"'Der dickere Mann,Des dickeren Mannes,Dem dickeren Manne,Den dickeren Mann.'"
"You seem to have learned it, anyhow," said Peggy, laughing.
"Oh, but that isn't all!" said Rose. "There is more horror. It goes on, you know:
"'Die dickeren Männer,Der dickeren Männer,Den dickeren Männern,Die dickeren Männer.'"
"I think foreign languages are the silliest things in the world!" declared Peggy. "Well, I do! Such perfect foolishness as they talk! I have no patience with them."
"Well, but Peggy, they aren't foreign when they are at home!" protested Ethel.
"Well, then, I wish they would stay at home. I don't know whether German is so bad, though that sounds awful, all that you said just now, Rose; but I have French; and I have to try to mince and simper, and twist my mouth up into all kinds of shapes, just saying things that are too silly tobesaid. I wish there was a law that no one in this country should ever speak anything but English. It would be ever so much more sensible."
"So it would!" assented Rose. "I say! what a pity we didn't think to bring something to eat! I'm awfully hungry, walking all this way."
"All this way, Rose!" said Peggy. "Why, how far do you think it is?"
"Oh, four or five miles, I'm sure!"
"Well, it isn't two. Look here, girls,what is the reason none of you seem to know how to walk?"
"What do you mean? We have walked, haven't we? Here we are."
"Oh, you call this a walk! that's just it, I tell you. You walk a mile, or two at the very most, and you think you have done something wonderful; and poor Viola is all tired out, and says she will never come again. Well, but this isn't whatIcall walking, you know. Why, I went with the Owls the other day, and we walked fifteen miles if we did a step, and it was perfectly glorious.That'swhatIcall walking, and I do wonder how it is that none of you ever learned. You are all strong and well, aren't you?"
Yes, they were all strong and well; except Viola, who still declared she had got her death, and should never recover.
"Well, but what's the use?" asked Rose. "I think this is great fun, to come to a pretty place like this, and sit and talk and look at the view; but just to go on walking and stalking along the way you and the Owls do,—what's the use of it? We are not ostriches,and why should we pretend we are? Besides, it takes such a lot of time."
"And what would you be doing with your time?" asked Peggy, hotly. "Reading stories, or just sitting, sitting, and talking, talking. My goodness graciousme!the way some of the girls just sit around all their spare time, doing nothing, makes me tired. Why, if I hadn't stalked, as you call it, how would you have come here to-day, and seen the prettiest place you ever saw since you came here—for it is, and you can't deny it, girls. I do hate to see people doing nothing. I don't much care what they do, so long as it issomething!"
"Peggy, you're getting very ferocious, do you know it?" said Clara Fair. "And, after all, we did come, and now we are doing just as much as you are, and why are you shouting at us?"
"I won't shout any more," said Peggy, laughing. "I suppose we all have our hobbies, haven't we? Walking is one of mine; and you are going to like it just as much as I do, girls, before we get through the term.Why, there are about twenty of the loveliest walks, and none of them—hallo!"
Peggy stopped abruptly, and seemed to listen.
"What's the matter?" asked Rose. "I didn't hear anything."
"I thought I did," said Peggy, quietly. "Be still a minute, will you?"
She bent her head. There was a moment of perfect silence; then, somewhere close at hand, a singular dry, rattling sound.
"What a queer noise!" said Ethel. "What is it?"
"It's time to go home, girls!" said Peggy. "You'd better start along, and I'll come behind you. Come, Viola, give me your hand—so! Now take her, Rose, and hurry along! Lobelia, go with them, will you?"
"What upon earth is the matter, Peggy Montfort?" asked Rose, eyeing her curiously. "What do you want to get us out of the way for? I believe you have found something, and want to keep it to yourself."
"Rose,pleasego!" said Peggy, earnestly. "I am coming, I tell you. No, not there!that way—along by the big pine. Keep away from the rock—so! Now hurry, and I'm coming right along."
The girls hardly knew why they obeyed; but there was such a singular earnestness in Peggy's look and gesture that they did not stay to question her, but one and all—or so it seemed—turned and hastened down the side of the hill.
No sooner were their backs turned than Peggy, whose keen eyes had been fixed all this time on one spot, moved swiftly behind a great rock that stood close by. There, stooping, she sought with eager hands and eyes; sought and found a stout stick. She tried its strength—it was strong and tough. Then warily she came back, and looked once more at the pile of withered leaves that had riveted her attention before. The pile seemed to move—to undulate; and from it came once more the dry, rattling sound. Something reared itself, brown and slender; at the same instant a shriek rang through the wood. It did not come from Peggy's lips. Like a flash, the girl had sprung forward, and caughtthe snake's neck under her crotched stick, just as he was raising himself to strike. Pinned firmly to the earth, the creature could only twist and wriggle in impotent rage. Looking around coolly, Peggy saw Lobelia's face peering around the trunk of a tree, pale with horror.
"Well!" said Peggy. "You are a nice obedient child, aren't you? Since you are there, you might get me a good stone; he's all right; he can't get his head round."
Gasping and trembling, Lobelia found and brought a stone, which she held out at arm's length.
"Oh, Peggy!" she whispered. "Is it—is it a rattlesnake?"
"That's what!" said Peggy, relapsing into slang in the absorption of the moment. "He won't be a rattlesnake much longer, though. There! now you can look, Lobelia; he's dead. I tell you he's dead, as dead as Julius Cæsar. What are you crying for, child?"
Lobelia came forward, trembling and cringing.
"Oh, Peggy, I knew it was. I didn't sayanything, because I thought you wouldn't want me to—"
"Quite right," said Peggy. "Sensible rabbit!"
"And—and I am terribly afraid of snakes—oh, I was sure you would be killed, Peggy!"
"And so you came back to be killed with me? Lobelia, what a foolish girl you are. There, there, don't cry. Why, the snake isn't crying, and he really has been killed."
"Oh, Peggy, if you had been killed, I should have died. I shouldn't have needed any snake to kill me."
"Nonsense!" said Peggy, gruffly. "Lobelia, do stop crying. My goodness graciousme, come along, or we shall have them all back again after us. I'm going to bring him too, and get Colney to dry him for me. He's a beauty! look at him, Lobelia! Not look at him? Why, I tell you he's dead, as dead as—who was he?—the Father of Lies! Come along, now."
All was quiet in No. 18, Corridor C. It was the room directly above Peggy; and was tenanted, as we have seen, by Lobelia Parkins. Lobelia was in bed at this moment, though it was before the usual bedtime. She had felt ill and dizzy-brained for several days, and Peggy had begged her to go to bed early and get a good long sleep. Peggy herself lay on a mattress on the floor. It was against the rule, but for once the law-abiding Peggy was wilfully breaking the rule. She felt strong in Miss Russell's confidence in her; and she meant to find out who and what it was that was "frightening Lobelia silly," as she expressed it. Accordingly, here she was, in her wrapper, with a blanket rolled around her. The night was warm, and the window was thrown wide open, Peggy having been broughtup to love fresh air. Lobelia shivered, but would rather have frozen stiff than say a word, if Peggy preferred to have the room cold. Each girl hoped the other was asleep. Lobelia hardly dared to breathe; she lay still as a mouse, feeling a delightful sense of comfort and security, such as she had not felt since she came to this nightmare of a place. Not to be alone any more, with the night and the terrible things it brought; to have this friend, so strong, so kind, so helpful, lying close beside the bed, ready to help, to comfort,—Lobelia's poor shrinking spirit took courage, and she held her breath now and then, for the pure pleasure of hearing Peggy's calm, regular breathing. Surely she must be asleep! She could not breathe like that unless she were sleeping quietly. Oh, might nothing happen to break her friend's rest!
Peggy was very nearly asleep, it was true. She had meant to stay awake as long as there was any possibility of any one's coming into the room. She was valiantly wide awake at first, and lay blinking at the moon, which Was shining in the most obliging manner fullupon the spot where she lay. Peggy wondered what those mountains were like which made the strange figures on the broad, silver disk. They must be tremendous! Think of them, miles high, with deep, awful valleys between, and all dead and white and dry like bone. And all they seemed to be good for now was for us to make faces and things out of, and stories—to please—the—children. Peggy was getting very sleepy. She opened her eyes wider, and stared harder at the moon. It seemed to be staring back. They were certainly eyes, not—mountains—and one of them was winking at her; and now she seemed to hear a sound, a voice, coming from far, far—ages away, and saying, whispering—
Then, all in a moment, sleep, and the moon and its mountains were as if they had never been.
The door opened, swiftly and noiselessly, and some one darted in,—a tall, slender figure, with gray drapery over the head and shoulders. It turned and halted, facing the door. Peggy sprang up in bull-dog silence,and was about to fling herself bodily on the intruder; but an arm thrown out, a familiar gesture, a whispered word, checked her, and she stood motionless, hardly drawing breath. Next moment footsteps were heard in the corridor, as of some one hastening, and making every effort to be silent. The door was pushed hastily open, and Miss Pugsley stood on the threshold. She was panting, and her dress was disarranged.
"Ah!" she cried, in a spiteful whisper. "I have caught you at last, have I? I know you, miss! No need to hide your face! I know you well enough, and this is the end of your fine doings. Lift up that veil, I command you!"
The gray figure advanced toward her one step, and lifted the veil; and even Peggy's stout heart turned to water within her. Miss Pugsley recoiled with a wild shriek from the waxen countenance, the hollow burning eyes, the fleshless, grinning lips; recoiled, staggered, and fled back moaning along the corridor. The gray figure dropped its veil and darted in pursuit. Peggy, running tothe door, saw them vanish around the corner; then she returned, to find Lobelia fallen into a dead faint, her head hanging over the side of the bed.
As she bent over her anxiously, rubbing her hands and trying to rouse her, a single board creaked in the corridor; next moment the gray figure entered again, this time quietly and without hurry. The veil was thrown back, revealing a well-known face. The hideous death's head was now carried in the hand.
"Sorry if I alarmed you, Innocent!" said Grace Wolfe. "What in the name of unreason are you doing here?"
"Oh, Grace, she has fainted!" cried Peggy. "Help me! Bring some water, do!"
Grace vanished again, and was back in two minutes with water and smelling-salts. As they bent over the unconscious girl, bathing her temples and holding the salts to her nose, a few hurried sentences were exchanged.
"What was it? What have you there, Grace?"
"'OH, GRACE, SHE HAS FAINTED!'""'OH, GRACE, SHE HAS FAINTED!'"
"Oh, nothing; merely Colney's skull; nother own, you understand, but that of her charmer."
"But—but the eyes glared! I saw them glare, like fire."
"Phosphorus, my sweet babe! Hast no chemistry to thy name? 'Twere well to mend thy ways."
"And why—what were you doing, Grace? Oh, see what you have done! Look at this poor child, and tell me why you came to play such pranks in her room."
Peggy's voice was stern enough. She forgot her love and admiration for Grace; she only saw what seemed like wanton cruelty toward a forlorn and helpless creature, and her blood was up.
Grace shrugged her shoulders.
"I am sorry," she said. "I am even very sorry, Innocent. What more would you have? I didn't mean to come in; indeed, I had no thought of the little creature at all. I had a vow that the next time that woman looked through my keyhole she should repent it. I think she did. If she does it again, I'll shoot her; I've just told her so."
"Why—how did you know? What did she do?"
"Oh, child, I can't always tell you how I know things. I feel them in my bones. This is full moon, and it was borne in upon me that she thought I would be up to something to-night, and would be upon the watch; so I went on the watch, too. I arranged a pretty scene of confusion in my room, open window, things all thrown about,—just as it would look if I had been having a lark; left the light burning, went and borrowed this soulful smiler, and treated it a little,—no, Colney knows nothing about it; no use in getting her into trouble; then I took my mosquito-netting mantle, and hid in the broom-closet near my door. Sure enough, I hadn't been there long when along comes my Puggy, in felt slippers, and looks in at my keyhole. I waited, to make sure, then I came gliding past, without observing her, you see, corridor being pretty dark. She observed me, however, and pursued. I led her quite a pretty dance, till I thought her breath would be getting short, and then I turned in here, partly because itwas handy, partly because—well, I have been in the habit of passing through here, when the kid was asleep. See! she's opening her eyes. Speak to her, you! She's more used to you."
Peggy lifted Lobelia's head into her lap. "How are you now, dear?" she asked, stroking the thin hair affectionately. "Lobelia, it's Peggy! You are all right; there's no one here, no one to hurt you. That—that was only a trick, Lobelia."
Lobelia moaned, but made no reply. Grace leaned forward. "Peggy is right," she said, softly. "It was a trick, Lobelia, and not meant for you at all. I—I never thought about you, I'm afraid. Do you feel better now? I'm truly sorry, my dear."
There was no answering look of intelligence in Lobelia's face. She lay shivering, with wide, frightened eyes.
"Oh, Grace, I'm afraid she's ill!" said Peggy. "See! she doesn't seem to know us. What shall we do? Lobelia! Do look at me! Do speak to me! Oh, Grace, what shall we do? Where are you going?"
"I am going to call Miss Russell," said Grace.
Miss Russell came presently, and looked very grave when she saw Lobelia's face, which was now flushed with fever, her eyes still staring wide, as if they saw some dreadful vision.
"What has happened?" she said, briefly. "I must have the truth!"
Grace told her the truth, every word, not keeping back anything: merely adding that Peggy had nothing to do with it all.
"And what were you doing here, Peggy?" asked Miss Russell.
Peggy explained. "I meant to tell whatever I found out, to-morrow, Miss Russell," she added. "I thought you would want me to discover what—what had been going on."
Miss Russell nodded. "Go to your rooms now, girls," was all she said. "Or—no; Peggy, ask Miss Cortlandt to send at once for Doctor Hendon. Grace, you will remain in your room till I come to you."
Grace tried to rise in obedience; but the sick girl grasped her dress, and held it tight."Don't leave me," she said, in a hardly audible whisper.
"You don't want me, you poor thing!" said Grace; and though she spoke low, her tone was very bitter. "Let me go, and you shall never see me again. Don't trouble about me, Miss Russell. I'll pack my trunk, and be off in the morning before any one is awake."
"You will do as I tell you," said Miss Russell, quietly. "Peggy, go quickly! Now, my poor child, let me take your hand. Move softly, Grace, and I think you can slip away."
Grace tried once more to loosen the hold of the cramped, skinny hand, but Lobelia only clutched the tighter; and now, in her delirium, she caught Grace's hand with her other one, and held it tight, tight. "Don't leave me!" she muttered. "Peggy, Peggy, don't leave me!"
Upon this, Grace looked up at Miss Russell; the hard, defiant look was gone, the wild blue eyes were swimming in tears. "Let me stay," she murmured. "Miss Russell, let me stay with her. I'll go away after she gets well.She thinks I am Peggy, and you know I am a good nurse. Let me stay and take care of her, and I will bless you all my life, even if I never see you again."
"You shall stay," said Miss Russell. "My poor Grace, this may be the hardest and heaviest punishment I could give you. You shall stay, and see what your cruel and wilful carelessness has brought to pass. God help us and you!"
In the dreadful days that followed, Grace Wolfe hardly left the sick girl's side. The doctor came, and pronounced the trouble a brain fever, brought on by fear and worry. A trained nurse came and took charge. Lobelia submitted to her care, but her one conscious instinct was that of clinging to Grace. Whether, as seemed most probable, she took her for Peggy, or whether she simply felt and craved the magnetism of the wild girl's touch and presence, they could not tell; but she was never quiet save when Grace's hand was resting on her. Her aunt came, her sole living relative; and seeing her, poor Lobelia was explained. Prim, fussy, and forbidding, her rich dress showing the same utter tastelessness that marked that of her niece, Miss Parkins was not thewoman one would have chosen to be the mother of a girl like Lobelia. She looked at the sick girl, and said it was very unfortunate; she was always having illnesses, and had given them no end of anxiety.
"She has had everything that money could buy!" she said, over and over. "It has never seemed to make any difference; her mother was the same sort of person, unreasonable, always wanting what she couldn't have. My brother had a great deal of trouble with her, and Lobelia is like her. I have tried to do my duty by her. Do you think she will get well, doctor?"
"Yes, I do think she will get well!" replied Doctor Hendon, glaring at her in a way that made Miss Russell feel alarm for her safety. "I think she will get well if she stays here, and has care and tenderness and sympathetic treatment. You are her sister?" He turned upon Grace, who sat beside the bed, passing her light hand over the sick girl's forehead with smooth, regular strokes.
"No," said Miss Russell. "This is one of the pupils, Miss Wolfe. She—was in theroom when this attack came on, and Lobelia has clung to her from the first in a singular manner. I did not dare to remove her, and so, as you see, she has simply stayed here, helping the nurse."
"I see!" said the doctor. "I suppose she was—hum! stay close by her!" this was to Grace. "You have a touch, I see. Probably you have been kind to her,—poor, forlorn, miserable little creature as ever I saw in my life!" The last words were hurried out as if they were one, in a gruff, not to say savage whisper.
Grace looked up at him. "I am the cause of her illness," she said, quietly. "I have never been kind to her, or taken any notice of her. I have come through her room, using it for a passage when I was breaking bounds, and have frightened her—to death."
The doctor looked at her under his bushy eyebrows. "That may all be so!" he said. "All the same, you may now have the chance of saving her life. Stay by her, that's all I have to say to you."
"And what have you to say to me, doctor?"asked Miss Parkins. "I have a great responsibility. Lobelia will inherit a large fortune if she lives. She has had everything that money—"
"You can go home!" said Doctor Hendon, with a sudden movement suggestive of biting. "Go home, and stay there—I—mean, have things ready for her when she is ready for a change. Good morning! Ya-ouw!" this last was a manner of snarl with which he favoured Miss Parkins as he trotted out of the room. The lady stared after him. "Is he a little touched?" she asked. "He doesn't seem quite sane."
Miss Russell assured her that Doctor Hendon was eminently sane, and got her out of the room as soon as possible.
Grace remained, and hour by hour kept her watch at the sick girl's pillow, laying her magic touch on the burning brow, singing the soft songs that seemed more than anything else to soothe the sufferer. So sitting, hour by hour, day after day, the old life seemed to slip away from Grace Wolfe. She felt it going, felt the change coming on spirit andthought, but made no effort to hinder the change. All the restlessness, the wild longing for freedom, the beating her head against the friendly bars,—where was it now? She was content to sit here, watching with the nurse the changes that came over the face of their patient. They talked together in low voices which soothed rather than disturbed; one asking, the other relating, the woman of experience and the eager girl exchanged thoughts and confidences. Many times in the day the girls came to the door, Peggy and the Owls, and now and then an anxious, frightened freshman. Peggy had longed to assist in the nursing, but she had too heavy a hand, and hers was not the gift. Gertrude Merryweather had it, and she sometimes took Grace's place, and sent her down for a breath of fresh air and a run with Bertha or Peggy on the lawn. Grace went obediently, for she knew she must keep up her strength; but she was always back again at the first possible instant, and her thoughts never seemed to go with her, but stayed at her post.
"My dear," said Miss Russell once, "I cannot let you wear yourself out. Let Gertrude watch to-night while Miss Carter rests!" But Grace only said, "I'd give my life if I could, Miss Russell. She's going to get well if my life can do it!" and Miss Russell, looking into the blue eyes and meeting the spirit of resolution that shone there, could only kiss the girl's cheek and pass on.
Lobelia was very ill, and a shadow hung over the whole school. Lessons went on as usual, but the girls spoke low in their recitations, and there was an unconscious hurry in both teachers and pupils, all anxious to get through, to ask and hear the last tidings from the sickroom. In those days, too, teachers and pupils learned to know each other as never before. The grave women who cared so much—so strangely much, it often seemed—whether a lesson were well or ill learned, who made such a fuss about trifles, and set such hard tasks, and made such unreasonable rules, behold! they were just as anxious and troubled as if Lobelia had been one of their own number, instead of the most insignificantfreshman in the whole school. Miss Boyle was not simply a mathematical machine, Rose Barclay found out. She really cared about them, cared enough to call them into her room, and want to hear all about that last walk, when Peggy had killed the rattlesnake,—oh, how brave Peggy had been,—and how poor Lobelia had seen it, too, and with her inborn terror of snakes had perhaps got the first panic that, after brooding and brooding, and being added to the terror by nights, had ended in this.
Miss Pugsley was gone. Her departure had hardly been noticed, was well-nigh forgotten by this time; but Colney Hatch found Miss Mink sniffing mouse-like sniffs in a corner, and wept with her, and offered her a live bat that she had just caught, by way of consolation. But their tears were for Grace, for they hardly knew Lobelia save by sight.
As for Miss Russell and Emily Cortlandt, they were the life and stay of the school in these days. Steadfast and cheerful, always hopeful, bringing forward every favourable symptom and sharing it with the wholeschool; not a girl of all the seventy-odd who did not feel their sympathy and friendship like strong hands ready to take theirs and uphold them.
One day, when things were at the worst, Peggy found Viola in her room, crying on the divan.
"What is the matter?" she asked, rather briefly. Viola's troubles seemed microscopic in this time of heart-wringing anxiety.
Viola raised her head, and her eyes were red with weeping.
"They say she's going to die, Peggy!" she said.
"Nonsense!" said Peggy, gruffly. "Who says so?"
"Oh, all the girls. They say Doctor Hendon shook his head when he went out this morning; you know that's a very bad sign. Oh, Peggy, I wish I had been good to the poor little thing. You have always been good to her. I don't believe you suffered as much as I did from her clothes, but I wish I had been good to her all the same. Peggy, if she gets well, I'm going to do over her hatsfor her, and try to make her look different. Peggy, where are you going? Don't leave me! Lobelia is going to die, and I feel so frightened."
"I don't believe she is going to die," said Peggy. "I am going to the study to see Miss Russell; come with me if you like, V."
Viola crept along beside her, cowering in Peggy's shadow as they passed the door of the sick-room. Peggy paused to listen. From within came the sound of soft singing, and the faint rustle of a wood fire. What was Grace singing? one of the quaint French songs that she loved,—
"Trois anges sont venus ce soir,M'apportaient de bien belles choses;L'un d'eux avaient un encensoir,Le deuxième un chapelet de roses.Et le troisième avait en mainUne robe toute fleurie,De perles, d'or et de jasmin,Comme en a Madame Marie.Noël! Noël!Nous venons du ciel,T'apporter ce que tu desires;Car le bon Dieu,Au fond du ciel bleu,A chagrin lorsque tu soupires!"
The two girls crept softly past, Viola wiping the tears from her eyes. They went down to the study, and, knocking gently, were bidden to enter. Miss Russell and Miss Cortlandt were sitting together, and at their feet sat the Snowy and the Fluffy Owls, curled up on two hassocks. Peggy looked in timidly.
"Come in, Peggy!" said Miss Russell's cheerful voice. "Who is that with you? Oh, Viola? come in, my dear! Do you want anything?"
"No, Miss Russell," said Peggy. "I—I just wanted to come in, that was all."
"So did we!" said the Fluffy. "We just came, and we feel so much better. Sit down here, Peggy."
She patted the floor beside her, and Peggy and Viola sat down. Peggy heaved a sigh of relief. "I thought you would let us come," she said. "It's so dreadful not to be able to do anything, isn't it, Miss Russell? If wecould help in any way, or feel that we were doing anything at all, it wouldn't be so bad. I came by the door just now, and Grace was singing, and it all sounded so quiet and peaceful. You think it is all going well, don't you, Miss Russell? You don't think she is worse to-day, do you, Miss Russell?"
Miss Russell put back Peggy's hair, which had fallen into her eyes as she looked up eagerly. "Dear," she said, "I was just telling Gertrude and Bertha how it is. Doctor Hendon thinks there will be a change to-day; he thinks the crisis is coming. It is a time of great danger, but he has good hope, and we must have it, too. And, girls, you are all longing to help; now, you can help us to-day. You can help very much indeed. The house must be kept absolutely quiet this afternoon. The girls are in their rooms now; but if you could get them off for a walk, some of them, and send the rest to the gymnasium, you would be doing us all a service. Miss Cortlandt is going to the gymnasium, and she will give them a drill, or let them dance, if they like—you don't think they feel likedancing? No more do I! I shall not leave Lobelia's room myself till the change comes; I am going back there now, as soon as the doctor comes. Ah! there he is now! Remember, dear girls, quiet; and for the rest, hope and patience—and trust!"
She kissed them each in turn, quietly and gravely, and was gone. Turning to Emily Cortlandt, they saw that her eyes were full of tears; yet she spoke cheerfully. "Miss Russell is so wise, girls!" she said. "I am sure you will do all you can—it is an anxious time. One thing she forgot to say,—I wouldn't let the other girls know, if you can help it, how grave the danger is. Some of them are nervous, and might have hysterics, or even be ill. Viola, my child, you look very pale. Don't you feel well?"
Viola was trembling all over. She came close to Miss Cortlandt and nestled up to her like a little child. "I'm afraid!" she said, simply. "I never was near where anybody died. I'm dreadfully afraid, Miss Cortlandt."
Very gently Emily Cortlandt spoke thento the frightened child, and to the other three girls, whose strong, sensible faces were grave enough, but who were able to possess themselves in courage and quiet. She told them some of her thoughts, the thoughts of a gentle Christian woman; of the hope and love and promise that made death seem to her only the white door that led into life, a life toward which we must all look, and for which we must shape ourselves as we pass through this world of joy and sorrow. She told them of young lives which had seemed cruelly cut off here; and of how it was her thought that death had been to them not the end, but the beginning; and of the lovely light they had shed behind them, of gentleness and hope and love. Then she spoke more brightly, and told them how strong, after all, life was in the young, and how one could always hope, while even a spark remained. Doctor Hendon had good hope, she repeated, and they must have it, too.
"And now," she said, "I must go, and you must go, too. Find the girls quietly, and bring them to me, or take them out for oneof your good walks; and let us, whatever we do, do it cheerfully!"
Faithfully the Owls and Peggy laboured, that November afternoon. First they soothed and comforted Viola, finishing the good work that Miss Cortlandt had begun; and they induced her to go to the gymnasium and take a party with her. Then they went about softly from door to door through the corridors, not spreading any alarm, merely saying that Miss Russell thought they would all better go out, as the afternoon was so fine, and that they were to go quietly, as Lobelia might be asleep. Before long, without noise or confusion, the whole school was out, either in the gymnasium or on the road. The walkers divided into three parties, Peggy leading the freshmen, Gertrude the juniors, while Bertha marshalled the sophomores, who came like lambs, half proud, half shy, at being under the leadership of the renowned Fluffy. The seniors, of course, could be trusted to take care of themselves. They were a small class, and somehow—as happens in every school with one class andanother—had never made themselves a power; they had gone now with the rest to the gymnasium.
Peggy, as she walked at the head of her troop, tried to feel her cousin Margaret's hand in hers. Always humble, and distrustful of her own powers, she tried hard to think what Margaret would do in her place. She would tell stories, probably, wonderful stories of heroes and great deeds. Ah! but Peggy did not know the stories in the books; they never stayed by her. Well, then, she must tell what she did know! She found herself talking about her home life, the home on the great Western ranch; of her father and brothers, and the many feats in their strong, active life. Here, if she had only known it, were stories better than any in Margaret's books. How Brother Jim hunted the white wolf for three days in the mountains; how Hugh set the trap for the young grizzly, and more wonderful, how he tamed him and made him his friend and servant; how Father Montfort saved the three men who were snowed up in Desolation Gulch, and broughtthem out one by one on his shoulders, just as their last biscuit was gone and they had sat down to die,—on and on went the tale, for it was a story without an end. On and on went the girls, too, unconscious of their going, forgetting to think they were tired, forgetting everything save the joy of listening. The shadows were lengthening fast when Peggy, still relating, turned her face homeward, wondering with thankfulness, as she noted the position of the sun, how she had been able to take them so far without once hearing a groan or a sigh of weariness. She looked around, and saw only sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. "A month ago," she thought, "they would have said I had almost killed them. They really are hardening, and I'm so glad!"
"Oh, go on, Peggy!" cried Rose Barclay. "You are never going to stop there! What became of the one with the wooden leg? We must know!"
On went the story, and on went the girls; the sun sank lower and lower, the shadows crept longer and longer, the air grew cool andthin with the coming night. The man with the wooden leg had chopped it up for fuel, and Father Montfort had brought him and all the others in triumph to the ranch, and set them down by the fire, when— "Oh, dear me!" cried Ethel Fair. "What a shame, girls! Here we are at the gate. I say! let's go on a little farther, Peggy."
But Peggy was wise, and knew when to stop; besides, now that she was near the house again, the anxiety and distress that had been lulled by the walk and the story-telling, came back like a flood, and filled her heart. They were crossing the lawn; what tidings would greet them at the door? Some one was standing there now; Miss Cortlandt, was it? no, Miss Russell herself. She was waiting for them with the news; would it be good or bad? Peggy hung back for an instant; then she walked steadily forward. "Quiet, girls!" was all she said. "I think Miss Russell has something to tell us."
They were at the foot of the steps now; and Miss Russell was coming down to meet them, running, the grave and stately woman,to meet them, like a girl. Her hands were outstretched, her face was all aglow with joy, the glad tears ran down her cheeks.
"It is over!" she whispered. "Softly, my dear children. Come softly in. The crisis is over, and the child will live! Come with me, and let us thank God together!"
It was a month later. The first snow had fallen, and the lawn was white with it, and all the trees and bushes powdered with frost. Coming out of the class-room one day, her heart singing of sines and cosines and tangents, Peggy found the Snowy and the Fluffy waiting for her at the door, with radiant faces.
"Oh, what?" cried Peggy. "A letter?"
"Yes," said Gertrude. "It has just come, though the postmark is two or three days ago. Where shall we go to read it? Your room, Peggy? So we will; it's nearer than the Nest, and I know you can't wait."
Grace's letters were indeed things to wait for in those days. She had gone to Lobelia'shome with her; for, on coming to herself, the invalid had still clung to her new friend, with a persistency strange in one so timid and fearful. Convalescence came, with its unwilling fretfulness, its fits of unreason. Still Lobelia clung to Grace, and no one else could make her listen and obey. The nurse laughed, and said she might as well go, and leave her diploma with Miss Wolfe; yet stayed, for the two worked together in pleasant harmony and friendship. At last, Doctor Hendon ordered a change of scene, and now, too, Grace must go with her. The Parkins mansion was within driving distance of Pentland; the whole school had turned out to see the departure, the sick girl lying on cushions, her thin face already showing the signs of returning health, and really transfigured by the light of love and gratitude that beamed from it, as she looked from Grace to Peggy, and back again to Grace. She beckoned to Peggy, who pressed to her side and bent over her. "What is it, dear?" she whispered.
"Peggy!"
"Yes, Lobelia."
"Peggy, you don't mind?"
"Mind what? I don't mind anything, now that you are getting well."
"You—you were my first friend, the only friend I had. You don't mind—that I love her? I couldn't help it, Peggy. She kept me alive, you see. Often and often, when I was drifting away, and ready to die, she held me, and would not let me go. You are sure you don't mind, Peggy?"
Peggy kissed her heartily, and told her not to talk nonsense. "If you didn't love her," she said, "I'd have nothing to do with you, Lobelia Parkins. Do you hear that? Nothing! I wouldn't speak to you in the street, if I met you."
Lobelia smiled, and leaned back on the cushions with closed eyes and a look of absolute content. "You are so funny, Peggy!" she murmured. "She is funny, too. I like people who are funny. Good-bye, and thank everybody. Everybody is so kind!"
The carriage drove away, and the last thing the girls saw was Grace's face, looking down at her charge; grave as ever,—Grace rarelysmiled, and they hardly knew the sound of her laugh,—but bright as Lobelia's own with love and purpose and gladness. So they passed out of sight.
And since then had come letters every week, telling of the child's progress; one to Miss Russell always, and one to the Owls or to Peggy. It was one of these that Gertrude took from her pocket now and opened, as they sat together on Peggy's divan.
"You see, it is dated three days ago; probably been carried in a pocket, from the look of it."
"Dear Snowy, also Fluffy:—Tu whit! She has been gaining so fast this week, we shall soon forget she has been ill at all. She can eat anything she likes, and she likes a great deal. Miss P. keeps exclaiming at her appetite. Apparently the child never ate anything before she went to school. The rule of the house is, or was, one shredded wheat Abomination for breakfast, one chop for dinner, one smoked herring for supper. All this served on huge and hideous silver dishes. This order is changed. Miss Parkins almost fainted when I ordered the first meal. She weeps every day over the butcher's book, but the child fattens apace, and all is well. I had to frightenher—the aunt—a little, though, before things went smoothly."Yesterday we explored the house, the Babe and I. The amazing thing is that she lived at all after she got her eyes open. Apparently every article cost a thousand dollars; most awful old mausoleum you can imagine; you never saw such a place, for there couldn't be two. The bed I sleep in has all-round curtains of apple-green plush, with bead fringe three inches deep. The mantelpiece and table-top and so on are gray marble, and the ornaments are two deformed gilt cherubs holding a slop-jar with a clock-face in the middle of it. Also two unspeakable alabaster jugs, three feet high, and two Parian busts under glass cases. They are supposed to be Luther and Melanchthon; I think they are Lucifer and Mammon. Well, the poor little thing is used to it, anddoesn'tknow what is the matter. Wait till Monday week,—I mean till some future day,—and she shall know, but not now. She doesn't think it a homelike house, she says!"I shall be coming back almost any time now, as soon as I can get away. It's dreadful to leave her,—'I'm wae to think upo' yon den, e'en for her sake,'—but I must get back before exams, and she is really all right, only not of course wholly strong yet. She will come back next term; and meanwhile she is to travel with an old servant who was her nurse, and who has some spark of humanity in her composition."I'm coming back, I tell you; at least, something is coming back. I don't say whether it will be the Goat or the Wolf, or what; I'm pretty sure that—"'Lawk a mercy on me,This is none of I!'"Good-bye, you feathered things! How do feathers feel? How do you get about? There are good points about the creature, I can see that; you can see in the dark—but so could the Wolf! and it would be nice to be able to ruffle up your feathers and put a tongue in every wound of Puggy's—but she is gone, isn't she? Alas! and if you don't know Shakespeare when I talk him, why, you are an ignorant set, and don't deserve your names. This is for the Innocent, too, mind! Give her my love, and tell her—never mind; I'll tell her myself."So no more at present, Respected Fowls, from your most obedient, humble servant,"The Hybrid."
"Dear Snowy, also Fluffy:—Tu whit! She has been gaining so fast this week, we shall soon forget she has been ill at all. She can eat anything she likes, and she likes a great deal. Miss P. keeps exclaiming at her appetite. Apparently the child never ate anything before she went to school. The rule of the house is, or was, one shredded wheat Abomination for breakfast, one chop for dinner, one smoked herring for supper. All this served on huge and hideous silver dishes. This order is changed. Miss Parkins almost fainted when I ordered the first meal. She weeps every day over the butcher's book, but the child fattens apace, and all is well. I had to frightenher—the aunt—a little, though, before things went smoothly.
"Yesterday we explored the house, the Babe and I. The amazing thing is that she lived at all after she got her eyes open. Apparently every article cost a thousand dollars; most awful old mausoleum you can imagine; you never saw such a place, for there couldn't be two. The bed I sleep in has all-round curtains of apple-green plush, with bead fringe three inches deep. The mantelpiece and table-top and so on are gray marble, and the ornaments are two deformed gilt cherubs holding a slop-jar with a clock-face in the middle of it. Also two unspeakable alabaster jugs, three feet high, and two Parian busts under glass cases. They are supposed to be Luther and Melanchthon; I think they are Lucifer and Mammon. Well, the poor little thing is used to it, anddoesn'tknow what is the matter. Wait till Monday week,—I mean till some future day,—and she shall know, but not now. She doesn't think it a homelike house, she says!
"I shall be coming back almost any time now, as soon as I can get away. It's dreadful to leave her,—'I'm wae to think upo' yon den, e'en for her sake,'—but I must get back before exams, and she is really all right, only not of course wholly strong yet. She will come back next term; and meanwhile she is to travel with an old servant who was her nurse, and who has some spark of humanity in her composition.
"I'm coming back, I tell you; at least, something is coming back. I don't say whether it will be the Goat or the Wolf, or what; I'm pretty sure that—
"'Lawk a mercy on me,This is none of I!'
"Good-bye, you feathered things! How do feathers feel? How do you get about? There are good points about the creature, I can see that; you can see in the dark—but so could the Wolf! and it would be nice to be able to ruffle up your feathers and put a tongue in every wound of Puggy's—but she is gone, isn't she? Alas! and if you don't know Shakespeare when I talk him, why, you are an ignorant set, and don't deserve your names. This is for the Innocent, too, mind! Give her my love, and tell her—never mind; I'll tell her myself.
"So no more at present, Respected Fowls, from your most obedient, humble servant,
"The Hybrid."
The three girls were silent for a moment after Gertrude had folded the letter again. Then, "Do you suppose she will really be changed?" asked Peggy. "I—I don't think I want Grace to be changed, do you, girls?"
"That depends!" said Bertha, with her chin on her hands, in her favourite judicialattitude. "Of course it would be despair if we should lose her real, true self. If she could only stay Grace Wolfe, and change her point of view, why, then—"
"That is just what she will do, I feel sure of it," said Gertrude, earnestly. "She has been through an experience—oh, we can't know what it has been, girls, because we are just plain people, you know, and Grace is—well, I think she has genius, or something very like it. If only the power and the sweetness and brightness are turned into helping, you see, instead of hindering—oh, how much she can do! and I believe she's going to do it, too. But come, Fluffy, I must go home. Won't you come, Peggy? We have half an hour before study-time."
Peggy followed only too gladly along the corridor; it was always a treat to spend half an hour in the Owl's Nest. Gertrude was first; she opened the door of her room, and paused on the threshold with a low cry. Bertha and Peggy hurried forward and looked over her shoulder—to see a strange sight.
Something—or somebody—was sittingon the window-seat. Something gray and soft. It had a round feathered head, with two feathery horns jutting from it; it had round bright eyes, which blinked curiously at the astonished girls. Below the head were—arms, were they, or wings? They were feathery too, and they drooped over something that might be a skirt, though no feet were visible. In the gathering twilight the figure sat on the window-seat and blinked, looking like nothing that was in heaven or earth; and the three girls stood and stared, holding each other's hands. Presently the silence was broken.
"Bubo Virginianus!" said a grave, melodious voice from under the feathers. "The Great Horned Owl. Description: Large and strongly organised; ear-tufts large, erectile; bill strong, fully curved; wing rather long; third quill usually longest; tail short; legs and toes—"
"Grace!" cried Gertrude Merryweather.
"Tu whit!" replied the figure. "I may also in this connection remark, tu whoo! This well-known bird is a resident in all theNew England schools—I should say States—throughout the year. It is not so common in Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Rhode Island as in the other States, where, in the vast tracts of forest, it is quite abundant. Samuels. Easy there! spare the Plumage!"
The three girls had flung themselves upon the strange figure, which flapped its arms for a moment, as if contemplating flight. Then, waving them off with one arm, it lifted the feathered head, and gazed at them with melancholy blue eyes.
"Tu whit!" repeated the Scapegoat. "I may be allowed,inthis connection, to repeat, tu whoo! Don't kill me, Innocent; I should be less useful dead."
It did seem as if they would hug her to death. They laughed, they cried, they questioned, they talked, all in one breath; no one would have recognised the sedate Owls or the sensible Peggy. Grace regarded them with grave benignity, as she untied the owl's head, and loosed the feathered cape from her shoulders.
"Rather neat, I thought?" she said, turning the head around on her hand. "The beak is a little wobbly, but the general character—eh?—is pretty good? I couldn't manage the toes and claws; there wasn't time, and, besides, they would have excited remark, even if the weather had been warm enough to make them comfortable for travelling. Well, my Snowy, my Fluffy, how is it? Is there room for another Owl in the forest?"
"Oh, Grace!" cried Bertha.
"Oh, my dear!" cried Gertrude; and their arms were around her again, while Peggy sat down on the floor and fairly burst into tears.
Grace was silent for a little, her head resting on Gertrude's shoulder. When she spoke, her voice had not its usual even flow, but hesitated, almost faltered, now and then.
"I am going to try!" she said. "It will take a long time, my Owls, and you will have to be very patient with me. I shall probably never be wholly domesticated, but—but you will help me, and the Innocent here will help me; won't you, Innocent?"
"Oh, Grace, if I only could? but what can I do? I don't see how I can ever do anything!"
"You began it all!" said Grace. "The way you looked—that night I made you go out, little Peggy. You didn't know, but the face of an Innocent can be a terrible thing, and I saw, and knew—things I hadn't known before. No need of going back to that now. But—Snowy—Samuels says I make an amusing pet in captivity. You'll try me?"
"Won't we!" cried the Snowy Owl. "Grace, dear, we'll all try together. Oh, we all have to keep trying, don't we, all our lives long? It wouldn't be worth anything if we didn't have to try, to work and fight for it. It shall be we three against the world,—the Snowy, the Fluffy, and the Horny. No, we four, for what should we do without our Peggy? Get up, Peggy, you ridiculous child; stop crying, and come and sit here close by us."