"I wish I could have all my wishes granted," Theodora said.
She was sitting in her favorite position on the grass beside Billy's lounge, with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her clasped hands. Billy, propped up among his cushions, smiled back at her benignly.
"You'd be most awfully disagreeable to live with," he returned.
"Thank you for the compliment. I'd like to run the risk, though."
"Let me move out of town first," the boy replied teasingly. "But you needn't be greedy; I'd be satisfied to have one wish."
"That's because you don't need so many things as I do."
"It's because I have one thing I want so much more than I do the others," he retorted.
She looked up at him with a sudden flash of tenderness in her eyes.
"I know," she said gently; "but it won't be long."
"Months, though. How would you like it to take a year out of your life?"
Theodora's brows contracted.
"Don't you suppose I ever think about it, Billy Farrington? I should be frantic, if I were in your place, and I don't see how you ever stand it. It makes my wishes seem so small, in comparison. I'd rather be poorer than Job's turkey than spend even one month on my back. Does it hurt; or is it just that you can't do things? Either one is bad enough."
"It hurts sometimes."
"Now?"
He nodded.
"I thought you looked tired, as if something bothered you," Theodora said penitently; "and here I've stayed talking to you, when you'd rather have been by yourself."
"Honestly, no. You make me forget things." He held out his hand in protest, as she started to rise. "Sit down again."
She obeyed him; but she fell silent, as she sat looking up at him. He had more color than usual, she noticed; but there were fine lines between his brows, and his red-gold hair was pushed back from his face, as if its weight irritated him.
"But what are the wishes?" he asked, restive under her scrutiny, and seeking to divert her.
"Oh, I have dozens and dozens; but there are three great big ones which increase in greatness as they go on."
"What are they?" he asked curiously. "You'll get them, if you wait long enough. People always do."
"I don't believe it. These are all impossible, and I never expect to get them; but I want them, all the same. I want—" She hesitated, laughing and blushing a little. "You'll make fun of me."
"No, I won't. Go on and tell."
"I want a bicycle first. Then I want to go to college." She hesitated again and stuck fast.
"And then?"
She raised her head and spoke rapidly.
"Don't laugh; but I want some day to be an author and write books."
She started abruptly, for a white hand suddenly rested on her shoulder.
"Bravo, Miss Teddy!—for it is Miss Teddy; isn't it? Will has told me about you and I'm glad to get a glimpse of you at last. Yourwishes are good ones, all of them, and I hope you will get them, and get them soon."
As she spoke, Mrs. Farrington moved across and seated herself on the edge of the lounge.
"How is the pain, Will?" she asked, bending over to settle him more comfortably. "I was sorry to leave you so long; but you were in good hands. Miss Teddy, this boy of mine says that you have been very good to him, since we came here."
Theodora flushed a little. It was the first time she had been face to face with Mrs. Farrington, and she found the slender figure in its unrelieved black gown rather awe-inspiring. She began to wish that she had taken Hope's advice and remained upon her own side of the fence. During the past ten days, her neighborly calls had been frequent; but she had always before now succeeded in making her escape before any one else appeared. Hubert, in the meantime, had dutifully called on his new neighbor; but he had called decorously and by way of the front gate, at a time when Billy was out with his mother for their daily drive, so Mrs. Farrington had caught no glimpse of their young neighbors who had it in their power to make such a difference in her son's life.She had been amused and interested in Billy's account of Theodora's erratic calls, and she had felt an instant liking for the bright-faced, straightforward young girl who was as free from self-consciousness as Billy himself.
"When is your father coming back?" she asked, after a pause, during which she became conscious of Theodora's searching scrutiny.
"Day after to-morrow, I think. We had a letter from him, this morning."
"I am so glad," Mrs. Farrington said. "I want him to see Will as soon as he comes. Dr. Parker spoke so highly of him that I feel it is everything for us to be so near him as we are."
Theodora's color came. She was intensely loyal to her father, and praise of him was sweet to her ears.
"People say that papa is a good doctor," she replied frankly. "I hope he'll be able to help Billy. Anyway, we're all so glad to have somebody living here again. It's ages since the house has been occupied."
Mrs. Farrington smiled.
"I should judge so from the general air of mustiness I find. I rejoice in all this bright, warm weather, so Will can live out of doors.The house feels fairly clammy, and I don't like to have him in it, more than I can help. I hope you are going to be very neighborly, all of you, this coming winter."
Theodora laughed.
"All five of us? Remember, you aren't used to such a horde, and we may overrun you entirely. You'd better arrange to take us on the instalment plan."
"We're not timid," Billy asserted. "Really, I think we can stand it, Miss Teddy."
Theodora shook her head.
"You've not seen Babe yet, and you little realize what she is. In fact, you've hardly seen any of us. I want you to know Hope. You'll adore her; boys always do."
"In the meantime," Mrs. Farrington interposed; "I want to know something about—" she paused for the right word,—"about your new mother. Some one told me she was at Vassar. That is my college, you know. What was her maiden name?"
"Holden. Elizabeth Holden."
"Bess Holden!" Mrs. Farrington started up excitedly. "I wonder if it can be Bess. What does she look like?"
"I've only seen her once."
"Was she tall and dark, with great blue eyes?"
"Yes, I think so, and I remember that her eyebrows weren't just alike; one was bent more than the other."
"It must be Bess." Mrs. Farrington rose and moved to and fro across the lawn. Theodora watched her admiringly, noticing her firm, free step and the faultless lines of her tailor-made gown. She felt suddenly young and crude and rather shabby. Then Mrs. Farrington paused beside her. "If it is Bess Holden, Miss Teddy, your father is a happy man, and I am a happy woman to have stumbled into this neighborhood. She was the baby of our class, and one of the finest girls in it. When she comes, ask her—No, don't ask her anything. It is eighteen years since we met, and I want to see if she'll remember me. Don't tell her anything about me, please."
A week later, the McAlisters were sitting under one of the trees on the hill, a little away from the house. It was a bright golden day, and Theodora had lured them outside, directly after dinner. The doctor had been called away; but the others had strolled across the lawn and up the hill as far as a great bed of green andgray moss, where they had thrown themselves down under one of the great chestnut-trees. At their right, an aged birch drooped nearly to the earth; behind them, a pile of lichen-covered rocks cropped out from the moss, against which the twins were resting in an indiscriminate pile. To Mrs. McAlister's mind, there was something indescribably pleasant in this simple holiday-making, and she gave herself up as unreservedly to the passing hour as did the young people around her.
All at once, Theodora pinched Hubert's arm, and laid her finger on her lip. Her quick ear had caught the familiar sound of Billy's wheeled chair, and, a moment later, Mrs. Farrington came in sight over the low crest of the hill, followed by Patrick, whose face was flushed with the exertion of pushing the chair along the pathless turf.
Absorbed in listening to Hope, Mrs. McAlister heard no sound until Mrs. Farrington paused just behind her. Then she rose abruptly, and turned to face her unexpected guests.
"This is rather an invasion," Mrs. Farrington was saying, with a little air of apology; "but the maid said you were all out here, and she told me to come in search of you."
For an instant, Mrs. McAlister gazed at her guest, at the slender figure and the small oval face crowned with its masses of red-gold hair. Then, to the surprise of every one but Theodora, she gave a joyous outcry,—
"Jessie Everett!"
"Bess!"
Side by side on the moss, a little apart from the others, the two women dropped down and talked incoherently and rapidly, with an interjectional, fragmentary eagerness, trying to tell in detail the story of eighteen years in as many minutes, breaking off, again and again, to exclaim at the strangeness of the chance which had once more brought them together. On one side, the tale was the monotonous record of the successful teacher; on the other was the story of the brilliant marriage, the years of happiness, of seeing the best of life, and the swift tragedy of six months before, which had taken away the husband and left the only son a physical wreck. The years had swept the two friends far apart; their desultory correspondence had dropped; and in this one afternoon of their first meeting, they could only sketch in the bare outlines, and leave time to do the rest.
"And this is my only child," Mrs. Farrington said at last. "You have so many now, Bess, be generous with them, and let Will have as much good of them as he can. Your Teddy has been very kind to him already."
"Teddy?"
"Yes, Theodora as she calls herself. She has been making neighborly calls by way of the fence, and she and Will are excellent friends already. What an unusual girl she is!"
There came a little look of perplexity in Mrs. McAlister's eyes.
"Yes; and yet I find her the hardest one of them all to get at. The fact is, Jessie, I have two or three problems to deal with, and Theodora is not the least of them. Hope and Hubert are conventional enough, and Phebe is openly fractious; but Theodora is more complex. She's the most interesting one to me, but she is decidedly elusive."
"I wish she were mine," Mrs. Farrington said enviously. "I have so longed for a daughter, and she would be so good for Will. He doesn't know anybody here, and he is so handicapped that he can't get acquainted easily. I know he gets horribly tired of me. Women aren't good for boys, either; and now that he is so pitifully helpless, I have to watch myselfall the time not to coddle him to death. I hate a prig; you know I always did, Bess, and I am in terror of turning my boy into one. I shall borrow your Teddy, as often as I can, for she is the healthiest companion that he can have."
Billy, meanwhile, had promptly been made to feel at home among the young people. With Theodora to act as mistress of ceremonies and introduce him, it had been impossible for him to feel himself long a stranger. Patrick had retired to a distant seat, and the McAlisters settled themselves in a group around the chair, Theodora close at his side with her hand resting on the wheel, as if to mark her proprietorship. She was quick to see that both Hope and Hubert approved of Billy, and she felt a certain pride in him, as being her discovery. Even Hubert's prejudice against the crippled back and the wheeled chair appeared to have vanished at the sight of the alert face and the sound of the gay laugh. Billy was in one of his most jovial moods, and Theodora knew well enough that at such times he was wellnigh irresistible.
Phebe, awed to silence by the chair and the cushions, eyed the guest in meditative curiosity; but Allyn was not so easily satisfied.From his seat in Hope's lap, he lifted up his piping little voice.
"What for you ride in a baby cäj?"
No one heeded him, and he reiterated his query, this time accompanying it with an explanatory forefinger.
"What for you ride in a baby cäj?"
"Hush, Allyn," Hope whispered.
"Yes; but what for?" Allyn persisted. "Why doesn't you get up and say, 'Pretty well, fank you'?"
Billy flushed and felt a momentary desire to hurl one of his cushions at the child. For the most part, he was not sensitive about his temporary helplessness; yet among all these strangers who had never seen him in his strength, he was uncomfortably conscious of the difference between himself and Hubert.
Theodora saw the heightened color in his cheeks. Without a word, she rose, picked up Allyn in her arms and bore him away to the house, sternly regardless of the protesting shrieks which floated out behind her. She was absent for some time. When she came back, it was to find that Hope had moved into her old place, and that there was no room for her beside the chair. Billy was talking eagerlyto Hope, whose pretty, gentle face was raised towards him. Theodora felt a momentary pleasure in her pretty sister; but this was followed by an acute pang of jealousy to find herself quite unnoticed. For an instant, she hesitated; then she settled herself slightly at one side and back of the chair, in a position where she could be addressed only with an effort.
A little later, Billy turned and called her by name. She was sitting in moody silence, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands.
"What?" she asked indifferently.
"Come over here, Teddy," Hope said.
"Thank you, I like it better here."
There was a crushing finality in her tone. For a moment, Billy's eyes met those of Hope, and his lips curled into a smile. It was only for an instant; but Theodora saw the glance, and it kindled all her smouldering jealousy of her sister. For two weeks she had been giving all her odd moments to her new neighbor, and now, because Hope was pretty and dainty and quiet and all things that she was not, Billy had promptly turned his back on her and devoted himself to Hope. In her passing vexation, she quite forgot to take into account that she herself, not Billy, had been the movable quantity, and that the time she had given him had been hours of keen enjoyment to herself. Theodora was no saint. She was humanly tempestuous, superhumanly jealous. She could love her friends to distraction; she could give her time and strength and thought to them unreservedly; but in return she demanded a soleness of affection which should match her own.
"Where are you going, Ted?" Hubert called after her.
"Into the house."
"What for?"
"Because I want to. Besides, I must see to Allyn."
"Coming back?"
She turned her head and looked back. Billy was watching her curiously.
"No; not now."
Two hours later, she was searching her brain for an excuse for going over to the Farringtons'. She felt an imperative need to see Billy before bedtime, to assure herself that they were to meet on the old terms. No excuse came into her mind, however; and she passed a restless evening and a sleepless night.
"H'sh!" Phebe said peremptorily.
Isabel giggled again, a little ostentatiously, and covered her mouth with the palm of her hand.
"H'sh!" Phebe whispered. "She'll hear you, Isabel St. John. Wait till she is hearing the first geography, and then we'll do it."
It was at that hour of the afternoon when even the most industrious of grammar-school pupils feels his zeal for learning grow less with every tick of the clock. Isabel and Phebe, however, were never remarkable for their zeal. In fact, their teachers had never been able to decide whether they were more bright or more lazy. Both characteristics were so well developed that the hours they spent in the schoolroom were chiefly devoted to exploits of a most unscholastic nature.
The schoolroom of Number Nine, Union School, was much like all other schoolrooms, save in two essential particulars. The building was old and was heated with stoves, whichnecessitated the use of two huge zinc screens to keep the direct heat from the pupils near by; and the room boasted, aside from the usual ranks of desks, one extra double desk placed with its back against the window at the side of the room, and in close proximity to the stoves and the sheltering screens. Two months before, when promotion of classes had brought Phebe and Isabel to the room, their quick eyes had taken in the inherent advantages of this position.
"Please, Miss Hulburt, may we sit here?" Phebe had asked.
"What makes you choose that place?" Miss Hulburt had inquired.
"Because the light is so good," Isabel had replied ingenuously.
And Phebe had added,—
"And then, you know, we shall be away from the others, so we sha'n't be able to whisper. Truly, Miss Hulburt, we've turned over a new leaf."
Phebe neglected to state in which direction the leaf had been turned. Miss Hulburt had eyed her distrustfully; then she had granted the favor. Three days later, she had regretted her concession.
The seat was so near the front corner of the room that the schoolmistress was obliged to turn her head to see the children. She was a bloodless, thin-necked, lackadaisical young person, in little-eyed spectacles, who, in her youth, had been compared to a drooping lily. From that time onward, she had given all her thought to the cultivation of slow, graceful, lily-like motions, until it had become second nature for her to ogle and smirk and roll her head gently this way and that. It had not only rendered her intolerable to the unprejudiced observer, but it had made her physically incapable of turning about quickly enough to catch the culprits in the corner. Every disturbance in the room, and they were not few nor slight, appeared to come from the one source; yet by the time Miss Hulburt could focus her little spectacles upon them, Phebe and Isabel were swaying to and fro and whispering their lessons to themselves with an intentness which was almost religious.
It was one of the warm, bright days of late October, and the children had insisted on opening the window behind them, not so much for the sake of the clear, soft air as for the furtherance of their nefarious schemes. In the lap ofeach child lay a tiny china doll, a long string, and a box of what, at first sight, appeared to be parti-colored rags. A closer inspection, however, showed that the rags were all round and pierced with three holes, one in the middle, the others slightly to one side.
When the first geography lesson was called, the girls propped their open books before them, and abandoned themselves to the task in hand. Selecting a circle of cloth from the box, each one of them proceeded to clothe her doll by the simple process of thrusting the head and arms through the holes and tying a string about the waist. Isabel's doll was a negro and was decked in scarlet. Phebe's was of Caucasian extraction, and preferred blue. The dolls were robed and the long strings were made fast to their necks. Stealthily and slowly the girls poked them through the crack of the open window and let them down, swinging them back and forth until they heard them click against the window of the room below. Then they jerked the strings sharply upward, and Isabel giggled again. Phebe coughed to smother the sound, and then gave her friend a warning pinch.
Miss Hulburt was turning in their direction.Instantly Phebe raised her hand, shaking it slightly and clearing her throat to attract attention.
"Well? What is it, Phebe?"
"Please, how do you pronounce p-h-t-h-i-s-i-c?"
"Phthisic. Where do you find anything about it, Phebe?" Miss Hulburt felt that she was developing in craftiness.
"In my—geography."
Miss Hulburt's smile showed that she believed she had caught the young sinner napping.
"But my book doesn't have any such word."
Isabel raised her hand in support of her friend.
"If you please, Miss Hulburt, we're reading in the back part, about the South Sea Islands. It says it's very common there."
"Phebe," Isabel whispered, a little later; "what is it?"
"What's what?"
"P-h-t-h-You know."
"I d' know, something to eat, I guess. We had it in spelling, last term, and I happened to think of it. Oh, Isabel!" For the door opened, and the teacher of the room below came into the room.
An hour later, Hubert and Theodora sat onthe edge of the piazza, discussing a coming entertainment to be given by the pupils of the high school. The piazza came to the side of the driveway, and now they curled up their toes to allow the doctor to pass them, driving his new and favorite horse, Vigil.
"What a beauty she is!" Hubert said, as the carriage passed them.
"Isn't she? I'm dying to ride her."
"Better not," Hubert cautioned her. "She wouldn't stand the things old Prince does, and you wouldn't have any show at all, if you tried to manage her."
"I don't believe it," Theodora returned. "Papa said I was a good horsewoman, and I mean to try Vigil, some day. 'Tisn't strength that counts with a horse, anyway; it's gumption."
"What'll you take for the word?" Hubert asked lazily. He was lounging in the sun with his hands in his pockets and his back against a pillar, and he felt too comfortable to be inclined for a discussion.
"The word's all right." Theodora tossed her book into a chair behind her. "It means exactly what I want. It isn't common sense, nor knowledge, nor reasonableness; it's justgumption and nothing else. It's what Miss Hulburt hasn't," she added, as she glanced up the street. "Here she comes, Hu. How we used to hate her, when we were in her room! Why, she's stopped papa, and he's coming back with her. Babe must be in some fresh scrape."
Hubert rose hastily.
"That settles it. If she's coming here, I'm off."
"Where going?"
"I don't know. Over to the Farringtons', maybe, or else to the library."
"Teddy," the doctor called; "I wish you'd come and see to Vigil. I haven't any halter, and I sha'n't be long. Miss Hulburt wants to see me about Phebe. Just let the reins lie loose on her back, and she'll be all right."
"On Miss Hulburt's back?" Theodora questioned, with a giggle.
The doctor laughed, as he stepped out of the low, open buggy, handed the lines to his daughter, and turned to speak to the teacher who stood simpering at his side.
Within ten minutes, Theodora was heartily tired of her position as amateur groom. Miss Hulburt, always garrulously confidential, waspouring into the doctor's impatient ears all her theory of Phebe's temper and training. She was absorbed in her subject, but to the others the time crept heavily by. Allyn came around the corner of the house, and Theodora hailed him.
"Come, Allyn; want to come and play go to ride with sister?"
With childish clumsiness Allyn clambered into the buggy. For a time, he was content to jounce rapturously on the cushion and snap the buckle of the reins. Then he too wearied for change.
"Make the horsey go, Teddy," he demanded.
"Oh, no, Allyn; sister mustn't. We must wait for papa."
"Make him go," Allyn persisted.
Theodora hesitated. Like the immortal Toddie, Allyn's strength lay in his power of endless iteration. She foresaw a coming crisis in his temper, and, moreover, his wishes coincided with her own to a remarkable degree. Vigil was becoming uneasy, and a belated gadfly was making continued attacks upon her sensitive skin. Why not drive down the street and around the block, and shake off the annoying guest?
"Will you sit quite still, Allyn, if sister will drive just a little, little way?"
Allyn smiled rapturously.
"Ess," he hissed.
Theodora gave a hasty glance at the house, as she tightened the lines.
"I know he'd think it was the best thing to do," she argued with her conscience. "Vigil is so uneasy she wouldn't stand much longer, and this will quiet her down. Besides, I've always been used to driving."
The gadfly went too. Vigil was fretted by standing, and she quickened her pace. Before she quite realized the change, Theodora was being whirled down the street at a round trot.
"Whoa!" she urged. "Whoa, Vigil! Sh-h-h!"
But Vigil refused tosh-h-h. She felt an unfamiliar hand on the lines, and her sensitive mouth assured her that the hand was shaking a little. Accordingly, she dropped her ears back, gave an odd little kick with her hind legs, and swung round a corner with the carriage on two wheels behind her.
"Allyn," Theodora said, when they had gone around another corner in the same uncertain fashion; "now you must mind sister and do just what she says." The girl's face was whiteto the lips; but her voice was steady and brave. "Climb over the back of the seat, lie down flat in the bottom of the carriage, and then roll out on the ground."
"I don't want to," whined the child. "I wants to ride."
"But you must, or sister won't take you again. You may be thrown out and hurt, if you don't mind sister."
"It hurts to roll out," he argued.
"No; not a bit." Theodora felt herself a heartless liar; but she had lost all control of Vigil, and she knew that this was the best chance of safety for her baby brother. "Now hold on tight. I don't believe you can climb over."
All the boy nature inherent in Allyn responded to the challenge. Lithe as a little monkey, he scrambled over the seat, lay down and took the fateful roll. Vigil shied, just then, and Allyn landed in a ball, in a bed of burdocks. His wails followed the flying horse; but they were wails of temper, more than of physical injury, and Theodora's main anxiety was relieved.
Theodora went flying across the road.Theodora went flying across the road.
Two blocks farther down the street, the buggy collided with a hay wagon. There was a crash,the horse broke free, and Theodora went flying across the road, landing in an indiscriminate, dusty pile just in front of the Farringtons' carriage.
That evening, the doctor came into the library, where his wife sat alone in the fire-light. He looked tired and worried, as he threw himself down into an easy chair. His wife came forward to his side.
"You poor old boy!" she said tenderly, as she stroked his hair.
He smiled wearily.
"I wouldn't have had it happen for any amount of money, Bess," he said, as he reached up and took her hand. "It's smashed the buggy, and demoralized my favorite horse, and bumped Allyn, and given us all a scare."
"How is Theodora?"
"Badly frightened and very meek. Her bruises don't count; but I don't think she'll do it again. I gave her a plain talk, while I was looking over her wounds, and I think she knows I mean what I say. It is a miracle that both children weren't killed; but Allyn is all right now, and Teddy will be, in a day or two. She will be rather stiff, to-morrow, but I'm not sure that I'm sorry."
"Poor Teddy!" his wife said, laughing.
"Poor me!" he answered. "And poor you! You will think I have brought you into an undisciplined horde of savages, Bess. I feel like Job, myself, for one thing follows another. I shouldn't have left the horse with Teddy, in the first place, if Miss Hulburt hadn't come to me with a tale of woe about Phebe."
"What about Phebe?" In spite of herself, Mrs. McAlister laughed.
"Some school scrape or other. Phebe is naughty as she can be, and, worst of all, she is sly. That's not like Teddy. Ted hasn't a dishonorable pore in her skin. She is headstrong and impetuous; but when she has done wrong, she comes forward and tells the whole story and takes the consequences. She has made me more trouble, one time and another, than all the rest of them put together, and yet—" he hesitated, then he went on; "and yet, I honestly think she's the flower of the flock."
"A climbing rose, not a violet," Mrs. McAlister suggested.
"A snapdragon, if you will. She has character and force and brains enough for a dozen; and if we can provide a safe outlet for her extravitality, I think she will make us proud of her yet."
"You're right, Jack," Mrs. McAlister answered heartily. "The girl has splendid possibilities. As you say, she only needs some sort of an outlet for her energy. She's a motherly, womanish child, too, as much so as Hope, in her way. She's got to have something to love, and to fuss over, and to fight for. I sometimes think that Will Farrington may supply a certain something that she needs."
The doctor rose and stood on the rug, facing his wife. Little by little, his face had lost its anxiety and now, at her last words, he laughed jovially.
"Will Farrington! Then Heaven help him, Bess! 'Twill be six months at least before the boy can walk to amount to anything, and helpless as he is and energetic as Teddy is, she'll be sure to break his neck. If she is going to devote herself to Will Farrington, I'll send for Dr. Parker and a cord or two of extra splints."
"But where are you going, Hu?"
"What?"
"Where are you going?"
Hubert crooked his hand at the back of his ear.
"Speak a little louder, please. I'm deef."
Phebe flew at him and caught his arm.
"Hubert McAlister, tell me where you are going."
"Oh, is that what you said?"
"You knew it perfectly well. Where are you going to?"
"Over to Billy's."
"Then I'm going, too."
"No, you aren't."
"But I will. Why not?"
"Because I don't want you. You're so noisy you tire Billy."
"No, I don't. Boys don't get tired so easy. Besides, he asked me to come."
He shook himself free from her hands. She ran around him and danced down the walk before him, laughing like a mocking elf. All at once, she found herself in Hubert's strong arms.
"Now, Babe, you must go back. I don't want you."
"What can I do?" she whined. "Everybody's gone. Mamma has gone to ride with Mrs. Farrington, Hope's away, Teddy's away, and you're going."
"But mamma told you to stay and play with Allyn."
"I don't like Allyn. I want to go with you."
"You can't."
"I will."
She struggled to free herself. Hubert was tall and strong for his years, so that his sister was powerless in his grasp. He stood for a moment, holding her, while he pondered what to do; then a sudden amused light came into his eyes. Turning, he went away to the barn where, still holding Phebe with one hand, with the other he rolled an empty barrel into the middle of the floor and brought out a bushel basket. Then, before his astonished sister could fathom his intention or rebel, he hadpopped her into the barrel, covered her with the basket which made a firm, close lid, and walked away to the Farringtons' house.
It was the last of the golden Indian summer, and cold weather was at hand. By this time, the two households were living on a most informal, friendly basis. Mrs. Farrington and Mrs. McAlister had dropped back into the old intimacy of their college days, and the young McAlisters were fast finding out that a boy was a boy, in spite of a crippled back and a wheeled chair. Hubert and Billy were good friends, and Hope treated the invalid with a gentle, serious kindness which won his heart as surely as her dainty beauty appealed to his eyes. And yet, after all, it was Teddy for whom he cared the most, Teddy who coddled him and squabbled with him and ordered him about by turns. For the sake of her bright, breezy companionship, of her original, ungirl-like way of looking at things, he endured the ordering and the coddling, and, in spite of the halo of sanctity which should have surrounded his semi-invalidism, it must be confessed that he bore out his own part in the squabbles.
Even the coddling, as time went on, came to be rather enjoyable. There was nothing sentimental about it; it was only the natural result of the strong instinct of motherhood which belongs to such natures as Theodora's. Moreover, there were days and days when the old pain came back to Billy and racked him until he was too weak for the wheeled chair, and he could only lie on the sofa and endure the passing hours as best he might. In those days, Theodora never failed him. She learned to know the flush of his cheeks, the glitter in his eyes, and her brisk step grew gentle, her clear, glad voice grew low. Strange to say, it was on those days that Billy wanted her. He seemed to gain rest from her exuberant strength; and Hope he regarded as the pleasant companion for his better days, when he could laugh and talk with her, and treat her with the chivalry which her delicate prettiness appeared to him to demand. It mattered less about Theodora, he told himself. She was only another fellow, and she could be treated accordingly.
Hubert had made his call upon Billy and departed again, and Phebe had freed herself by tipping over the barrel, turning herself about, and kicking away the basket; and still Theodora sat in the Farringtons' cosy library, beside the open fire. Billy delighted in readingaloud, and he had been reading to her for an hour, while she sat dreamily watching the fire. Then he dropped the book face downward on his knee, and little by little their desultory conversation stopped. All at once, Theodora started up.
"Oh, dear, I forgot. I told papa I'd do an errand for him, and I must go."
Billy yawned.
"Wish I could go, too."
She looked at him suddenly.
"Why don't you?"
"As how?"
"In your chair, of course. You needn't think you can walk yet, even if papa does say you are gaining, every day."
"Really, do you want me to go, too?"
"Of course. Shall I call Patrick to bring the chair?"
"I've my whistle, you know." He played with it irresolutely. "Are you sure I won't be in the way?"
"What nonsense!"
She stood leaning on the mantel while Patrick made ready the chair. Then, moved by some sudden sense of delicacy, she busied herself with her own wraps when the man bent down andlifted his young master in his strong arms. Since the first day of their meeting, she had never seen Billy moved, and she was struck more keenly than at first with the contrast between the utter limpness of his lower limbs and the bright activity of the rest of the boy. For an instant, her heart gave a quick thump, half of pity, half of loyalty and protecting affection. Then she laid her hands on the bar of Billy's chair.
"That's all, Patrick," she said, nodding up at the tall man beside her.
Patrick surveyed her approvingly. He was critical by nature, and his smiles were rare; but he liked Theodora for her kindness to his young master, and he unbent something of his majesty before her, rather to the surprise of Mrs. Farrington, who was quite accustomed to seeing her guests quail before the glance of her serving-man.
"Sha'n't I be going with you, Miss Theodora?" he asked.
"Of course. What do you suppose I am going to do without you?" Billy answered.
But Theodora interposed.
"You needn't come, Patrick. I am going to take Mr. Will, myself."
"Oh, I say, Teddy!" Billy straightened up in his chair.
"That's all right," she said gayly, as she pushed the chair away from the steps. "Let me do it, Billy; it's much nicer to go by ourselves without any Patrick, and I promise not to upset you."
"But you oughtn't to do it; 'tisn't the sort of thing a girl ought to do," he urged. "Truly, Teddy, I don't feel as if I could stand it, somehow."
Looking into his eyes, as he turned to face her, Theodora read his sensitive reluctance to receive a service of this kind from a girl, and a friend of but a few weeks' standing. She let go the handle of his chair and came forward to his side, where she bent over him, under the pretext of settling one of the cushions which had slipped aside.
"I wish you'd let me do it for you, Billy," she said, looking honestly down into his appealing eyes. "I know girls don't usually do this sort of thing for boys; but it isn't for always, you know, and there isn't much that I can do for you. If we're going to be real, true friends, you oughtn't to mind it a bit. You'd do ten times as much for me. Please say I can takeyou out often, till you are so you can run away from me. You know you'd rather go with me than with Patrick." And she looked down at him with a merry frankness which took away the last shade of sensitiveness which Billy was ever to know in her company.
It was the first of many similar expeditions. The chair was so light, and Theodora was so strong for her years, that it never tired her, while Billy soon discovered that "a walk" with Theodora was quite another thing from the dull and decorous outings when Patrick tooled him along through the town, in a solemnly respectful silence. With Teddy's hand on the bar of his chair and Teddy's chatter in his ears, in a week he learned more of the town than he had done in the past three months, and he came home, hungry and eager as a boy could be, full of blithe gossip and fun, to enliven his mother over the dinner-table.
"Tell you what, it was a good day for us when we came here," he remarked, one night in December, when he and his mother were settled by the open fire in the library.
His mother looked up from her book.
"How do you mean?"
"Everything, especially the Macs. There'sMrs. Mac for you, and Teddy for me. What more can you want?"
"What about Hope?"
"Hope is a stunner, only there's a sort of Sundayfied flavor to her. Theodora is better for every day. Hope goes with my best necktie; 'tisn't always that I am able to live up to her. Ted doesn't care whether I am sick or well, dressed up or rolled in a blanket; she sticks to me just the same. I say, mother?"
"Well?"
"Are we going down to New York, this winter?"
"Not till later, unless you want to go. Aren't you feeling as well, Will?" This time, Mrs. Farrington threw aside her book and came forward to her son's side.
Billy looked up at her with merry eyes which were the duplicate of her own.
"How you do worry about me, mother!" he said. "I'm gaining, every day, and you ought to know it. I shall be walking soon. But you've been saying that we'd go down, some time after Christmas, and I wondered why we couldn't take Teddy along with us. I can't discover that she's ever been anywhere, and it's time she had a chance. Don't you think so?"
Mrs. Farrington looked thoughtful.
"I don't know but you're right, Will. I've been thinking I'd like to give her a little treat, if only because she has been so loyal to you. I had thought of something else; but if you think she'd like this better, we'll see about it. Would you rather have Teddy than Hubert?"
"Yes, I like Ted better, even if she is a girl. Hubert has more variety, too, and wouldn't care so much about it."
"Very well; I will see about it," Mrs. Farrington repeated.
Her son looked up at her gratefully.
"What a trump you are!" he said.
"Well, let's see." Teddy curled one foot under her, in the depths of the great easy-chair. "There must be two heroines, of course, and two,—no, three heroes."
"What'll you do with the odd one?" Billy asked.
"Kill him, to be sure." Theodora smacked her lips. "When the girl, his girl, you know, marries the wrong man, he will—" She paused and meditatively twisted the end of one of her long pigtails.
"Will what?"
"That's what I'm thinking about. It must be something original, not poison nor drowning. I know; I'll have him turn sleepless, and get up—No, he'll be a sleep-walker. He must dream that her house is on fire, and get up to save her, and walk into the barn and be kicked to death by her pet horse. She'll find him there in the morning, when she goes to give him sugar." In the triumph of her lurid ending, Theodora made havoc of her pronouns.
Billy pondered on the situation, clasping his hands under his head and turning to face his friend.
"Um-m. That's not so bad," he said at length. "It might possibly happen, even if it isn't likely. I had an uncle that somnambulated, and he used to hide the sheets in an old carriage in the barn. I suppose he might just as well have gone into a stall. Well?"
"And the other men would marry the girls. This one, the dead one, would be dark and sallow, with high cheek-bones and a thin nose. The others would be more commonplace. I think I'd have them something like Hu and you."
"Thanks."
"Oh, I don't mean you are too common; but you aren't a bit like my ideal hero," Theodora said bluntly. "I like the dead one best. I always do in stories, if he's only hectic enough. I asked papa once what hectic meant, and you ought to have heard him laugh when I told him the reason I wanted to know."
"Great shame I'm not hectic!" Billy commented. "What about the girls?"
"One is light, with yellow hair and very much fun in her. She's the one the dead manlikes. The other is tall and still and stately, like a lily, with soft, dark hair that droops and is caught up with rare old combs."
"How many?"
"Oh, one at a time, of course, only she has ever so many, all of them of old silver. Stop interrupting! She sways when she walks."
"Gout or intoxication?"
"Keep still, Billy, or I won't tell." Theodora's tone was impatient. There were liberties which not even Billy was allowed to take, and this story, the outcome of her girlish dreams, was a sacred subject to her. She had pondered over it for months, and now that she felt the time had come to begin the actual work of writing, she was revealing the secret to Billy. Mrs. Farrington was spending a long rainy afternoon in her own room, writing letters, and the two young people had the library to themselves. For the most part, Billy was listening in respectful silence; but his sense of humor would assert itself occasionally, and Theodora, like all budding authors, was sensitive to ridicule.
Her threat was enough.
"I won't any more, Ted," Billy returned meekly; "only, if she wobbles like that, I don't see what keeps her combs from tumbling out.Don't make her too lop-sided, or else don't match her up to the man like me. I want girls that are put together tight. That's one reason I like you."
Theodora was only half appeased by the intended compliment. She had a secret liking for the "sweet disorder in the dress," and, of late, she had vainly attempted to achieve it.
"That's all right," she said rather loftily; "only you know everybody doesn't feel the way you do."
"Of course," Billy assented hastily. "What are their names, Ted?"
"The dark one is Violet Clementina Ascutney, and the little blond one is Marianne—with a finale—Euphrosyne Blackiston. The men are Eugene Vincent and Gerald Mortimer, and the dead one is Alessandro Stanley Farrington."
"Oh, great Cæsar, Ted! I can't stand that. Why can't you have a good plain Jack?"
"Jack is fearfully commonplace, and names do count for so much in a story."
Billy groaned.
"Maybe. Anyhow, you've got to leave out the Farrington. I can't go that. Which does Marianne-with-a-final-etake?"
"That's just it. She's left an orphan, rich as can be, and she asks Violet to live with her. Violet is the only daughter of a decayed Southern family, who had to teach for a living until she was rescued from her life of toil by the generosity of Marianne."
"With-a-final-e," Billy supplemented. His eyes were full of mischief, for Theodora's tone matched the pomp of her words.
"Then they live in this beautiful house," Theodora went on, sternly regardless of his flippancy; "with an old housekeeper, and they have beautiful times, parties and everything. One stormy night in summer, when they are sitting by the fire, watching the blaze and seeing pictures in it, the bell rings and a man in livery comes in to tell them that there has been a runaway accident and a man hurt. That's Alessandro, and I mean to get all this part out of papa's books."
"Well?"
"Well, he's there for weeks, and the housekeeper takes care of him and the girls don't see him; they just make him broth and things, and send them up to his room. One day, when he is pale and interesting, he leaves his room and sees Marianne and falls in love with her;but she never knows it. He is poor and too honorable to tell her his love, so he just wastes away, and she never guesses. It's all terribly sad."
"Well, yes, I should say so," Billy observed. "Are the others as forlorn?"
"No. Gerald is a student, and Marianne's cousin, who lives next door. He's jolly, with yellow hair, and means to be a doctor. He loves Violet, even if she is poor. He has a friend, Eugene, that isn't well,—not hectic a bit, but has trouble with his eyes or something, so he can't work, and comes to spend the summer there, and falls in love with Marianne. They all have great times, and poor Alessandro, in bed upstairs, can hear all their fun, when they sit on the piazza in the moonlight, and he buries his head in the pillows and sobs. One night, just in fun, Marianne makes her will and leaves all she has to Violet. Then Marianne and Eugene get engaged. Then Marianne dies of a fever, and they find the will and accuse Violet of killing her, and Eugene is so sorrowful that he goes into a convent."
"I thought men usually took to a monastery."
"What's the difference? Well, they have a trial, and Gerald stops being a doctor andstudies law and makes a brilliant plea and saves her. Then, right in the court-room before them all, he presses her hand to his lips and cries, 'Mine! Mine forever!' and the whole room full of people thunders applause."
Theodora paused. Her cheeks were glowing with excitement. Billy had turned away his head and his arm half shielded his face.
"What do you think?" she demanded.
"It's great," he answered, with an odd huskiness in his tone.
"You really like it? You're not laughing at me?" Her tone was eager, yet mistrustful.
Billy's loyalty asserted itself. He took down his arm.
"Honestly, Ted, it's a great thing," he said with perfect gravity. "It's different, too; not just like all the others."
Theodora drew a deep sigh of relief as she nestled back in the chair.
"I'm so glad you like it, Billy, for I did want you to. You're the only living soul I've ever told, and now, if you don't think it's too bad, I'm going right to work on it." There was still a little note of question in her voice.
Billy held out his hand to her.
"Do you know what I honestly think, Teddy?Some day, you'll get there. If I were in your place, I'd go right to work on this, and I don't believe you'll ever be sorry. This first one may not be the success; but I'd try the chance, and keep on trying."
He was only a boy, though developed and deepened in character by his long illness until at times he spoke with the dignity and thoughtfulness of a man. Now his words rang true, and Theodora, as she stood beside him looking down into his eyes, was satisfied; and as she went home to begin her great undertaking, she thanked Providence, as she had so often done before during the past few weeks, for bringing her so loyal a friend.
It was with a feeling of elated self-consciousness that Theodora took her place in the family circle, that evening, with her little writing tablet in her hand. As she seated herself near the light, she cast a pitying glance at her family who were talking of trivial details, quite unconscious of the fact that that evening would mark an epoch in the literary history of America. They were used to her and to her tablet, and beyond the slight shifting of the group needful to give her a place by the table, she called forth no comment from anyone but Phebe,who, bent on teasing, turned the fire of her questions upon her older sister. Mrs. McAlister promptly quieted her by a suggestion of bedtime; and Theodora, left to herself, paused to smile in anticipation of the day when, book in hand, she could remind them all of that evening. Then she launched forth into a description of the swaying figure and drooping hair of Violet, too eagerly intent upon mustering the forces of her adjectives to heed the scratching of her own pen, or the conversation of the others. Once only she was roused from her writing to hear her father say, as he entered the room,—
"Yes, I've just been over there, and Will is improving, every day. I can't see why he won't be walking a little, in a week or so. I hope so, for he's had a long pull of it, and he has shown splendid pluck."
For an instant, Theodora was conscious of a jealous pang. Once on his feet and independent, good-by to her good times with Billy. He would be free to seek boy society and boy sports, and her company would cease to interest him. Angry at herself for her selfishness, yet conscious of a vague dissatisfaction with the future, she bent still closer over her writing, while her stepmother answered,—
"Really, Jack? I had no idea of it's coming so soon. Did you know that Jessie has asked us all to eat Thanksgiving dinner with her?"
The talk strayed on, but Theodora had lost herself once more. She had finished with Violet, and was now painting the horrors of the stormy night outside the house where the two girls sat over the fire. Like most girls of her age, Theodora had a natural talent for melodrama, and she revelled in her description, as her pen raced over the paper. Pausing at last to decide whetherluridormurkybest described the night, she caught Hope's eyes fixed on her steadily.
"What is it?" she asked abruptly.
"I was thinking it was about time you began to put up your hair," Hope answered, rising and laying her hand upon Theodora's heavy braids.
The transition was sudden and sharp. Theodora had been feeling as if she trod on air. Now the clouds seemed to part and let her drop into the common clay. She shook off her sister's hand.
"I don't want to put up my hair," she said sharply.
"But you're old enough, and you would lookso much better. Don't you think so?" Hope appealed to her stepmother.
"I don't care how I look. I want to be comfortable." Theodora threw her pen down on the table.
"But you're almost a young lady," Hope urged, with a quiet persistency which exasperated Theodora. "You are really too old to wear two tails, any longer."
"I don't care if I am!" Theodora exclaimed hotly. "It's neat, and it's comfortable, and I intend to wear it like this till I get ready to put it up. You can take care of your own hair, Hope McAlister, and I'll take care of mine."
At best, Theodora was hot-tempered. To-night, excited by her attempt at writing and tired with the unwonted effort, she flashed like a train of powder. She realized, even in the midst of it, that her annoyance was out of all proportion to the cause. Before she could control herself, Hubert gave a new direction to her thoughts.
"If all you're after is comfort, Teddy," he drawled; "I'd advise you to get a hair-cut. It's much the most comfortable thing you can find."
For the moment, Theodora was too angry to see the humor of his suggestion.
"I will," she exclaimed. "Hope McAlister, if you say another word, I'll have my hair cut off."
"Oh, Teddy dear!" Hope's hand was very gentle, as it touched her hair. "You wouldn't do anything so crazy. Just see how pretty I can make you look."
But Theodora jerked herself away, rushed out of the room and up to her own room.
"I won't! I won't!" she said fiercely. "I hate Hope. She's jealous because my hair is better than hers. I won't put it up. I'd rather cut it off, myself, short off."
She paused to listen. Hope was coming up the stairs. She recognized the slow, gentle footfall. It came nearer the door. Theodora took a quick step to the table and caught up the scissors from her little work-basket.
"Come, Teddy," Hope called; "don't be silly and get cross about a little thing like that."
Theodora clashed her scissors ominously. Even in her anger, there came a sudden wonder how Marianne would meet such a crisis, and her voice took a higher, more incisive note, as she said,—
"Hope, unless you let me alone, I'm going to cut it off."
"But, Teddy—"
There came a snip and a long, grinding cut, followed by a light thud, as one heavy braid fell to the floor. Startled at what she had done, Theodora turned to the mirror. One side of her head was covered with loose, shaggy locks standing out in wild disorder. As she looked, she grew white and her lips quivered. She hesitated for a moment; then, shutting her teeth, she sheared away the other braid. For a moment longer, she stood staring at the white face and wide, terrified eyes reflected in the mirror. Then, throwing aside the scissors, she cast herself down on her bed and pulled the pillows over her head to smother the sound of her sobs.