"Dear Peggy:—Studyhard, please, and get through before this evening. The Snowy Owl is going to give us a Grand Tell about the wedding she has been to, and we both want you to come, too. I'm going to speak to Miss Russell, but you'd better ask her, too; it will be all right, for the Snowy has asked permission, anyhow. Eight o'clock, just after reading; be sure to come on time!"Affectionately,"Bertha."
"Dear Peggy:—Studyhard, please, and get through before this evening. The Snowy Owl is going to give us a Grand Tell about the wedding she has been to, and we both want you to come, too. I'm going to speak to Miss Russell, but you'd better ask her, too; it will be all right, for the Snowy has asked permission, anyhow. Eight o'clock, just after reading; be sure to come on time!
"Affectionately,"Bertha."
It was hard to study through that lovely afternoon, when the other girls, or most of them, were out-of-doors, playing tennis or basket-ball, and their voices came in at the window in every tone of joyousness and delight. It was very hard to study the detested rhetoric and history, but Peggy was strong in her good resolve, and bent steadily over her books, trying her very best. Once, indeed, came a sore temptation, when a ball struck her window lightly, and, going to look out, she saw Grace Wolfe standing below.
"Come out, Innocent!" said the Scapegoat,in her deep, musical tones. "Come and sport with me!
"The ship is ready and the wind blows fair,And I am bound for the sea, Mary Anne!"
"Oh! Oh, thank you!" cried Peggy. "I wish I could, but I have to work now, I'm afraid."
"Is this a time to think o' wark,Wi' Scapegoat at the door?"
inquired Grace, looking up with her head on one side. "Why work at this hour, Innocent? Even the slaves of virtue, even the Owls, are at play now."
Peggy leaned out of the window; it really seemed as if her body would be drawn out after her longing spirit, which had been out and away from the first summons.
"Yes, the Owls!" she said. "That's just it, Miss Wolfe."
"No!" interrupted Grace. "Not Miss Wolfe! Not all Æsop! Impossible to be wolf and goat at the same time, and do justiceto either character. Let it be Goat, or Grace, as you like."
"Grace, then, thank you! Well, you see, the Owls,—that is, Bertha asked me to come to their room this evening, and of course I want to dreadfully,—though not more dreadfully than I want to come out now," she added, wistfully. "And if I do, you see, I must get my rhetoric done. It's awfully hard, and I am so stupid about it, it takes me for ever. Oh, will you ask me again some time, please?"
The Scapegoat regarded her for a moment, standing with the ball in her hand, swaying her light, graceful body to and fro.
"Another slave of virtue?" she said. "Can I permit this? Innocent, I have half a mind to cause you to come down. I am to be thrown over for owls, who have, if you will consider the matter, neither horns nor hoofs? I am to let you stay and grind through the afternoon for them and for my Puggy? Well—"
Her whole face seemed to lighten with whimsical determination. She laid her handon the fire-escape, and seemed on the point of mounting it, when suddenly another change came over her. Her eyes darkened into their usual melancholy look.
"Here's luck!" she said, abruptly. "See you later, Innocent!" She was gone, and Peggy, with a revulsion of feeling, wished she had gone with her. Bertha was a dear, and Miss Merryweather looked lovely, but neither of them had the fascination of this strange girl, so unlike any one she had ever seen in her life.
It was a forlorn afternoon; but Peggy stuck to her work manfully, and had the satisfaction of closing the book at last with the feeling that she was sure of it now, however things might be in the morning under Miss Pugsley's hostile eye.
There was still a little time left before supper. She ran out to the lawn, hoping to find Grace Wolfe still there, but she was disappointed. The only occupants of the lawn were half a dozen sophomores clustered together at one end. Blanche Haight was among them, and at sight of Peggy she turnedher back pointedly, and whispered to the others. They turned with one accord and stared at Peggy, with a cool insolence that made her blood boil within her and surge up in angry red to her forehead. She could not do anything about it; they had a right to stare, if they had no better manners. She returned the look for a moment, then turned away with a sore and angry heart. Fortunately, at this moment came out two classmates of her own whom she knew slightly,—mild, pleasant girls, with no special traits of interest, but still friendly and approachable. They were going to play tennis, and invited Peggy to join them; so she had a good half-hour of exercise and pleasure, and came in with rosy cheeks, and with the cobwebs all blown away for the time.
At eight o'clock Peggy was standing before her glass, putting a last touch to her hair, and surveying her image with some anxiety. Did she "look nice?" Peggy had as little personal vanity as a girl could well have; but she had learned from her cousin Margaret that it was part of her duty to look as wellas she could. Her cousin Rita would have had her go further than this.
"Study, my child," Rita would cry, "to be beautiful! Let it be your dream by night, your thought by day!" And, in all kindness, Rita would try to teach her how to cross her feet so that they might look slender, how to extend her little finger when she raised her hand, "not too much, but to an exact point,chérie!" how to turn her head so as to show the lines of the neck to advantage. But Peggy's own good sense, aided by Margaret's calm wisdom, had told her the inappropriateness of Rita's graceful airs and poses to her own sturdy personality. She was to look nice; more she could not aspire to. So here she was to-night, in a pretty blue silk waist, with a serge skirt of a darker shade, her hair smoothly braided in one mammoth "pigtail," and tied with blue ribbons, her neat collar fastened with a pretty pearl brooch. Thus attired, our Peggy was truly pleasant to look upon; and her "Is that right, Margaret?" brought a little satisfied nod of reply from the smiling image in the glass.
Drawing near the Owl's Nest, she heard a hum of voices, and straightway her heart sank again, and shyness possessed her. There was a crowd there! They would all be juniors and seniors, and she the only freshman among them. How could she go in? Oh! she almost wished she was up in the other corridor with the younger girls!
But at this moment the door opened, and Bertha's kind face looked out.
"Here you are, Peggy!" she cried, cordially. "Come along; there's plenty of room, for I've saved a place for you. Come!"
For a moment Peggy hung back, and knew how Lobelia Parkins felt; then she made an effort, and followed Bertha into the room.
The Owl's Nest was a corner room, with windows on two sides. It seemed to be furnished chiefly with books. There were the two brass beds, of course, the twin bureaus, the desks, and table. All of these, except the beds, were covered with books; bookshelves took up most of the wall space, though there were two or three good pictures, among them a great photograph of the sea, thatalmost dashed the spray in one's face, so perfect was it. It was at a later visit that Peggy observed the books; now, she was conscious of nothing save the girls. The room was certainly full of them. There were three on each bed, curled up in every variety of picturesque and comfortable attitude; two sat on one of the bureaus, having pushed books and toilet articles up into a toppling and highly perilous mountain behind them; four more crouched somehow on the rather narrow window-seats. The rest were on the floor, except two early birds, who had come in time to get the two chairs. The floor was made comfortable with sofa-pillows, borrowed from the whole length of the corridor. Altogether, there might have been twenty girls in the room, and every girl was, or seemed to be, talking as fast as her tongue could move.
Peggy was hailed with a bird-like call from one corner.
"My Veezy-vee! come here, Peggy Montfort, and sit by me."
It was Viola Vincent. She was curled up at the head of one of the beds. She wore theprettiest pink tea-gown imaginable, and her hair was a wonder of puffs and curls.
"Come here!" she repeated, patting the pillows. "Lots of room; miles! Let her come here, Fluffy!"
"Yes, she shall, in a minute, V.," replied Bertha. "But first,—Toots, here's Peggy Montfort!"
The Snowy Owl came swiftly out of the closet, where she had been performing some mystic rite; she took Peggy's two hands in hers, and held them in a warm, firm grasp that was the very soul of cordiality.
"I'm so glad!" she said. "How's the poor little thing? Better? I'm sure you did her a great deal of good."
"Oh, no!" stammered Peggy, pleased and confused. "I couldn't really do anything; but she is feeling better."
Gertrude Merryweather nodded wisely. "My dear, you can do a great deal for her!" she said. "We'll have a talk sometime; no chance now. Only, Bertha has been telling me things, and I'm so glad you are in our street! There, now V. shall have you."
Judge of the glow at Peggy's heart, on these words from the Junior President, the best-loved girl—or so it was said—in the whole school. Those foolish tears actually got half-way up to her eyes,—only they were very different from the last tears; but fortunately Viola's high-pitched babble drove them back again.
"Mydear!How nice you look! perf'lyfine!doesn't she, V.? Say, that's a dandy pin you've got on, simplydandy!There! isn't this too quaint for anything? You comfy? so'm I! Room, my dear? gallons of room! I haven't seen you for an age; where have you kept yourself? I looked into your room, though, and it's perf'lyfine!I told you it would be, when you had things fixed. Your chintz is too perfectly sweet for anything; isn't it, V.? We were simply cold with envy, weren't we, V.?"
"Do cackle for yourself, if you must cackle, V.!" responded Vivia Varnham, who sat on the same bed, a little lower down. "I can't hear myself think, you make such a noise."
"No, really?" cried Viola. "But thatmust be such an advantage sometimes, V. But, say! we came here to hear the Snowy talk, didn't we? She hasn't had much chance yet, has she? Are you ready to talk, Snowy? Oh, you duck! it is too perfectly enchanting to have you back again. I haven't lived since you went away, have I, V.? I've been simply a vegetable, haven't I, V.? Potatoes, my dear, are lively compared to me.Areyou ready to talk, Snowy?"
"If you are ready to have me," replied the Snowy Owl, laughing. "First, however—here!"
She produced a mammoth box of "marshmallows," and handed it around. It was received with a shout.
"Toast 'em!" cried one. "Hat-pins!" cried another. There was a movement toward the gas-jet; but Bertha Haughton checked it decidedly. "You have come here to hear the Snowy tell!" she said. "It's a long tell, and if you begin toasting now, there won't be time. Tell first, toast afterward! that's what I say!"
"Hark to the Fluffy! she speaks well!"cried the girls. There was silence; and Gertrude Merryweather, sitting on the floor, with her hands clasped around her knees, began her "tell."
THE GRAND TELL IN THE OWL'S NEST.THE GRAND TELL IN THE OWL'S NEST.
"To begin with, girls, this is Fluffy's idea, not mine! Of course none of you ever saw our Hildegarde, so I didn't suppose you would care particularly; but when I was telling the Fluffy last night, she said it was selfish and all kinds of things to keep it to ourselves, and that you must all hear about it; so if you don't find it interesting, pull out the Fluffy's feathers, not mine.
"Hildegarde Grahame—she is Hildegarde Merryweather now, but I cannot realise it yet—has been a very dear friend of ours for several years. We think there is no one like her in the world; I'll show you a picture of her by and by. Well, a year ago she became engaged to my uncle."
"Your uncle!" cried the girls. "Why, I thought she was a girl!"
"So she is a girl, but Roger—well, he is my uncle, but he isn't so very much older than I am. That is—he is twenty-five, and Hildegarde is twenty; so you see it is just exactly right. There isn't anybody like him, either. He is as near an angel as a man can come and be alive; and he is tremendously clever, really eminent already in his profession, and we all love him to distraction."
"Is he handsome?" asked Viola Vincent.
"I don't know; yes, I think he is. Not a barber-shop beauty, though. He is tall, and very strong, broad-shouldered, with the kindest eyes in the world, and a smile that makes you crinkle all over with pleasure. Well, and so they were engaged, and now they are married; the wedding was on Wednesday, and this is Friday, and here I am. Now I'll begin at the very beginning of the day. Of course we woke up early, and looked out of the window; and it was all gray and cloudy. I thought it was going to rain, and I was in the depths, but Bell—you know Bell, my sister, at college—was sure it would clear before seven, and so it did. The sun cameout bright and clear, and soon we saw that it was going to be the most beautiful day that ever was. We had been out in the fields all day before, getting flowers, and we had them all ready in tubs and bowls and pitchers; so after breakfast we could go right to work on the decorations. We did the church first. It is a pretty stone church, with a good deep chancel. We filled in the back of the chancel with great ferns—mostly evergreen ferns, so that they would not wilt—and palms and things; and then we made banks and banks of asters and goldenrod,—oh, it was lovely! Most of them came from the camp-pasture, Bertha; you remember how lovely it is in September."
Bertha nodded. "I should think I did!" she said. "Most beautiful place I ever saw, except the rest of it all."
"Well, I never saw it look more beautiful than that day before the wedding, when Bell and the boys and I rode out on our wheels, and came back by moonlight, with great bundles of purple and gold tied on our backs and nodding over our heads. But all theferns and the asters and chrysanthemums and roses came mostly from Hildegarde's own garden at Braeside, and from Roseholme, Colonel Ferrers's place. We might have carpeted the church entirely with asters, if we had wanted to; as it was, we had great garlands of them twined over the chancel rail and swinging among the ferns and goldenrod; really, I never saw so many flowers at one time in my life. When that was all done we went to the house, Braeside, the Grahames' house, to see if we could help there; but Mrs. Flower, a friend of Hildegarde's, of whom we used to be the least little bit jealous before we knew her, was there, and another friend, Miss Desmond,—she was one of the bridesmaids,—and they had everything so beautifully arranged that there was nothing for us to do but stand and admire it with all our eyes. People in New York had sent down all kinds of splendid flowers, boxes and boxes of them, so that the house was a perfect bower, and smelt like the Vale of Cashmere; but we knew very well that Hilda would like our flowers best. Then—well, a lot more presentshad come since the night before, so as there was time enough before dressing, we went in to see them. I don't suppose you care about the presents, girls!"
"Oh! oh! we do!" cried the girls, in chorus. "We want to hear about every single one, Snowy."
"My dears! it would take me all night, and then I couldn't remember them all. But I'll try and tell you some of them. Let me see! Colonel Ferrers gave her a set of sapphires; the most beautiful things you ever saw. Necklace and pendant and pin, most wonderful dark blue stones, set in star-shape. And Jack Ferrers and his father gave her some wonderful Roman gold-work—I don't know how to describe it, I never saw anything like it—that Jack picked up in Europe. Then there was silver, heaps and heaps of it, from relatives in New York and I don't know where; some of it very handsome indeed, but I don't care so much about silver, do you? I remember there were ten salt-cellars, no two alike. But the things we cared for were the small presents that came from people we knew;people who loved Hildegarde, not just because she was their grandniece or something, but because she was herself. Oh, some of them were funny, girls! There were two dear old people who had come a long way to the wedding, a Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, with whom Hilda spent a summer when she was about fifteen, and whom she has been fond of ever since. I should think she would be; the old lady has a face like Raphael's grandmother—I can't think of any other way of describing it; and Mr. Hartley is simply a duck, the dearest funny old man you ever saw. Well, they brought Hilda the most beautiful toilet-set I ever saw or dreamed of,—something wonderful, all blue dragons and gilding. Papa said it was very rare; and Hilda cried when she saw it, and scolded them dreadfully for bringing it away from its own room; but still she was delighted to have it, and says she will never use any other. Then there was young Doctor Chirk,—funny name, isn't it?—Mrs. Flower's brother. Such a nice, bright, jolly fellow! Well, he was part of that same summer, it seems, and he carveda beautiful frame out of wood that grew in Hartley's Glen; and Mrs. Flower, who paints very well, had made a picture of the glen itself—lovely place!—for the frame, or I suppose the frame was made to fit the picture, no matter which; andthatfilled her with joy.
"Then there were the people from Bywood. My dear, Miss Wealthy Bond is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen, except two. She is just like live Dresden china, smiling and dimpling; and the dear quaint maid who came with her, Martha, had made Hildegarde's whole winter provision of jellies and jams, because 'it wasn't likely Hildegarde would have time herself this first season, and it wasn't a thing you could trust to hired help in general.' Miss Bond herself had brought china—my dear! did you ever see tortoise-shell crockery? Well, it is a most beautiful thing, and the art was lost a hundred years ago, and each piece is worth I don't know how much; but this dear old lady had a dozen plates, all hexagonal, too, and not a single point broken or chipped, and two pitchers,—well,I haven't the heart even to think of those pitchers, I wanted them so,—and they were all for Hilda, because Hilda had brought the sunshine back into her life, she told me.
"Girls, it was the same story everywhere. Mrs. Grahame being so delicate, and Hilda so busy, Bell and I were there a great deal the few days before the wedding, and we took the guests to walk and drive and so on. Everywhere it was the same story, the joy and brightness and love that this one girl had carried with her wherever she went. I never shall forget it—never.
"Then—let me see—what next? Oh! I had nearly forgotten the dear little boy, Benny, Miss Bond's adopted son. He considers Hilda his own private property, and he was furiously jealous of Roger and everybody else. When he first came it was quite sad, really, the child was so unhappy, and there was no consoling him. He wanted Hilda to sing to him and play with him just as she did when she was staying there at Bywood; and naturally she couldn't, poor dear, though it was wonderfulhow she managed to be with them all a little every day, and to see to almost everything, so that her mother should have no care or worry. Well, where was I? oh! the little boys. Hugh Allen, our Hugh,—I can't stop to tell you about Hugh now, but he is the dearest, queerest little fellow,—Hugh watched all this for awhile, and then he took Benny away with him, down into the garden, and they were gone a long time. And when they came back Benny marched straight up to Roger, and said, 'You are nice! you can have my girl,' and then marched off again, and went and cried, poor lamb, till Hugh comforted him.
"But I am not getting on with the presents, am I? We all gave her linen, because she had to have that, and we wanted to do something ourselves; so we, my mother and Bell and Kitty and I, hemmed every one of the table-cloths and napkins, and embroidered the marks on all the towels, and had a beautiful time over it. Mammy read to us part of the time while we sewed, all the interesting weddings that she could find in history or fiction,and that was great fun; then she wrote some funny verses to go with them, and they really were lovely patterns, so it was a nice present, though strictly necessary, you see. Oh, I haven't told you about the diamonds! Helena Desmond was so funny about them! 'Hilda,' she said, 'it was clear from the beginning that I must be offered up on the altar of diamonds. I detest diamonds. They are absolutely uninteresting; they are almost vulgar. Never mind, you have to have some, and nobody else will be stupid and commonplace enough to give them to you. I had hopes of your Aunt Emily, but she has expended herself in lace, and was so happy over it that I hadn't the heart to whisper "diamonds!" in her ear, as I had meant to do. Here they are, my child; the customary horrors!'
"Well, they were very beautiful, though I confess I should have liked pearls better for Hilda. A diamond crescent and star, really splendid. She is very rich, you know."
"Is that the great beauty?" asked a girl.
"Yes, she is superb, certainly. Next to Hilda, perhaps—but I'll come to that presently.Well, now perhaps I have told you half the things, or rather more than half; but they are the things I cared most about, you see. I can't go into a list of forks and spoons. So now I come to the wedding itself."
The girls drew a long breath and leaned forward; presents were very well, but weddings were better.
"It was at noon, of course. There were only two bridesmaids, Helena Desmond and I. Hilda said she wanted only her nearest and dearest, so she would not ask her cousins, though I fancy they had hoped to be asked. She wanted Bell, but Bell said it was positively necessary that she should play the organ, and so it was. We wore perfectly plain white muslin gowns, but, oh, they were so pretty! with soft pale green sashes, and little wreaths of ivy in our hair. Hildegarde wanted everything as simple as possible, so we didn't go into hats, or any of that kind of nonsense. Jerry—my brother Gerald—was best man, and the ushers were Phil and Willy, my other brothers, and Jack Ferrers and Doctor Chirk and Hugh Allen. Well, so the hour came.
"Helena and I were ready and waiting at Braeside when Hilda came down-stairs. Girls, you never saw anything so lovely in your lives as she was. Her dress was very simple, too, white embroidered muslin, exquisitely fine. Colonel Ferrers brought it from India, years and years ago, for a lovely young girl who died while he was on his way home. It had been made in the house, and it looked just like her, as her dresses always do. She wore a little gold pin that Roger made for her himself,—mined the gold and all,—no other ornament, and a wreath of white roses, roses that the Roseholme gardener had been nursing all summer to make them blossom just at the right time. That was his present; everybody wanted to do something, you see."
"What does she look like?" asked a girl.
"Well, you have to see her to know what she really looks like, for half of it is the expression and the look in her eyes. Gray eyes, so clear and true,—you know she couldn't say or do anything unkind or false to save her life,—and a colour just like a wild rose, and a nose,—well, it's just her own nose,tilted up a little, but perfectly delightful; and when she smiles, you think she has the most beautiful mouth in the world, though I don't suppose she really has. Here, this gives you a little idea of her; just a very little, for it doesn't begin to think of doing her justice."
The girls clustered eagerly to see the photograph, which was passed on from hand to hand. It was a lovely face, indeed, at which they looked; yet, as Gertrude said, the actual beauty was the least part of its charm. Truth and kindness shone from it; not the lightest and most foolish girl there but felt grave for a moment, meeting that steady look of cheer and constancy.
"And yet she looks awfully jolly, too!" said one, breaking the silence, and voicing the thought of all.
"My dear, she is more fun—"
"Than a goat?" asked a new voice; and Grace Wolfe slipped in quietly at the window, and, nodding to the company, took her seat on the floor.
"I have heard all!" she said. "Go on, Snowy! I see now where you got your virtues;this young woman has much to answer for."
Gertrude looked at her kindly, but said nothing; in a moment the story went on.
"We walked over to the church—it is only a few steps—just as we were, without any formal arrangement. Hilda held her mother's hand fast all the time; they were both very quiet. The dear old black cook walked with them, crying all the way. Hugh had Hilda's other hand. I—I can't tell about this part."
Gertrude's voice faltered for a moment; then she went on more steadily.
"Colonel Ferrers was waiting at the church door, with his brother, Mr. Raymond Ferrers. All the ushers were there, too, and we could see that the church was full. And, oh! just a little way from the door was a band of little girls, Hilda's sewing-class, and they all had baskets of flowers, and scattered them in front of her as she walked. I forgot to put that in where it belonged, but it was very pretty, and if you had seen the way they looked at her!
"Well, then it all seemed to happen ina moment. Mr. Raymond Ferrers took Mrs. Grahame up the aisle; and then the organ broke out with the wedding march. I have heard my sister Bell play pretty well, but never as she did then. It seemed to fill the whole world, and yet it was not too loud, either. Then the ushers went up, and then Helena and I, and then came our dear bride on Colonel Ferrers' arm. Roger was waiting at the altar steps with Gerald. He came forward to meet her, and took both her hands,—oh, with such a beautiful look in his face! and then drew her arm through his, so proud and quiet and happy, and then the service went on. They both spoke so clearly, everybody could hear them, and the ring was ready, and there was not a mistake anywhere; only both Jerry and the colonel were on the point of breaking down, both of them, and every time the colonel blew his nose I could see Jerry start and wince. And so they were married, and the music broke out again, and Roger put back the veil and kissed his wife; and—and then they came back down the aisle, and—and—and that is all!"
Gertrude had struggled hard for composure. She had nearly outgrown the childish proneness to tears, which in early days had earned her the home sobriquet of "Chelsea Waterworks;" but this recital touched her too nearly, and she had overcalculated her power of self-restraint. Her voice broke altogether, and she could only nod and smile through her tears on Bertha, who was regarding her remorsefully.
"I ought not to have made you, Toots!" said Bertha. "I did want them to hear it, it has been so beautiful. Don't cry, dear!" But Grace Wolfe came and laid her hand on Gertrude's shoulder, and spoke in a tone one hardly ever heard in that voice.
"Don't stop her!" she said, gravely. "Let her cry! It's good for her—and for all of us! Snowy, your friend is a blessed creature, and you are another."
No one spoke for a few moments. Peggy was crying quietly in her corner, and feeling that she had been at the wedding herself, and wondering what she should possibly do if Margaret should ever get married.
But now the Snowy Owl wiped away her tears in good earnest, and spoke in her own cheerful tones.
"Come, this will never do. Girls, we have extra time to-night, Miss Russell was so kind when I told her what I wanted to do; but even that time will be up if we don't mind. Volunteers to toast marshmallows!"
Instantly there was a rush and a cry. A dozen hands were stretched out. Hat-pins appeared, as if by magic, brandished on every side. In another moment a dozen marshmallows were frizzling over the gas-jets, while the student lamp did duty for several more. As soon as one was done, it was popped, hissing hot, into an open mouth, and the hat-pin, charged with another freight, returned to the charge. Cries of mingled joy and anguish rose on every side.
"Oh, I am burnt entirely! The skin is all off my lips."
"Here, for me one!"
"No, she has had two already! Fluffy, my turn next!"
It was a merry Babel. The fun rose higher and higher. Peggy dried her eyes, and looked on wondering. How could they hear each other? They were all talking at once, each one faster than the other.
"My dear! Perf'ly fine, wasn't it? Oh, I do love to hear a tell—"
"When my cousin was married, she had eight bridesmaids, and they wore just mob caps, not another thing—"
"Orange-blossoms are too sweet for anything, but they make some people—"
"Simply pea-green, my dear, with fright, and she had blue woollen socks on over her white slippers—'something blue,' you know,—and forgot to take them off—"
"Her head, and you never saw anything like it in your life. It measured three yards around, if it did—"
"A sunburst, you know, diamonds and pearls. I adore diamonds, for my part. Why, to be married without diamonds would be—"
"Simply fierce! I should die, I know I should, before I got half-way up the aisle.But to see one, and the music and flowers and all, is—"
"Dandy! perf'ly dandy! I wouldn't miss it for all the—"
"Flounces, my dear, up to the waist, as true as I sit here! and she said 'No!' She said: 'Before I'll be flounced to the waist, I'll—'"
"Marry a tin peddler! said there was nothing in the world she'd like better, because then she could—"
"Sit still the whole morning without moving a muscle, for fear of breaking her—"
"Heart, with forty pearls and sixty diamonds. Fact, I assure you, my dear! I had it from—"
"A perfect brute, not fit for any one to—"
Here, Destiny knocked on the door; the round, rosy face of Miss Carey, the housekeeper, looked in.
"Girls, you really must go to bed. Miss Russell sent me to say so. Do you know what time it is?"
Grace Wolfe slipped like a shadow out of the window and was gone unseen; the assemblybroke up with laughter and cheers for the Snowy and the Fluffy, and snatches of talk bubbling all the way along the corridor. When Peggy reached her room, she found the Scapegoat already there, sitting on the floor and chanting solemnly:
"I have nailed my Puggy's slippersDown upon her closet floor.She may pray with both her flippers,But she'll never use them more!"
The time went quickly enough at Miss Russell's. Once the routine established, lesson followed lesson and day followed day with amazing rapidity. Before Peggy could realise that she was fairly settled, a month had passed. It was not so bad now; in fact, a good deal of it was very pleasant, she was obliged to admit. Her geometry was a constantly progressing joy; so was her anatomy, and she had the happy consciousness that she was doing well in both studies. This enabled her to bear up against the bitterness of rhetoric and of Miss Pugsley. As for the history, once equally dreaded, its terrors had nearly vanished. Miss Cortlandt had a way of making things so clear that one could not help remembering them once they were explained. Furthermore, she managed to invest the lay-figuresof dead and gone kings and conquerors with life and motion. Alexander the Great was no longer a tiresome person in a book, who cried in an absurd way when there was nothing left to conquer. That had always exasperated Peggy, "because if he had had any sense, he would have gone on, and found out for himself what a lot more there was, that his old books and seers and things had never found out." But now, she found Alexander in the first place a boy who knew about horses, which in itself was a great thing, and in the second place a man who knew about a great many other things, and who acted on his knowledge in a variety of swift and surprising ways. As with this hero, so with others, till Peggy came to look forward, actually, to the history hour; which shows what a teacher can do when she understands her girls, and knows enough to call Plutarch and his peers (if any!) to aid her in her task.
But when all was said and done, Peggy was not cut out for a student; and her happiest hours were not those of even the pleasantestclass-room. Basket-ball claimed her for its own, and she proved an apt and ready learner in this branch of study. Less swift than Grace Wolfe, who seemed a thing compact of steel and gossamer, she was far stronger to meet an attack, and many a rush came and passed, and left the stalwart freshman standing steady and undaunted in her place.
The hours of sport brought the two girls nearer and nearer together; and Peggy found herself yielding more and more—often against her own judgment—to the fascination of the lawless girl, who on her part seemed curiously drawn to the simple, downright, law-abiding freshman.
It was about this time that Peggy found out why her room had been called Broadway. The nights were still fine and warm, though it was now October. Apples were ripe in the neighbouring orchards; and though it was perfectly practicable and allowable to buy all the apples one wanted in the daytime, that method did not approve itself to the wilder spirits at Miss Russell's school.
To slide down the fire-escape, slip across the lawn, keeping well under the trees by the edge, and so out into the road and down to the nearest orchard, only a few rods off,—this was the true way to get apples, and a very thrilling way it was. Peggy had been a good deal startled when the first merry party, with noiseless steps and stifled giggles, came stealing into her room, and, nodding to her, made their way out of the window and down the fire-escape. It never occurred to her to make any effort to stop them; they were sophomores, and she only a freshman. She supposed it was against the rules, but of course they would not really do any harm; and oh, what a good time they would have!
She looked after them with a sigh, and wished them luck in her heart, a successful raid, and a safe return. Indeed, it was not long before they were back, rosy and breathless, with baskets and pockets stuffed with apples. The Fresh Freshman, as Peggy was called, did not fail to receive her share; and she ate it with a little thrill of vicarious guilt which was certainly not unpleasant.The two Owls never came with these parties; and somehow Peggy did not mention the matter to them, though she saw them constantly, and loved them always more and more. Sometimes the expeditions were headed by Grace Wolfe, in her wildest mood; sometimes it was Viola Vincent, who came tripping in with a band of her chosen intimates. Viola had several times asked Peggy to be of the party, but Peggy had not gone,—she could hardly have said why. Why was it that Grace had never asked her? If she had, perhaps—
The night came when Grace did ask her.
Peggy had been studying as usual, and the signal for "lights out" came while she was still at her task. Out went the light, for Peggy was, as we have said, a law-abiding citizen. She was groping about, not yet used to the half-light of the growing moon, when the door opened, and Grace glided in with her usual noiseless tread. She laid her hand over Peggy's mouth without a word, and stood motionless, seeming to listen. Then she said aloud and deliberately:
"Yes, I must go this minute. I had no idea it was so late. Suppose Miss Pugsley should catch us! You know she goes around and listens at the doors every now and then, and looks through the keyholes to see what is going on."
"Oh, Grace!" said Peggy.
"Fact, I assure you. I sometimes wonder what Miss Russell would say if she knew it. That isn't her own style, you see. The fun of it is, the other never realises that the wheeze gives her away every time."
Grace Wolfe had the ears of a fox; but, in the pause that followed, even Peggy heard, or fancied she heard, a breathing outside the door. It was only for an instant, if, indeed, it had been at all; yet in another moment a board creaked somewhere along the corridor, and again in a moment came the slight but unmistakable sound of a closing door.
Grace laughed, and pirouetted merrily on one foot, looking in the moonlight like a glimmering sprite.
"Oh, Grace!" repeated Peggy, aghast."Was she—could she have been there, do you think?"
"She could very easily have been there. Innocent," replied the Scapegoat. "Indeed, she was. I saw the glitter of her eye, and a sweet thing it was."
"Oh, but how could you? how dared you? Surely, you will get into dreadful trouble, Grace."
"Not I!" said Grace. "She can't report me, you observe, without saying that she was listening at the door. And even if she did, Miss Russell would ask her what I said, and she would be sad and sorry to relate that. No! this time I am safe enough, my Prairie Flower. But come, now that I am here, shall we be merry?
"The owl is abroad, the bat, and the toad,And so is the catamountain.
"Shall the Goat be lacking on such a night as this, or the Wolf either? One has one's responsibilities toward one's names. Come, Innocent, we'll go abroad and celebrate my victory over my Puggy!"
Grace's tone was as quiet as ever, but she was more excited than Peggy had ever seen her. Her eyes shone; her hair, which was very beautiful, was unbraided for some reason—one never knew what whim would seize the whimsical one—and hung like a mantle about her shoulders. Standing thus, with her hand on the window, she looked, as I have said, like a creature from another world.
"Come!" she repeated; and Peggy had never heard sweeter music than her voice.
"Do you—do you think I ought to?" stammered the freshman, moving toward the window.
"One owes it to the catamountain!" cried Grace. "As for the owls,—well, they will be abroad!" she added, with a low laugh. "They would be far enough abroad if they knew. Come, Innocent!"
She glided out of the window, and Peggy followed, her heart beating to suffocation, her cheeks glowing with excitement. To be chosen by the Lone Wolf (for this was another of the wild girl's nicknames, the third being Ishmael) as the companion of one of her solitary rambleswas perhaps the most thrilling thing that had ever come into Peggy's simple life. Probably she would have had courage to resist an invitation from any of the frolicsome parties that came and went through her room; she had no power to resist this. Silently she followed the Scapegoat down the iron ladder of the fire-escape, across the lawn, out into the open road.
Grace turned to her with one of her sudden movements, and took both her hands.
"The world's before us, where to choose!" she cried. "What shall it be, Innocent? Shall we climb up into the tower and ring the fire-bell? or go for apples? This is your first expedition, you shall choose."
"Oh, no, Grace; please! I don't know. I cannot. I'll go wherever you go, that's all!"
The Scapegoat meditated. "On the whole," she announced, "soda seems to be the thing. We'll go and have some soda, Innocent."
"Go down-town?" gasped Peggy.
"Yes; why not? Only to Mrs. Button's. You know she is the college grandmother;why shouldn't she be ours? Many's the time Granny Button has sheltered me from the wrath to come. Besides, I have had no marshmallows for a week. A vow, a vow! I have a vow in heaven to have marshmallows once a week, merely for the honour of the school."
Granny Button, as she was called, kept a neat little shop at the corner of the High Street. Here she dispensed soda-water, candy, and cakes to the students of school and college. She was a little old woman, with a face like a dry but still sound winter apple, and she shook her head reprovingly as the two girls entered.
"Now, Miss Wolfe!" she said. "You hadn't ought to come here at this time, now you hadn't, my dear. What do you want? I declare, I've most of a mind not to give it to you, for a wild slip as you are. What would Miss Russell say if she should come in this blessed minute, Miss Grace?"
"Ah, but she won't, granny!" said Grace, coolly. "She's gone to a lecture, you see, so it is all right, truly it is.