CHAPTER IX.PHRONSIE SETTLES THE MATTER.
BUT Polly didn’t take Miss Fitzwilliam in charge; for Phronsie came to early breakfast the next morning with her little brown bonnet on, that, with the walking-suit, meant a day in town. “I am going to Berton,” she said, “with Jasper.”
The small red breakfast-room at “The Oaks” was always cosey for the early meal that Jasper took every morning before he grasped the “little publishing bag” and hurried off for his train. Polly sat behind the coffee-urn, pouring a cup for him.
“Why, Phronsie!” she exclaimed in surprise; then she asked, “does Grandpapa know?”
“Yes,” said Phronsie; “I told him last night. I was going to tell you, Polly, but you were busy in the den with Jasper.”
“Then I’ll pour you a cup of coffee,” said Polly.
“No,” said Phronsie; “I’ll have just a glass of milk, the same as every day, Polly.”
“O Phronsie!” remonstrated Polly, “take the coffee, do, dear; it will be a hard day in town.”
But Phronsie shook her head. “Polly,” she said, as she got into her chair, and the butler had gone out and closed the door, as he always did that Polly and Jasper might talk through the meal, “I am going to town to see Miss Fitzwilliam.”
“Phronsie!” exclaimed Polly in great dismay, letting fall her spoon; Jasper set down his cup to look at Phronsie.
“Yes, I am,” said Phronsie, beginning to drink her milk. Then she took a piece of toast and buttered it.
“If you are going to town, Phronsie,” began Polly quickly, “do have a hot chop, dear.”
“No,” said Phronsie; “I do not want it, Polly. I am going to take an orange in my bag. Please, Polly, let me tell you about it.”
Polly looked over at Jasper in despair. His eyes said, “Don’t worry, dear. Perhaps she won’t do it.”
“You see,” said Phronsie deliberately, “MissFitzwilliam must not be left to spread the story about Grace. And she won’t want to when I tell her all about it. She’ll feel sorry that she told in the first place.”
“You don’t know Miss Fitzwilliam, Phronsie, if you say so,” burst out Polly. “She’s the veriest gossip there is in all Berton—or the universe either. It won’t do a bit of good for you to go to see her. She can’t change, child; she’s too old.”
“Ah, but she must,” said Phronsie, shaking her head; “and if nobody tells her how wrong it is to set people against Grace—why, she will go on doing so all the time.”
“Phronsie,” said Polly desperately, and leaning past the coffee-urn, “I can’t bear to have you put yourself in that old gossip’s house. Oh, dear me! why is it that nobody puts her down? Everybody hates her; and then they listen to her stories just the same.”
“That’s just it,” said Jasper, pushing back his chair; “they listen to her stories, Polly, as you say. They’re as bad as she is, every whit.”
“But I can’t see them all, I’m afraid,” said Phronsie, setting down her empty glass. “MissFitzwilliam started it, so I ought to talk with her.”
“Phronsie, does Grandpapa know you’re going to see Miss Fitzwilliam?” asked Polly, seeing here a ray of hope that the visit to town would be given up.
“Oh, yes! did you think I would go to see her without telling Grandpapa, Polly?” asked Phronsie with a grieved look in her brown eyes.
“No, dear,” said Polly hastily.
Then she got out of her chair, and ran around to drop a kiss on Phronsie’s yellow hair; but Phronsie moving just then, the kiss fell on the little bunch of brown flowers on the top of her bonnet. “Dear me!” said Polly with a laugh, “well, I’m sure I’m willing to kiss your bonnet, Phronsie, as it isn’t all decked up with birds’ wings. I knew, of course, you’d tell Grandpapa everything, Phronsie.”
“Oh, I couldn’t wear a bird’s wings on my bonnet; you know I couldn’t, Polly!” exclaimed Phronsie in horror.
“No more could I,” declared Polly. “I should feel as if I’d murdered the sweetest thing on earth, to perk a bird up on my bonnet. Oh, dearme!” aghast at the thought. “Jasper, what shall we do,” as Phronsie got up and went over to the sideboard to get an orange for her bag, “to keep Phronsie from going to town?”
“I don’t believe we better try any more, Polly,” said Jasper, going over to take his wife’s hand. “I really believe it’s best to let Phronsie alone, for she thinks that she ought to go.”
“But that old thing!” began Polly impulsively, “and our Phronsie.”
“It won’t hurt Phronsie,” said Jasper wisely, putting his arm around Polly’s waist, to look into her eyes. “No, Polly, I don’t believe we ought to say any more. Come, Phronsie, are you ready?”
“Yes, I am,” said Phronsie, patting her little bag; “all ready, Jasper. Polly, I’ll get your red wool; you said you didn’t have time yesterday.”
“Oh, you dear!” cried Polly, comforted by Jasper’s words. “But don’t tire yourself, Phronsie; it’s no matter; I can wait.”
“If anybody is going to town with me, she must hurry up; that’s all I say,” called Jasper, giving Polly a kiss and, running off.
Polly ached to say, “Don’t go to Miss Fitzwilliam’s,” as Phronsie set a kiss on her cheek; but remembering Jasper’s words, she smothered the longing with a sigh. “Well, good-by, child,” as Phronsie ran down the path to the dog-cart that was to carry them to the train.
When Phronsie left Jasper as he turned off into the business section, and she waited for the electric car bound for the old residential part of the town, he gave her a bright smile. “Success to you, Phronsie dear! What train are you coming out on?”
“I don’t know,” said Phronsie; “don’t wait for me. I wish you wouldn’t, Jasper.”
“All right. It shall be as you wish, Phronsie. Good-by, dear.” He flashed her another smile, and was off, to plunge into the work of the day.
“I do think Jasper is the dearest brother that ever lived,” said Phronsie to herself as she hurried on her car. A little old woman, whose back was bent, and the ends of whose white hair had escaped from her rusty black bonnet, stood in her way, clutching one of the leather straps that hung from the bar that ran across the top of the car.
“Move up in front,” shouted the conductor, giving a push to the little old woman’s back; “this lady can’t get in.”
Phronsie led the little old white-haired woman to the vacated seatPhronsie led the little old white-haired woman to the vacated seat.
Phronsie led the little old white-haired woman to the vacated seat.
Phronsie led the little old white-haired woman to the vacated seat.
“Never mind,” said Phronsie; “I can stand here just as well.”
“Move up, I say,” repeated the conductor, with another shove.
Thereupon three or four collegians, bound for the university a few miles off, precipitated themselves out of their seats, the fortunate one who was first, hustling against the little old woman in black. “Will you take my seat?” taking off his cap to Phronsie.
“Thank you,” said Phronsie gravely. Then she touched the bent shoulder gently, and took hold of the pinched hand clinging to the strap; the other one she could now see was filled with bundles. “Here is a seat for you;” and before any one could say anything, she had led the little old white-haired woman to the vacated seat, arranged her bundles more comfortably in her lap, and gone down to the end of the car again.
The collegians’ faces got dreadfully red. No one of them dared to try it again, for an old gentleman who had seen it all had gotten out of his seat, and with a courtly bow was proffering it to her.
“Thank you,” Phronsie was saying, refusing it, with a smile. “I really do not mind standing.” And the three collegians melted out suddenly to the front platform, and away the car flew, andPhronsie was soon at the corner down which she was to turn to the three story brick house that had the honor to be owned by Miss Honora Fitzwilliam.
She was in, the trim maid said; and Phronsie gave a sigh of relief, as she stumbled on down the darkened hall, to find a seat in the still more darkened drawing-room, whose door the maid opened deferentially.
“What name?” she asked in the same manner.
Phronsie took out a card from her plain brown leather case. The maid departed, bearing this evidence that Miss Sophronia Pepper, The Oaks, Badgertown, was awaiting Miss Fitzwilliam’s pleasure.
It was fully half an hour before that lady made her appearance, with everything as fresh as possible about her, her side-curls beautifully gotten up. Even the lorgnette was ready.
“Oh! I amso gladto see you, my dear Miss Pepper,” she began effusively, extending both hands, “Phronsie, I may call you, may I not?” Phronsie did not answer, only to say, “Good-morning;” so Miss Fitzwilliam exclaimed hastily, “That stupid Eliza! this room is as black asmidnight.” She stepped to the other side of the apartment, and gave a nervous twitch to the bell. “Let some light into this room,” as the maid came in; “how careless of you not to open the shutters by this time.”
Eliza opened her mouth to say something, but evidently was too frightened to carry out her intention, and throwing the shutters wide, hurried out of the room as if glad to get away.
The morning sunlight flooded the long drawing-room, whose faded coverings looked tired out; several thin places very near to becoming holes could plainly be seen on the furniture, while even the mantel ornaments looked depressed.
Miss Fitzwilliam sprang to her feet, and energetically thrust the shutters half way to. “That stupid Eliza!” she ejaculated again. “I hope, Miss Pepper, that you are not troubled as I am with servants. They are really the plague of my life, although I change every fortnight or so.” Then she came back and sat down on the faded red sofa by Phronsie’s side. “What a most beautiful reception your sister’s was, to be sure!” she cried rapturously. “I always make it a point to exert myself to go to Badgertown whenever shegives one. And I’m so sorry for you, that you were all so annoyed Tuesday by that”—
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” said Phronsie, breaking in to the stream of talk. “I have come to see you about that very thing.” Then she looked steadily into the little steel-gray eyes before her.
“And have you, my dear?” cried Miss Fitzwilliam delightedly. “I suppose you want my advice what to do.” She tried to lay her pinched and restless fingers on the quiet gloved ones in Phronsie’s lap, to show her sympathy; but the young girl not stirring, Miss Fitzwilliam pulled hers back, and went on rapidly, “As it was such an outrageous thing, I would”—
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” Phronsie did not pause now, but went swiftly on to the end, not removing her gaze from the other’s face, “I’ve come to see you about this matter, because I know that after you’ve heard all about it, you’ll be sorry for the young girl who did such a wrong thing. Just think, she’s only sixteen, and she hasn’t been with her mother only vacations when she was home from school, since she was six years old. And as soon as she did it, and got there to the reception, she’d have undone it all if she could,—oh, a thousandtimes! And she made Bella Drysdale take her. Mrs. Drysdale didn’t know anything about it, but thought she was a parlor boarder at Miss Willoughby’s; and Mrs. Atherton didn’t know either. Grace has told it all to us, and that she alone was to blame. It was the first time that she has ever done such a thing, and she didn’t stop to think before she did it. And now she can’t forgive herself; she must always be sorry to the end of her life: so all of us must help her to bear it.”
“Miss Phronsie Pepper!” screamed Miss Fitzwilliam, throwing away her self-control as Phronsie paused, “you don’t mean to say that you think people should take up this Tupper girl; why, I’ve told everybody I could about it! I went around yesterday, and I’m going again this afternoon.” Her thin face glowed, and her pinched-up nose was set high in the air with positive delight.
“I know you did tell them yesterday,” said Phronsie quietly; “but I think you’ll be sorry for that when you come to think it over.”
“Sorry? Indeed, no!” sniffed Miss Fitzwilliam. “I shall get as many as I can to know it before nightfall. It’s my duty. Sorry, indeed!”
Phronsie surveyed her gravely. “You will be very sorry, I think, Miss Fitzwilliam,” she said again quietly; “it will spoil that young girl’s whole life, to repeat that story.”
“And you’ll be very glad,” cried Miss Fitzwilliam shrilly, “that I did take the pains to tell it, and to warn people against such a little impostor. How do you know that she won’t repeat this experiment again at your house?”
“She will not, because”—
“And that stuff about hurting her foot was half of it made up,” said Miss Fitzwilliam; “that’s the reason I wanted to stay and help you. I found her out long before.” She gave a little triumphant cackle; “and I wanted to see her foot, if that wasn’t all a pretence, so”—
“Oh, no, it wasn’t!” said Phronsie, who couldn’t help interrupting; “because she”—
“But you wouldn’t let me stay. However, I have started the story about her, I am glad to say; I suppose she went home soon after, didn’t she?” she asked quickly, greedy for the last bit of news.
“No,” said Phronsie; “she did not.”
“That shows what kind of a girl she is!”exclaimed Miss Fitzwilliam with venom, “after worming herself in there, to hang on until you had to send her home.”
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” said Phronsie so decidedly that Miss Fitzwilliam pulled herself up at the beginning of another harangue, “don’t you understand—can’t you understand, that Grace Tupper is not that kind of a girl at all? She began this as a childish freak; she is most dreadfully sorry for it, and she would give everything—yes, the whole world,” said Phronsie, clasping her hands while her face drooped sorrowfully, “if she hadn’t done it.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Miss Fitzwilliam in disdain. Then she put back her head on her spare shoulders, and laughed loud and long. “Anyway, Miss Pepper, I shall do as I think best about it. And I do think best to tell this story wherever I have a good opportunity.” She set her thin lips together unpleasantly.
“In that case,” said Phronsie, rising, “I will trouble you no further. And will you be so very good, Miss Fitzwilliam, as to discontinue calling at ‘The Oaks’? Grace Tupper is our guest, ourdearguest; and my sister, Mrs. Kingand I hope that she will stay there a long time, for we are both already very fond of her. I will bid you good-morning.”
It was impossible for Miss Fitzwilliam to get her breath to speak. Twice she essayed it, but no words came; and vexed that she had made such a terrible blunder, and with her own hand cut off visiting relations with Mrs. Jasper King and her sister, Miss Pepper, she made another effort, this time even managing a ghastly smile.
“Of course if you are going to take her up, why I will let the matter drop,” she gasped. But Miss Pepper did not appear to notice, nor to observe the outstretched hand, but went swiftly out. On the old-fashioned table in the hall was the morning paper, still unread. Wild with chagrin, Miss Fitzwilliam seized it to divert her mind, as the door closed after Phronsie; and whirling the sheet to the social news, read: “Miss Grace Strange Tupper, niece of Mrs. Carroll Atherton, is the guest of Mrs. Jasper King at ‘The Oaks’ Badgertown.”
When Phronsie completed her round of calls, beginning with Mrs. Coyle Campbell, everybody knew that it was to be the fashion to take upGrace Tupper. And each one vied with the others, to be ahead in the matter of sympathy and help.
Then Phronsie hurried down town to buy Polly’s red worsted.