will only sit down, girls. I’ll see what’s inside, and please stop making such an unearthly noise—we’ll have the reserves out to quell the riot before we know it.”
The girls laughed and distributed themselves about the porch, as many as could possibly get there crowding the rail on either side of Lucile, while they all listened with bated breath to what their guardian had to say.
“To Lucile and all my dear camp-fire girls,” read Lucile. “I planned to come to Burleigh long ago, as you all know, and was bitterly disappointed when I was forced at the last minute to change my plans.”
“So were we,” said Evelyn, and was greeted by a chorus of impatient “sh-sh” as Lucile went on:
“But this time I am as sure as I can ever be of anything that my plans won’t fall through. I expect to be in Burleigh by the twenty-fifth.”
“Oh, think of it! That’s day after to-morrow!” Margaret exclaimed, rapturously.
“That’s what it is,” Jessie agreed.
“Go on, Lucy; what more has she to say?” demanded another of the girls, and Lucile went on with her reading.
The rest of the letter contained descriptions of her travels and all she had seen, ending up with: “When I see my girls, I will tell you all I have been writing now, and a great deal more, and will expect to hear more fully than they have been able to write me all that has happened to them during the last six months. I am counting the hours till I see you all again. Good-by till then, dear girls. Your own loving guardian.”
“That’s all,” Lucile finished. “Now we know when she’s coming.”
“Isn’t she dear, and didn’t the whole thing sound just like her?” cried Jessie.
“Exactly,” agreed Evelyn, and then added, “If she is counting the hours till she sees us, I wonder what we’ll be doing.”28
“We’ll be making the hours count,” said Lucile.
“Good for you, Lucy; that’s what I call efficiency,” cried Marjorie. “Make time work for us.”
“Yes, but how are we going to do it?” said Ruth, distrustfully.
“I’ll tell you,” Lucile answered. “I thought that we ought to give our guardian a surprise when she comes. She hasn’t been here for so long, and we ought to make it something she will remember.”
“You’ve thought of something, Lucy; I can tell that,” cried Jessie. “Suppose you let us know about it.”
“Go ahead, Lucy—we’ll let you think for all the rest of us,” Marjorie suggested. “You can do it better, anyway.”
“How very kind of you!” mocked Lucile. “I appreciate your generosity immensely.”
“Go on; tell us your idea, Lucy,” urged Margaret. “Never mind her.”
“Well, it was only this, and if any one has anything better to offer, I’m only too glad to hear about it. I thought that you girls could all dress up in your ceremonial costumes. In the meantime, I’ll have a fire made in the living-room fireplace and then I’ll go to meet her.”
“And leave us home?” Evelyn interrupted.
“Exactly,” said Lucile, firmly. “As I said before, I’ll go to meet her and bring her here. Then I’ll take her upstairs to get her things off and tell her you girls will be here right away.”
“And we’re to be hidden in some other room, I suppose,” Marjorie ventured.
“Uh-huh. Then I’ll get her down into the living-room and make her comfortable in front of the fire——”
“Let us hope it’s a cool day,” Margaret interjected.
“We’ll hope so,” agreed Lucile. “We will have plenty of cool days yet, anyway, before spring sets in in earnest,29and maybe the day after to-morrow will be one of them. I’ll get her to sit there, even if it is warm.”
“What then, Lucile?” asked one of the girls. “I have a feeling that the most interesting part is yet to come.”
“It is,” said Lucile. “You see, I’ll be talking to her so hard that she won’t notice what’s going on around her much—that is, if you are careful. Then you come in, one by one, on your tip-toes and sit in a semicircle behind her.”
“Oh, that will be a lark,” cried Evelyn. “And are we to wait till she finds us out?”
“That’s what I was going to tell you,” said Lucile. “When you all get settled, I’ll put my hand up to my hair like this, and then you begin to sing, very softly, ‘Oh, fire——’”
“That will be splendid, Lucy; it will seem almost like old times,” cried Margaret. “How did you manage to think it all out so beautifully?”
“Oh, it was simple enough,” said Lucile. “The only thing is, do you all like it?”
Lucile was very well satisfied with the reception of her plan a moment later. The girls were enthusiastic and overwhelmed her with questions until she was obliged for the second time that morning, to say, “One at a time, please.”
When, finally, all the arrangements were complete and satisfactory, one of the girls discovered it was after noon.
“Girls,” exclaimed Evelyn, dismayed, “we’ve used up the whole morning just talking.”
“Why, what time is it?” asked Margaret, feeling for her watch.
“It’s twelve fifteen,” announced Evelyn, impressively.
“Time I was going home,” Marjorie declared, jumping up. “Where’s my hat?”
“It’s inside with Evelyn’s,” Lucile answered. “If I hadn’t taken care of them there would have been nothing30left resembling a hat. I’ll get them,” she added, and ran into the house.
In a moment she returned with a hat in each hand.
“What did you want to wear them for, anyway?” she said, as they started off. “You didn’t really need them, and just think of all the work you made me.”
“Oh, they just wanted to show them off,” laughed Gertrude Church.
“Humph, we know why they pretend to criticize us, don’t we Marjorie?” queried Evelyn, with a knowing wink.
“Sure; they’re jealous,” was the laconic reply, at which all the girls laughed scornfully.
“We’d have to have something better than that to be jealous of,” scoffed one.
“Then we’ll see you Monday, Lucy,” called Jessie, as they started off down the street. “Maybe before,” she added.
“I can stand it,” laughed Lucile. “Come early Monday, anyway, all of you, and don’t forget what I told you.”
“We won’t,” they called; “don’t worry!” And, indeed, she had no need for anxiety, for the thought that filled the girls’ minds to the exclusion of everything else was:
“Our guardian is coming Monday—oh, why is it so far away?”
31CHAPTER VAS THOUGH ON WINGS
The eventful day had come at last over a wait that seemed an eternity to the impatient girls. The long school-day was endless and, in spite of all good resolutions, they could not keep their thoughts from wandering to the alluring picture they had conjured up. A picture wherein figured an open-grate fire, Miss Howland—for so they had thought of her even after her marriage—their own dear guardian, turning suddenly to see her camp-fire girls in their old familiar costume waiting to welcome her. How would she look? What would she say? These were the thoughts that persisted in haunting them through the long school-day and refused to be shaken off.
At last it was three o’clock and the girls gathered on the campus, books in hand, eagerly anxious to be off.
“Are we all here?” said Jessie, looking about.
“All but Grace; she’ll be here any minute, I guess.”
The prophecy proved correct, and soon the whole of camp-fire Aloea, except the one who was to play the most important part, was swinging at a great rate down the road to their meeting-place. Lucile had been excused a few minutes earlier on the plea that she was to meet her guardian. The few minutes’ grace would give her time to see that the fire was lighted and attend to the hundred and one minor details that would set things running smoothly.
Rain had been threatening all day, but now the welcome sun burst through the clouds so suddenly that the girls were surprised.
“Say, that came in a hurry, didn’t it?” remarked Marjorie. “Oh, I’m so glad.”32
“Who isn’t?” Jessie rejoined. “The rain would have made everything so gloomy, just when we wanted it brightest.”
“It seems as if the sun knew Miss Howland was coming and just couldn’t help shining,” said Margaret, with a face so like the sun itself in its radiant brightness that Marjorie, who was near her, threw her arm about the slight form, saying, lovingly, “Even if the sun hadn’t come out, Margaret, I don’t think we’d have missed it much with you around.”
“Don’t you remember what Miss Howland always used to say about there being a great deal more credit in being happy and sunny on a gloomy day than a bright one?” put in Eleanor.
“Yes; but, though I’ve tried very hard to look cheerful when the rain has spoiled all my chances for a good time, I’m very much afraid I don’t often succeed,” said Evelyn, with a rueful smile.
“I can’t imagine you in the doleful dumps for very long, Evelyn,” said Ruth. “I’ve never seen you anything but happy yet.”
“Oh, you don’t have to live with her, Ruth,” said Jessie. “If you did, and I’m glad for your sake you don’t, you would soon change your opinion.”
“I’d like to know what you know about it, anyway,” Evelyn retorted, gaily. “You’ve never lived with me—that I know of, at any rate.”
“To change the subject,” Marjorie broke in, “there’s Lucile waving to us to hurry. I guess she has something to tell us before she goes to the station.”
They broke into a run and in another minute had surrounded Lucile.
“I’m glad you came just as you did,” she was saying. “It seemed as if you would never get here, and I was afraid I would have to go without seeing you.”33
“We hurried just as fast as we could, Lucy, as you see,” said Jessie, panting from the quick run.
“Of course you did, but it seemed an age to me. Listen, girls,” she went on, “everything’s all ready. Your dresses are laid out on the bed in my room, and you’d better get them on as soon as you possibly can.”
“You’re going to the station now, Lucy, aren’t you?” asked one of the girls.
“Yes, right away. I suppose we’ll be back again in about half an hour. Good-by; I’m off!” and she ran down the steps, only to turn at the bottom to add, “Don’t forget any of the directions, girls, and don’t make the least noise when you come into the room, or it will spoil everything. Good-by; I’m off now for good.”
“We’ll do everything just right,” Jessie promised.
“Good luck!” they called after her as she hurried along.
“She almost seems to be walking on air, doesn’t she?” one of them remarked, as she turned for a last wave.
“No wonder,” said Evelyn, gloomily. “She’s going to our guardian.”
“Lucy said they would be back in half an hour,” sighed Marjorie. “How can we wait that long?”
“Nobody knows,” Jessie answered, cheerily; “but as long as we have to get ready, we might as well begin now. Come on; let’s see who’ll be dressed first girls——” which precipitated a general stampede for the door.
As Lucile hurried along toward the station it really seemed as though her feet had wings. The thought of meeting her guardian again, of talking to her in the old familiar way of the old familiar things—all this made her say to herself over and over again, “Oh, I don’t believe anybody was ever so happy before.” She could see in her mind’s eye that old bright, cheery smile of her guardian flash out as she said, as she had said so many times before, “Well, how are my girls to-day?”34
To-ot! The shrill wail of the locomotive whistle broke rudely through her revery and brought her to a sudden realization that if she didn’t bestir herself, Mrs. Wescott would be at the station with no one to meet her.
“Oh,” cried Lucile to herself, “and I thought I was hurrying just as fast as I could. Well, I’m in for a race with the train, it seems. I wonder what the girls would say,” she chuckled as she ran. “This is almost as good as a canoe race.”
Either the train had been farther off than she thought when Lucile heard the whistle or she had run faster than she had ever run in her life; the result was the same—Lucile won!
Just as she breathlessly reached the station, the great locomotive came thundering around the last curve.
35CHAPTER VI“OH, FIRE, LONG YEARS AGO——”
Lucile’s heart beat fast as the train came to a standstill and a crowd of people began to pour out.
“Where is she, where is she?” she cried, scanning one after another, speaking to those she knew, while, at the same time, looking past them with such an intent gaze that more than one turned to look back at her and remark with the shake of a head, “There’s something up.”
Lucile was just about in despair when, at the far end of the platform, she descried her.
With a cry she ran forward and, throwing her arms about her guardian’s neck with a little hysterical sob, she exclaimed, “Oh, I thought you weren’t coming.”
For a moment she was held close while the voice she loved said, gently, “You don’t suppose I could stay away when I had made up my mind to come, do you?”
“Oh, no; I knew in my heart you would be here,” drawing herself away and looking at her guardian with such happiness written on her face that Mrs. Wescott’s bright eyes were dimmed as she said, “It’s good to have a welcome like this!!”
“Oh, it isn’t anything to what you’re going to get,” Lucile wanted to say, but she only answered, ruefully, “I’m afraid all Burleigh will be talking about how boisterous Lucile Payton is becoming. Can’t you hear?” she added, gaily: “‘I declare, that child’s terribly rude; she almost knocked me down!’”
“A very good imitation of Miss Peabody, Lucile,” laughed Mrs. Wescott. “I wonder how many times I’ve heard her talk just that way.”36
Miss Peabody was one of the old maids that authors love to picture—straight, prim, opinionated, with a sharp tongue that wrought discord wherever it went. She dealt in other people’s shortcomings, and if Burleigh had not known her too well to give her false tales credence, she might have worked some serious mischief. As it was, everyone took her gossip with a grain of salt, remarking, with a smile and a shrug after she had gone away, “Of course, that may be true, but remember, Angela Peabody said it!”
When Lucile chose, she could mimic anyone from the young Italian at “Correlli’s” to pompous Mrs. Belmont Nevill, who owned millions that she didn’t know how to use. So now she had brought Miss Peabody before her guardian so vividly that the latter added, in surprise, “That must be a recent accomplishment, Lucy. You never did that at camp.”
“At camp I never remembered anybody at Burleigh except Mother and Dad and Phil,” said Lucile. “It seemed like a different world.”
“A rather nice kind of world it was, too, wasn’t it?” said her guardian, with a reminiscent smile.
“Nice?” cried Lucile. “It was glorious! I only wish we could do it all over again. It does seem as if one good thing comes crowding right on the heels of another ever since we decided to form a camp-fire.”
“It has meant happiness for all of us,” said Mrs. Wescott, with a far-away look that Lucile knew how to interpret.
“I know,” she said. “Here we are,” she added, a moment later. “Oh, it’s good to have you here at last.”
For answer, her guardian put her arm about Lucile and ran lightly up the steps, saying, joyfully, “And it’s good to be here, Lucy, dear; but where are the girls?”
“Oh, they’re coming,” Lucile answered, vaguely. “Come on upstairs and get your things off,” she added, guiding her guest past the living-room adroitly.37
When Lucile ushered her into the great, airy, upstairs sitting-room, she dropped into an easy chair with a sigh of content.
“Oh, Lucy, it is good to be here,” she added. Then, for the first time, Lucile had a chance to get “a really good look at her,” as she expressed it.
The wind had loosened her guardian’s dark hair and it clung in little ringlets about her face. Her eyes, those deep, comprehending, gray eyes, sparkled with delight as she took in the familiar objects about her. The merry dimples that had always fascinated the girls, and others besides, were ever in evidence as she talked and laughed happily.
“I suppose,” she went on, as Lucile took her hat and coat. “I suppose you girls had just about made up your minds I was never coming to Burleigh; six months is such a long time; but it seemed as if I could never get started.”
“Well, you’re here now,” said Lucile, gaily, “and that makes the six months seem like nothing at all.”
“How are your mother and father and Phil and everybody?” asked Mrs. Wescott, with a comprehensive sweep of her hand. “I want to know all about everybody.”
“Oh, they’re all right,” Lucile assured her, and then added, as an afterthought, “except, of course, Jim Keller’s dog, Bull.”
“What’s happened to Bull?” inquired young Mrs. Wescott, with smiling interest.
Indeed, everyone in Burleigh knew and feared Bull. His ferocity was famous through the countryside, or at least, had been until he had met his downfall a few days before.
“Come downstairs and I’ll tell you about it. It is still a little chilly upstairs.”
“All right,” agreed Mrs. Wescott. “Wait a minute; I must get my handkerchief first.”38
A moment longer and they were in the spacious living-room, with its big library table and leather-covered chairs, and, best of all, glowing fire in the grate.
Mrs. Wescott looked toward the latter in pleased surprise. “Isn’t it snug here?” she said, slipping into one of the chairs before the fire. “A fire always giving the room a cheerful, homey look.”
“Oh, I love it!!” said Lucile, impulsively. “Ever since we came back from camp I’ve been wanting to make a great big camp-fire. This seems such a poor imitation.”
“I imagine it’s just enough to make you camp-sick,” laughed her guardian. “But tell me about Bull. I’m interested.”
“Oh, it’s been the talk of Burleigh for days,” said the girl. “If you will just turn your chair around so you will get a full view of the fire, I’ll tell you about it.”
Her guest did as she was bid and settled back comfortably to enjoy the story.
“Well,” began Lucile, “the other day Bull and his master were walking down Main Street. You know, Jim Keller absolutely refuses to keep Bull tied up and the only wonder is he—the dog, I mean—hasn’t been poisoned long ago, he has so many enemies. Well, Bull broke loose from Jim some way and when he tried to find him he had disappeared. Jim went raving around like a wild man, declaring that, ‘if the dog wasn’t found soon, he’d sure get into some mischief.’”
“He showed rare perception.”
“That’s what we all thought—at least, you would have judged so by the way everybody called their children in, and any one that had a pet cat or dog went almost crazy till it was out of harm’s way. Oh, there was excitement in Burleigh that day!”
“I can imagine,” interjected Mrs. Wescott, in huge enjoyment of the picture. “Did Jim find him?”39
“Not for over an hour. He ran over half the town, looking everywhere for his Bull. At last a small boy came running and told him the dog was over yonder and he was gettin’ a ‘turrible lickin’.’”
“Licking?” exclaimed Mrs. Wescott, sitting up straight in her surprise. “Bull?”
“That was the funny part of it,” Lucile went on. “Of course, Jim wouldn’t believe it was his Bull the boy was talking about, but he went with him just the same.
“When he turned the corner he came upon a spectacle that dazed him. He stood with his eyes and mouth wide open, gazing at Bull—it was his Bull, but oh, disgraced forever! There he was on his back in the dust, with a great collie making flying leaps over him. Each time he jumped those terrible nails ripped a piece of flesh from poor Bull——”
“But I never thought a collie had half a chance against a bull dog,” Mrs. Wescott interrupted, incredulously. “And such a dog as Bull, at that!”
“Well, you see, the collie’s owner explained all that afterward. He said that Bull couldn’t get at his dog’s throat because of his unusually long, thick hair—and, as a rule, that’s Bull’s first move, you know.”
“Catch him by the throat and hang on—yes, I know,” her guardian supplemented. “Then what did Jim do?”
“He wanted to go to the rescue. I believe he would have tried to pull the collie off with his own hands, but a man held him off, crying, ‘Haven’t you any sense, man, to try to separate dogs when they’re fighting?’
“‘Fighting?’ roared Jim. ‘It isn’t a fight—it’s slaughter. If he’s your mutt, call him off. Don’t ye see he’s killin’ ’im?’
“‘He is punishing him pretty badly, I’ll admit,’ said the stranger, so calmly that Jim nearly exploded.
“‘If you don’t call that dog o’ yourn off,’ he yelled, purple with rage, ‘by all that’s holy, I will, and ’twill be with a shot-gun.’40
“The man saw he meant it, so he whistled softly.”
“And all this time Bull was being punished?” said Mrs. Wescott.
“Yes; he was simply down and out. He didn’t seem to have the power to move a muscle. When his master whistled, the big collie stood still, cocked one ear, and then trotted over, as if what he had done to poor Bull were just in the day’s work.
“‘You brute!’ Jim raged. ‘I don’t know which is worse, you or your dog!’
“The man only patted his dog, and said, ‘You’ve done a good day’s work, old man.’
“This last shot was lost on Jim, for he was already bending over Bull, patting his poor old mangled head and calling him all the endearing names he could think of. Finally, seeing that Bull was either too weak or too ashamed to get up and could only wag his stub of a tail, he picked him up very tenderly and started for home.
“That was anything but a triumphal journey. An army returning after overwhelming defeat could not have attracted more attention than those two old warriors. Heads popped out of every door and window, and before he was halfway home he had a train of small boys following him. I declare, when I saw the old man, he was almost crying. When I went up to him and patted the dog’s head, he said, brokenly, ‘He’s all I’ve got, and now they’ve even gone and done him up!’”
“Poor old Jim,” said Mrs. Wescott. “Everyone hated Bull, but you can’t help feeling sorry for him and his master when they’re down and out.”
“Oh, it was really pitiful,” said Lucile, “and it made me so desperate to see all those thoughtless cruel boys following him, hooting at him, and laughing at him and calling poor old battered Bull all sorts of names. So I turned around and looked at them. I saw that little Bob Fletcher was one of the crowd.41
“‘Bob,’ I said, ‘suppose your Rover had been hurt—would you like to be laughed at?’
“‘I’d like to see anybody that’d try,’ said he, manfully.
“‘Then why do you turn round and make fun of Bull when he’s in trouble? It seems to me you’re acting mighty like cowards!’
“The words had a magical effect. I don’t suppose it had struck the boys in that light before, but it was more than their manhood could stand to be called cowards.
“‘We ain’t cowards,’ said one, belligerently, ‘and I’ll fight anybody that says we are,’ after which they all looked sheepish and started off in twos and threes, calling to each other that they’d better hurry and finish that game in the field—it would be getting dark soon!”
“You always did have a way with the young folks, Lucy,” smiled her guardian; “but that was a real act of kindness. What did old Jim do?”
“Oh, he gave me a sort of wintry smile and said, ‘Thank’ee little gal. I couldn’t lick the lot of ’em myself, ’count of Bull here!’ Then he stumbled on, muttering to the dog.
“Poor old Bull,” Lucile concluded. “His glory had departed forever and ever——”
“Oh, Fire, long years ago——” the words came from ten girls’ hearts, low, sweet, and vibrant with feeling.
Their guardian sat as if turned to stone.
42CHAPTER VIITHE MAGIC CITY
The last sweet note hesitated, sighed, and softly merged in the crackling of the fire, and still their guardian did not move.
For a long moment she sat upright and still, her hands clutching the arms of her chair, her gaze fixed steadily on the tiny, darting flames. Perhaps she saw there even more than the girls sensed, for when she turned to them, her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Girls, dear girls,” she cried, unsteadily, “what a welcome you have given me! And I had begun to think you had forgotten all about your guardian,” and as she spoke she held out her arms so that the girls came rushing.
Then such a hugging and kissing and asking of foolish questions and answering of them in like, but delightful manner, until Mrs. Wescott was forced to say, laughingly and in the same old tone they had heard so often in camp:
“Girls, don’t you think it would be better to hear one at a time?”
The girls laughed gaily and settled themselves so near their guardian that “they couldn’t possibly miss a word,” as Jessie explained afterward when describing the scene to her mother.
“Oh, it’s a sight for sore eyes to see all my camp-fire girls again,” said Mrs. Wescott, as her eyes traveled happily over the little group about her.
Some threw themselves on the floor at her feet, whileotherswere curled up on the huge divan, and Marjorie and Jessie perched on the arms of her chair. But all the bright faces were turned toward her with such happy and expectant interest that a lump seemed to rise in her throat, and she had much ado to speak at all.43
“It is wonderful to have you here after all this time,” cried Jessie, snuggling close to her guardian as she spoke. “I feel as if any minute you’re likely to fade away just as the ghosts and visions do in the moving pictures.”
There was a general laugh, and then Evelyn broke in, gallantly.
“I protest,” she said, stoutly. “I deny that our guardian is a ghost.”
“No; but she is a vision,” said a voice behind them, and Lucile slipped noiselessly into the circle.
“Goodness, Lucile, anybody would think you were the redskin you look like,” commented Dorothy, a trifle sharply, for she had started in a most undignified manner.
“See, you frightened the child, Lucile,” said Marjorie, aggravatingly. “You should be more careful with one so young.”
“What do you call yourself?” retorted Dorothy, and Lucile saw it was high time she took a hand in the argument.
“Don’t tease, Marj,” she admonished. “And don’t get mad about nothing, Dotty—I mean Dot,” she corrected quickly, as Dorothy eyed her menacingly.
“I don’t wonder she draws the line at Dotty,” laughed Jessie. “I haven’t called you that for two weeks, Dot; I’ve kept track.”
“When you haven’t called me that for two years,” said Dorothy, graciously, “I’ll begin to think you’re improving.”
“That’s right, Dot,” cried one of the girls, with a merry laugh. “Never refuse a helping hand to the wicked!”
“Encourage them once in a while and some time, soon or late, you will be rewarded,” chanted Marjorie in a solemn tone that brought a laugh from every one.
“Lucy was right, just the same,” said Margaret, with apparent irrelevance, and the girls turned inquiring eyes on the speaker as she sat, chin in hand, gazing into the fire.44
Somehow the girls’ faces always sobered when they looked at Margaret, and when they spoke to her their voices softened to an undernote of tenderness never used among themselves. She had won her way steadily to every girl’s heart. They had marveled at her invariable sweetness of temper; they had laughed at her quaint, naive sayings, and, most of all, they had loved her for the warm, grateful heart that found room and to spare for them all.
So now Evelyn, merry, irresponsible Evelyn, said, with a gentleness that caused Mrs. Wescott to look at her in surprise:
“What do you mean, Margaret? Pictures in the fire again?”
“No; I was just thinking of what Lucy said when she first came in, before Dorothy jumped all over her,” said Margaret, with a twinkle in her eye that had only found its way there of late.
“Jumped all over her? What kind of language do you call that, Margaret Pratt Stillman?” reproved Marjorie, with her best grandmother air. “If you are not careful, the habit of using slang will grow upon you.”
“Oh, do keep still, Marj, for half a minute, can’t you?” cried Jessie. “I suppose you can’t,” she added, “but you might try, anyway. A great many impossible things come with time.”
“Speak with yourself, Johnette,” retorted Marjorie.
“Why the Johnette?” inquired Lucile, with interest.
“Feminine for John, of course,” Marjorie explained, patiently.
Jessie broke in upon the laugh that followed. “But we haven’t come to the point yet,” she complained. “Speak up, Margaret, before some other rude person interrupts.”
“That’s right,” said Lucile, ignoring the irony in her tone. “Now is your chance, Peggy.”
“Why, you said that our guardian was a vision,” said Margaret, dreamily. “I quite agree with you.”
“Come, come, I can’t allow this,” cried the vision, gaily, as the girls turned adoring eyes upon her. “I’ve45been thinking sundry little thoughts on my own account since I’ve seen my girls again.”
“Oh, doesn’t it seem great to be back?” cried Dorothy. “I know I should be terribly homesick if I stayed away six weeks, let alone six months.”
“Indeed it did. Just the same, New York is fascinating, with its great buildings, its busy, absorbed throng of people, each intent on getting ahead of the next one. There is something about it all that draws one irresistibly. The very air seems charged with electricity, and just to walk down Broadway gave me more real excitement and enjoyment than the most thrilling play could have done.” Helen Wescott’s face flushed and her eyes sparkled as she talked.
“Go on,” cried Evelyn breathlessly. “Do tell us all about it. Oh, I can’t even imagine it!”
“I don’t believe I could tell you everything if I should talk for a month,” she went on. “But I do remember a conversation Jack and I had soon after our arrival. We were walking up Fifth Avenue one exceptionally busy day—I don’t know why I should say that, for every day over there seems busier than the last—when Jack asked why I was so quiet. ‘Because everything else is making so much noise,’ I answered. Which, indeed, was almost reason enough. But when he insisted, I said what had been in my thoughts for the past two days:
“‘I’ve been wondering, as I looked at all these people rushing along as if their lives depended on their getting to a certain place on a certain second—these people with set faces and eyes that seem to see a long way off—I’ve just been wondering what they all find to do.’
“‘My dear,’ said Jack, and he laughed in a way I could not understand, ‘It’s easy to see you have lived a long way from little old New York, and I’m mighty glad you have. I’d rather you would face all these people for the first time with me along.’
“‘But you haven’t answered my question,’ I insisted, for I was still filled with wonder at the great throng surging46past us, whose purpose never seemed to change or falter.
“‘You asked what they were all doing,’ said Jack. ‘Well, for the most part, they are busily and congenially engaged in doing to the best advantage the next poor victim that comes to their net.’
“Somehow, that little remark put a different aspect on everything and Fifth Avenue didn’t hold quite the same charm for me that it had. Just the same,” she added, brightly, “I like New York mighty well. The only thing I didn’t like about it was that it didn’t hold my girls, and I did miss you all so much!”
“Oh, I don’t see how you would ever find time to miss anybody with all those wonderful new sights and sounds around you all the time,” said Evelyn, naively.
Marjorie sniffed. “Of course, we know you wouldn’t,” she said.
“I wouldn’t,” said Evelyn, unabashed. “I’d be too awfully excited all the time.”
“Oh, Evelyn, Evelyn!” said Lucile, laughing. “Won’t you ever learn to cover up your faults?”
“I’ll have to get some first,” she retorted, impishly; and the girls, who were in a mood when everything strikes them funny, began to laugh. The more they laughed, the more they tried to stop, the more impossible it became, until the whole house rang with merriment. Lucile was the first to recover herself.
“That’s quite enough for some time to come, Evelyn,” she cried, choking back her laughter. “We all know you are wonderful, but please remember that no human being is perfect.”
Gradually they quieted down, with only an occasional explosion, and Lucile returned to her guardian again.
“I suppose you have gone to all the theaters and restaurants and things in the city,” she asked. “Are they just as wonderful as people make them out to be?”47
“More,” said Mrs. Wescott, emphatically, dimpling happily at her memories. Indeed, she was very young and very enthusiastic, and the girls, looking at her, thought they had never seen her so entrancingly lovely.
“It is almost impossible to describe,” she went on. “At first you have only a confused impression that the world is on fire with electric lights. To ride through the crowded theater district at night, with the great electric signs blinking at you from all sides—with the honking of the motor horns making a very Babel—with the crowds on the sidewalk, still hurrying, but for such a different reason—men and women in evening dress, all bound for one or other of the gay restaurants or theaters close by. And then the theater itself! To walk from the street to the gaily lighted lobby, its walls paneled from floor to ceiling with great mirrors that reflect lovely women and distinguished men. Then in the theater where the rich carpet deadens every footfall and you feel rather than hear the murmur of many voices speaking softly—the subtle rustle of a crowded place—the lights—the music—oh, girls, it was wonderful, wonderful! I can’t describe it!”
“Oh, but you have described it—beautifully!” cried Lucile. “I feel as if I had been there!”
“Oh, just to go there once!” breathed Jessie, rapturously. “If I could only see those things once, I think I’d be willing to die!”
The girls raised laughing protests, and Lucile cried, “For goodness’ sake, don’t speak of dying yet awhile, Jessie. I’m going to see lots before my end comes. Oh, if we could only go back with you, Miss How—I mean Mrs. Wescott,” she stammered, blushing furiously at her mistake.
The lovely guardian of the fire looked down upon Lucile, a quizzical smile curling the corners of her mouth.
“I don’t wonder you make that mistake once in a while,” she said. “It took me a long while to get used to it.”
“I should think it would seem strange just at first,” ventured Margaret, amazed at her own temerity and looking48up at her guardian shyly. “I mean not being Miss Howland any longer.”
The girls laughed and Margaret flushed confusedly.
“You shouldn’t say such things, Margaret; it ill befits your age,” said Jessie patronizingly.
There followed another burst of laughter, out of which Margaret’s voice rose defiantly. “I don’t care,” she cried. “It seemed mighty funny to me to call our guardian Mrs. Wescott, and if it seemed strange to me, what must it have seemed to her? I was almost afraid——” her voice trailed off into silence, and Mrs. Wescott prompted, gently, “Afraid of what, dear?”
“Oh, just afraid that you might be—different.”
It was the vague, half-formed fear that all the girls had felt, yet none had dared express, and the silence that followed was pregnant with meaning.
“Different, Margaret?” their guardian’s voice was low and tremulous. “Never! Happier, oh, so very much happier, girls; but never changed in my love for you except as it grows stronger. Do I seem different?” she asked, turning swimming eyes upon them.
“Oh, no—except that you are twice as dear,” cried Lucile, and the cry found an echo in each girl’s heart.
“I’m so happy I’m afraid I’m going to have hysterics or something,” cried Jessie, dabbing her eyes with a square inch or so of handkerchief. “I want to laugh and cry, and you can’t do both at once.”
The girls laughed shakily and Mrs. Wescott said, with a gay little laugh, “Here, this will never do. Now that that question is settled forever and ever, I want to hear what you girls have been doing all this time, and what you expect to do this summer. Come, who’s first?”
“Lucile,” cried Dorothy. “You just ask her what she intends to do this summer. All our plans are tame beside hers.”
The girls had completely forgotten the wonderful topic that had seemed all absorbing before this guardian’s arrival,49but now it took on an added importance, and the girls waited eagerly for Lucile’s disclosure.
“What great plans have you been making now, Lucile?” said Mrs. Wescott, with that ever-ready interest that had won the girls completely. “I can see there is something great in the wind. Tell me about it.”
“I’d never have thought of it if Dorothy hadn’t reminded me,” said Lucile, amazed that it should have slipped her mind for two minutes, let alone two hours. “Why, it’s only that Mother and Dad are going to Europe this summer and they have decided to take Phil and me along with them; and then Dad said I might ask Jessie and Evelyn to go with us if they’d like to, and so they are coming—to make trouble,” she added, slyly.
“Oh, no doubt of that last,” said Mrs. Wescott, laughing, and then added, with enthusiasm, “It certainly is splendid for you to have the chance. I know your pet hobby has always been to visit Switzerland, Lucy, and now you will, provided you get that far. Do you suppose you will?”
“I really don’t know,” said Lucile. “I’ve been too stunned by the mere fact of going to Europe to think of asking for details. If I have anything to say about it, we’ll go to Switzerland, if we don’t go anywhere else.”
“Just hear her talk of Switzerland, as if it were just around the corner,” marveled Ruth. “It has always seemed to me like some myth or fable.”
“And you feel as it you ought to speak of it in whispers,” agreed Marjorie. “That’s the way I feel about it.”
“Oh, I almost forgot about tea,” Lucile interrupted, springing to her feet and making a dash for the door. “It’s getting late, and everybody must be starved. Come on, Jessie, and help me, for goodness’ sake!”
“Coming,” said Jessie, stopping at the door to make a low bow and declaim, “Ladies and gentlemen, we crave your indulgence——”
“You’d better come out here, or I’ll use force,” cried Lucile’s voice from somewhere in the rear, and the orator fled precipitately.