MAY FOUGHT THE FIRE HEROICALLY
MAY FOUGHT THE FIRE HEROICALLY
"Sarah! call the men; the lower barn is on fire!" shouted the General.
Then he ran out of the house, Philip after him, while Sarah, followed by Phyllis blowing lustily on the horn that summoned the men-servants from the fields, brought up the rear.
In the meantime May, with pale cheeks and terrified eyes, was fighting fire, stamping, trampling and jumping and saying the while, "Why doesn't somebody come! Why doesn't somebody come!"
A light breeze blowing through the barn fanned the flames until they were fast getting beyond her control, when she spied some rubber squares for protecting hay from dew and rain, and seizing one she threw it over the fire, jumping and even rolling on it until every spark was extinguished. When the little band headed by the General reached the barn she was looking ruefully at singed stockings and knickerbockers.
"It's out, Uncle Harold!" May cried. "I guess there's not much damage done."
"Never mind about the damage, my boy," replied the General.
"Did you get burnt?" Sarah asked, anxiously.
"Not much," said May.
The General was pondering Philip's cry, "Come quick! Gay's set the barn afire!"
"How did it happen?" questioned the General.
May and Philip were silent: Philip because he didn't want to tell what he had done; May from a sense of loyalty to Philip; she didn't want to tell of him.
"How did it happen?" the General repeated.
The children looked at one another; May expecting Philip to speak; Philip wondering how he could get out of it.
"Gay, why don't you answer me?" said the General, sternly.
"I can't tell you, sir," May answered, meaning that Philip should understand that it was for him to speak.
Then Philip, prompted by one of those evil impulses that sometimes assail nobler natures than his, whispered to the General, and very softly too, for no one else heard him, "He's got a match in his blouse pocket, now."
The General, as we know, was a man of quick temper; when Philip's whisper reached his ear he strode forward and thrust his hand in May's blouse pocket, hoping, it is true, that the match would not be there. Alas! it was there, and the General drew it forth and held it up before everybody.
"What do you mean, sir, by refusing to tell me who set the fire when you did it yourself!" thundered the General. "Why didn't you own up like a man!"
May threw an appealing glance at Philip, but that young man did not appear to see it.
"I could have forgiven you your mischief but not your cowardice," said the General.
"Uncle Harold," said May, "I didn't set——"
"Silence, sir," shouted the General. "Don't criminate yourself further by falsehood."
Three days passed and still the General refused to see May.
"When he will tell me the truth then will I see him and not before," the General said in reply to Sarah's solicitation in her favorite's behalf.
"He has told the truth," Sarah answered.
"The evidence is against him; he looked guilty; he refused to speak; the match was found in his pocket and the hay could not ignite itself," the General said stubbornly.
"Evidence is nothing!" Sarah cried, with a woman's disdain for hard facts. "He says he didn't do it; that's enough for me and it ought to be for you."
"There was the match——"
"Can't you get your mind off that one little match?" interrupted Sarah, with scorn in her eyes and in her voice. "A man will cling to a thing like that and allow it to stifle his reason and instinct—no, not that, for a man hasn't the instinct of a June bug!"
"I was correct in my first estimate of his character; he is a coward."
"Estimate!" sniffed Sarah. "I wouldn't give much for an 'estimate' that makes a coward of a boy who drilled till he dropped, put out a fire that might have terrified a grown person, and bore all those burns on his poor little hands and legs without a whimper!" and she left the General to his own thoughts.
The General's thoughts were not pleasant. He had no doubt of his supposed nephew's guilt, and it gave him great pain to reflect upon the duplicity and cowardice that he thought he detected in the child he already loved. Singularly enough he did not think of Philip in connection with the fire. The nature of Philip's communication—"Gay has set the barn afire!" was calculated to mislead; the General would have scorned to question Philip further. He wanted Gay's confession, not Philip's accusation, and in his morning calls at Dr. Brentwood's he avoided Philip as carefully as that young man avoided him.
Sarah was equally unsuspicious of Philip. Phyllis was the only one who took a sensible view of the matter; she believed that he knew more about the fire than he was willing to tell. One day she so far forgot her deference for her mistress as to depart from her rule of monosyllables and say,—
"That Brentwood boy knows more about the fire than he tells. Perhaps he set it and Master Gay didn't tell on him—expecting he'd tell himself—and he saw his chance and kept quiet. That's what I think."
"You had much better not think at all if you can't think of something sensible!" Sarah replied. "What makes you think so?" she added, a moment later, not without curiosity.
"I don't know, ma'am, but I do think so."
"I have my opinion of persons who don't know why they think a thing. It all comes of your stuffing your head with romantic nonsense instead of doing something useful. You've read silly romances till you've lost what little reasoning power nature gave you."
"Yes'm," said Phyllis, meekly, but without altering her opinion.
Sarah had once found a novel in Phyllis's room, and from that time forth all of Phyllis's shortcomings, from careless dusting to forgetfulness of the thirty-nine articles of the Episcopalian faith, had been ascribed by Sarah to the pernicious influence of the romance!
Phyllis not only held to her opinion of May's innocence but she did what she could to comfort and cheer her. She could not, however, with all her loving companionship, save May from many sadhours. At first May thought Philip would speak, but as time went on and he remained silent she resigned this hope. The General's refusal to take her word closed her lips; not even to sympathetic Phyllis and loyal Sarah did she mention her disgrace. At times she thought of writing to her father, telling all and allowing him to establish her innocence, but the fear of annoying her sick mother, an independent disposition to bear her own burdens and the feeling that Philip must some time realize the injustice of his conduct, and make amends for it, withheld her. May's greatest comfort was found in writing in her diary; there the whole story was told, fully and accurately. She did not write any letters at this time, she shrank from disclosing the unhappy condition of affairs to the other conspirator, whose daily letters were filled with glowing descriptions of new friends and good times. Gay was riding on the top wave of success and popularity while she was wretched and in disgrace; it was not strange, therefore, that the thought sometimes obtruded itself, "Those good times might have been mine if Gay had not persisted in keeping on my clothes."
It must not be supposed that Philip was satisfied with himself; but he was a coward, and he not only succeeded in dodging his conscience, but he was even weak and wicked enough to take further advantage of May.
It was the afternoon of the fourth day after the fire and the General was in his library when Dr. Brentwood came in, looking disturbed and even angry.
"General," said he, "do you know what kind of boy that nephew of yours is?"
The General grew red in the face; criticism of any one "with Haines blood in their veins," to use his frequent expression, was distasteful to him.
"As he is my nephew I presume he is, on the whole, a very good kind of boy," he said, at length.
"He is a very bad kind of boy, indeed," the doctor replied. "He is a dangerous boy."
"What has he done? Can't you speak out?" roared the General.
"He gave Philip both cigarettes and tobacco, threatening him with some form of torture if he did not smoke them. We found the tobacco on Philip's premises and forced him into a full confession of your nephew's culpability."
"This explains the match and the fire," thought the General. He said aloud, "I will question Gay about the matter."
"He will deny it; Philip said he would, and the poor boy begged me, with tears in his eyes, not to tell you of it. I thought you ought to know it, for, from what Philip says, Gay must be a hard case," the doctor said.
The General rang the bell and Phyllis answered it.
"Send Gay here," commanded the General.
"Yes, sir," said Phyllis, hurrying away, for she surmised that the doctor's presence might be of benefit to the unhappy child.
"Run, Gay," she said to May, when she found her, "Dr. Brentwood is in the library, and they want you."
"Philip has told," May thought, with delight.
She went quickly to the library and stood before the General with a lighter heart than she had carried since she had been in disgrace. "I'm all right, now," thought she.
"Gay," said the General, sternly, "the doctor tells me that you have given tobacco to Philip, threatening him if he did not use it at your bidding. What have you to say?"
Poor May! Her hope died away at those words. For an instant she was tempted to cast aside her disguise, to say, "I am a girl," and stand forth in her true colors. No one would believe that a girl had given a boy tobacco.
"Well," said the General, impatiently, "what have you to say for yourself?"
"That it is not true," said May.
"I told you he would deny it," said the doctor.
"It is useless to deny it; Philip has said that you did it," said the General.
"Philip has said what is not true," May said.
"Do you question Philip's word?" blustered the doctor.
"There is no question about it, sir; Philip doesn't know how to speak the truth," May replied.
"Gay," said the General, in his most decided manner, "I insist that you take back the words you have spoken to Dr. Brentwood, and that you promise to apologize to Philip."
"I can't take back what I have said, because it is true. And I shall not apologize to Philip," May answered, unflinchingly.
"Leave the room, sir!" shouted the General, looking very red and angry.
Then when May had left the room to weep bitter tears in the arms of the faithful Phyllis, the General said,—
"Doctor, you see what a stubborn boy he is! But he shall apologize handsomely to you and to Philip before the week has passed."
And with this assurance the doctor went away.
When the doctor was gone the General summoned Sarah and related the events that had just occurred.
"Now," said he, with an ominous flash in his deep-set eyes, "we will see what bread and water and solitary confinement will do for the young rebel."
"Who will play jailer?" Sarah asked, with eyes that flashed as brightly as the General's. "I certainly shall not."
"Then I will," said the General, with decision.
"You will be alone in the jail, for I shall not keep house for a jailer," said Sarah with equal decision. "Remember that!"
Giving a tea-party at Rose Cottage was a serious business. Miss Linn, Miss Celia, Margery and even John were as busy as ants all the morning. There were snow puddings, ices, cakes and custards to be made, and nobody knows what these old-time housewives and fosterers of dyspepsia did not deem necessary for Gay's spread.
It was great fun at first to watch the work going on; to have "tastes" of this or that offered for one's verdict, and to eat all the little cakes that refused to turn out of their tins as well-regulated little cakes should. But even this position of taster-in-ordinary grew monotonous, and the incessant noise of the egg-beaters working in merry unison seemed to whisk the thoughts out of Gay's head, and he was glad to retire at an early hour from the kitchen to the welcome quiet of his own room. It cannot be said that his absence was regretted by the cooks; in trying "to help" he had upset a freshly-iced cake; dropped a glass dish of custard; spilled a pitcher of milk; broken six eggs; and scalded hishand in lifting an open vessel of water off the stove; not to mention his being a good deal in the way.
Gay had a reason for seeking his chamber; he wished to look through poor May's depleted wardrobe and see if there was a whole dress to wear to the party. There were two; one a dainty white muslin, the other a plain white lawn, both to be worn, much to his disgust, with a sash. He instantly rejected the dainty frock, which would have been the real May's choice, because of bows of blue ribbon on the shoulders and sleeves.
"None of that in mine!" he said, disdainfully, rolling his sister's best frock in a wad and thrusting it back into the trunk.
To wear with the plainer lawn dress he selected a black sash, since he must wear one, as being more quiet and gentleman-like. In honor of the occasion he took some pains with his hands, but forgot to take off his tennis shoes until Margery reminded him of it.
"You must put on better shoes, Miss May," Margery said, who had been invited up-stairs to tie the black sash. "And why don't you put on one of those pretty bright sashes?"
"It isn't the thing to dress better than one's guests," said sly Gay, with a wise air. "You wouldn't want me to knock spots out of the girls, would you?"
"Mercy, no; you mustn't knock spots out o' them girls. They are the nicest in town, Miss May. No fighting with them, I beg of you. It was well enough, perhaps, to take hold of them boys, for they have tormented us to pieces all summer, but you mustn't think of knocking spots out of them fine young ladies."
"Oh, Margery, to knock spots out of anybody doesn't mean to fight them!"
"Doesn't it? Well, I'm glad of it," said Margery, with a sigh of relief.
When Gay was left alone he planned his campaign; he meant to distinguish himself and make his aunts proud of him, and to do this without thought was beyond his ability. "I'll say something to each one. That's the way mother does. I'll act just like Alice! That's a bang-up idea! And I mustn't forget that I'm a girl," thought he.
Having planned his line of conduct Gay went down into the drawing-room, where Miss Linn and Miss Celia sat in state, with a smiling decorum that would have reflected credit upon the sweetest little girl that ever lived—upon May, for example.
Very soon the guests, pretty, quiet little girls, with correct and agreeable manners, as became the descendants of Hazelnook's best families, began to arrive. Gay met them with the best imitation of Alice's manner that could be assumed at shortnotice; greeting them cordially and with such easy grace that anxious Miss Linn was delighted.
"I must begin to say something to each one," thought Gay. "It looks easy when mother does it, but I can't seem to get it in before they get out of the way!"
"May, this is Ethel Payne," said Miss Celia, who presented the girls to Gay.
"How do you do, Ethel?" Gay said, shaking Ethel's hand warmly. "Do—ah—do—you play ball?"
"No," answered astonished Ethel. "But my brother Ned does."
"Does he? When is he coming?" asked Gay, eagerly.
"He is not coming to-day; only girls are invited, you know."
"Only girls! phew!" exclaimed Gay. Then realizing that this was scarcely courteous, he added, "How beautiful!"
"Yes, you seem to think so," laughed Ethel, as she moved away.
"This is Mabel Bryant."
"I'm glad to see you, Mabel," said Gay. "What shall I say to her?" he thought. "Have you"—he jerked out,—"have you been in swimming much this summer?"
Mabel stared. "No," she said, rather primly.
"And here is Sadie Carver, May."
Gay turned delightedly to the new-comer. "I'm awfully glad you came," he cried, seizing Sadie's hand. "Is Lyman coming? You've a brother named Lyman, haven't you?"
"I have no brothers," said Sadie, looking very much affronted, though Gay couldn't imagine why.
"That's a pity. Lyman is such a rattling good fellow. He's captain of the Blue Stockings, and his father who drives the stage is more fun than—a tied goat."
Sadie's face grew very red. "Those Carvers are no relation to us; they are a very common family," said she.
"I thought they were quite un-common, but I may be mistaken," replied Gay, thinking that he shouldn't like Sadie at all.
"May, this is Julia Paige, the doctor's daughter."
"I'm glad to see you," said Gay.
"Thank you," Julia replied.
"Do you like living in Hazelnook?"
"Yes, I like living here," Julia answered, looking somewhat surprised, perhaps at the question.
"Better—than in Russia, do you think?"
Julia's expression of surprise deepened. "I don't know about Russia," she said.
"You might like Greece better?" hazarded Gay. "Or, perhaps, Dakota?"
Julia's reply to these remarkable questions was not given, for just then a peal of the door bell caused everybody to jump and to look through the open door into the hall. Margery opened the door and there stood Lyman, Robert, Will, Fred, Joe and Herb.
"Excuse me!" cried Gay to astonished Miss Celia. Then with a bound he was in the hall, saying, "Come right in, fellows. I'm mighty glad to see you."
By this time Miss Celia and Miss Linn were ready to welcome the unexpected guests. After the introductions were gone through with, the boys drew a little apart and this gave Gay a chance to say,—
"I invited them yesterday. I don't know how I happened to forget to tell you. I suppose there are ices enough, aren't there?"
"Yes," said agitated Miss Linn.
Miss Celia watched the scene with interest; she was anxious to see how the fusion of the antagonistic elements was to be accomplished. She was not kept long in suspense. Taking Lyman's arm Gay led him round the room, introducing him to each prim lassie, with contagious ease of manner. After Lyman it was Robert's turn, then Will's, and thus it went until all the boys had been introduced.
Five terrible minutes followed. The boys huddled together, looking as if they might leave at any moment en masse, like a flock of frightened sheep! The girls drew apart, looking as austere as merry maidens of twelve summers can look. This would never do! A bright idea seized Gay.
"Ethel, do the girls know how to play 'Going to Jerusalem'?" he asked, anxiously.
"Yes," she replied, "but I don't believe those boys do."
"Boys can play any game naturally; they don't need to know how," laughed Gay.
"How do you know so much about boys?" asked Ethel, quizzically.
"By instinct," replied Gay, soberly, but with laughing eyes.
It may not have been just the thing, but Gay electrified the company by exclaiming,—
"Please take partners for 'Going to Jerusalem'!"
There was a hush over the room for an instant, then Gay whispered to Lyman,—
"Brace up and ask Miss Ethel."
Lyman obeyed and that set the ball rolling.
"I will play," said Miss Celia.
"And, auntie, will you call?" said Gay.
"I will call," said Miss Linn, taking her place by the piano.
Miss Celia struck the first chord and the game began. There were plenty of mistakes at firstbut they only served to break the ice of conventionality. The boys behaved admirably; so, strangely enough, did Gay; while the girls, led by Julia and Ethel, soon became gracious and natural. When they tired of the game Miss Linn undertook to initiate them into the mysteries of some old-fashioned games she had played in her youth, and with intervals for rest, the fun continued with increased enjoyment until they went out into the dining-room.
White frock and sash entitled Gay to a seat; but having played the active part of a boy for eleven years it was hard for him to relapse into the passive condition of a girl; to sit down and be waited upon. So he threw conventionality to the winds and flew about, serving the girls and helping the boys do their duty.
"Auntie," Gay said to Miss Celia, when everybody was chattering and laughing, and when even austere Sadie was actually eating a bon-bon with a member of the "common" Carver family, "I think they are having a good time, don't you?"
"Yes," said Aunt Celia, "you make a nice hostess, dear."
"Mother always says try to make everybody glad they came, and that is all there is to entertaining. So I tried. Nice boys, aren't they? And the girls are nice, too; particularly Ethel and Julia. Ithink they felt a little snubby at first, but they never showed their inside feelings a bit, and that's pretty hard for a girl, for when she feels snubby inside her nose goes up on the outside."
After supper there were more games and Dumb Crambo formed an edifying feature of the entertainment, but the party came to an end at length as all good things must in time. Everybody went away in high spirits. The boys expressed their pleasure in unqualified terms.
"It is the nicest time we ever had in Hazelnook," said Lyman, as the spokesman for the party. "Nobody else ever treated us as square as Brown has, and we are much obliged to her for it."
This was not an elegant adieu, perhaps, but it was sincere.
"Lyman," whispered the unblushing recipient of this praise, "don't forget to let me know about the ball game to-morrow; I'll get out, some way."
When the last guests were gone Gay and the aunts went into the drawing-room to talk it over.
"Pretty jolly time, wasn't it?" asked Gay, with a smile of satisfaction.
"The best of it is that it will do both the boys and the girls good to be brought together," said Miss Celia, "and I doubt if it would have been done if you had not come to Hazelnook."
"Well, you see," said Gay, earnestly, "I can't seeany sense in putting one kind of people in one lump and another in another and having them think that they're different kind of folks, because they aren't at all, as you can tell easily enough if you take one out of each lump and change them about?"
"You were a niece to be proud of to-day, May," said Miss Linn, who was gratified at her young relation's social success, and not disposed to discuss the laws governing society in general.
"I don't think I'm much of a niece," said Gay, with a wicked grin, "but I'm glad if you are pleased with me. I meant to make them have a whooping old time."
And the two gentle aunts heard this outburst of slang without changing color, and in silence, so rapid had been their educational progress since the advent of their supposed niece.
A little later when Gay was taking off frock and sash in his room, his self-satisfaction was disturbed by an unpleasant thought, and he ran to the banisters and called,
"Aunt Celia, isn't it a shame; I forgot to ask Patsey. He's a splendid boy—I hope he won't feel hurt."
The aunts exchanged glances.
"She's hopeless!" sighed Miss Linn.
"A little lacking in social instinct, perhaps,"faltered Miss Celia, as bewildered by this remark as her sister, but determined not to own it. "I've no doubt," she said, with unexpected inspiration, "that she will grow up to be a very elegant woman; such harum-scarums often do."
Gay awoke the next morning, feeling that something delightful was in prospect.
"What is it, I wonder?" questioned the sleeper, just summoned from dreamland. "Oh, I know, it's the ball-game!"
Gay sprang out of bed and ran to the window to see if the weather was clear. Yes; the sun was up, smiling his most charming welcome, and Gay began to dress with the reckless haste of one who must be up and away. Such haste was unnecessary; the ball-game was not to be played until afternoon, but having something to look forward to adds impetus to one's movements.
"I must put on a strong waist; I don't want my clothes to fall apart on the diamond!" said Gay to himself. "That's the worst of being a girl; it's such a bother to keep picking out dresses. Yesterday I wore this white dress, but I can't put it on to-day. No, I have to hunt through the closet for something else. This flannel blazer will be just the thing to wear with this flannel skirt; it's ripped a little butI guess it will hold. I don't dare to say anything about it for fear Aunt Beulah will make me mend it! I wonder if I can run in skirts. I guess I'll take a turn in the back yard and find out!"
No one was astir but Margery, who was at work in the kitchen when Gay came in.
"Good morning, Margery."
"What are ye up so early for? Ain't ye tired after your party?"
"Not a bit. Nice party, wasn't it, and aren't those splendid boys, particularly Lyman?"
"Ye-es, they ain't bad boys for common folks, but there are ever so many nicer boys in the village, Miss May; real, little fine gentlemen, an' their fathers and grandfathers before them were gentlemen."
"They are not anything but boys, are they?"
"No, I suppose not; but they are different from that stuff that was here last night."
"Boys are boys, that's all they are. There are two kinds, perhaps; cads, cowards, tell-tales and mean boys are one kind; the splendid fellows are the other kind. There are poor cads and rich cads; rich splendid fellows and poor splendid fellows; white cowards and black cowards, and white mean fellows and black mean fellows. You see, Margery, you can't tell a bit by a fellow's father what he'll be; you've got to judge by the fellow himself. Ifhe is all right he is and that's the end of it. If he isn't right, why, that's the end of it, too, for everybody jumps the cad or the coward just as quick as he shows his colors."
"It's a mystery how you know so much about boys, Miss May."
"I play with boys all the time."
"I shouldn't think your ma and pa would like that."
"They do like it."
"Well, it's a mystery! It's all along o' them higher edication notions, Miss Linn says, but I don't understand it. Times have changed since your ma was brought up fifteen or twenty years ago. I don't know what they'll be twenty years from now when maybe you'll be a ma yourself."
"And maybe not!" laughed Gay, leaving the kitchen and going out into the shady backyard, for his morning practise. Exercises were about to commence when Lyman came into the yard.
"Game's off, Brown," said he.
"What's up?" asked Gay, anxiously.
"We were going to play the Plainvilles but their captain is off his base and we'll have to put it off till Saturday or maybe Monday. We'll let you know of course if you still think you'd like to come."
"Well, I should smile!"
Lyman laughed when this slang cameo fell fromGay's lips. "You are the greatest girl I ever saw!" said he.
"I dare say I am," said Gay.
"And the nicest," said Lyman, thinking his first remark not very complimentary. "You're not a bit like other girls; you're so square and such sport. Are there any more like you in New York?"
"Lots," said Gay, thinking what fun it would be when Lyman found out the truth. "I've a sister—we call her Brownie—she's twice as good as I am. She is as square as a brick and full of fun. She isn't quite as handy with her fists as I am, but she's quick, I can tell you! She can swim like a fish, she can play a fine game of tennis, and she's just the best girl going. You can't put her anywhere that she doesn't come to time."
"She must be a daisy! How old is she?"
"About my age; I hope you'll see Brownie some day—you'd like her. She——" Gay paused abruptly. How was it faring with that absent sister? Well or ill? Well, of course, he reasoned, it was so easy to be a boy!
Easy for a boy, certainly, but at that very moment the little girl in Cedarville was finding it exceedingly difficult to be a boy. While Gay was the heroine of Hazelnook May was the hero of Cedarville, but with what varying degrees of success and pleasure were their positions attended. Gay was popularand happy; May was unhappy and in disgrace. Their even exchange had not worked evenly.
"I must be off; I've got to work haying to-day," said Lyman.
"I'd love to work in a hay-field—to ride on a big rake, or do you use the little ones with long handles?" asked Gay, with eager interest.
"Both; little and big horse rakes. They wouldn't let you come, would they?" said Lyman, meaning the aunts by "they."
"I suppose not."
"If you can come I'll tell you the way. Keep right on past the post office till you come to a big meadow—you'll see me there."
"I'll show up if I can."
"Some of the other fellows will be there and they will be glad to see you. I'll tell you what it is, Brown, there isn't one of us but would do anything for you, for there isn't another swell young miss in the place that would have acted as you have right along."
"Drop the swell, can't you? There's only one kind of a swell worth mentioning—the square one—and I'm not that. You wouldn't think so if you knew me."
"You can deny it," said Lyman earnestly, "but you'd feel as we do if you had lived in a countrytown all your life and no one looked at you except they wanted some work done at Christmas or Easter or a Sunday-school picnic, and then somebody that people thought a swell should come and take you by the hand and treat you like—anybody. That's what you did."
"I took you under the ear, first," remarked Gay.
This unfeminine, if playful, rejoinder did not disconcert Lyman. "Well, wasn't that treating me like an equal?" he asked, triumphantly.
"I think I understand it. All the talk about being equal is bosh, I think, but it is enough to make one act like sin to be treated as if one was of no account. But you boys ought to brace up and show what you call swells that you are better than they are. That's the way to get even with such people; be really nicer than they are."
Lyman looked admiringly at Gay. "You'd make anybody try," said he, "I never heard the minister say anything half as brightening-up like."
"What minister? The one that hangs out here all the time?"
"Yes."
"Of course he never said anything but his prayers! And I'll bet he says them looking in the glass. Why, he doesn't know the boys in his congregation—what kind of a father would a man be if he didn't know the children in his family?And a congregation is just a large family, that's all."
"But people say he's going to marry your Aunt Celia."
"That milk and water—mostly water—man? Not much, my boy! Aunt Celia's head is too level for that."
When Lyman was gone away Gay wondered if the gossip about his aunt and the minister was true. "If it is," he said to himself, "I'll never call him uncle; not even to please Aunt Celia. When they ask me I'll say—politely, of course, but so they'll know I mean it—'Do you think I'll call him uncle? Not much!'"
It was not until afternoon that Gay had an opportunity to join his friends in the hay-field. Once there he soon became the centre of attraction; the boys clustered round and were so delightfully cordial in their manners—Lyman had duly reported the conversation of the morning—that Gay was quite overcome and felt like telling the truth and having some kind of a real boy's game to knock the edge off their compliments. He did so far forget himself as to suggest leap frog, but the boys declined the honor, possibly from a sense of propriety. The boys were occasionally surprised by the freedom of Gay's manner, but asRobert said, later, when the subject was under discussion, "It isn't altogether Brown's manners that we're stuck on; it's her friendliness and because we know she is true blue."
Gay was introduced to the men in the fields, who showed their appreciation of the supposed "she" by inviting her to ride on the load of hay. Gay not only accepted the invitation but helped put the hay in the stable-driver's barn. It was a charming afternoon and the youthful haymakers enjoyed it.
"Making hay knocks spots out of parties!" said Gay. "I never had such fun in my life."
Ethel Payne, her brother Ned, and the minister, of course, were on the porch when Gay came home.
"Where have you been?" said Miss Linn. "We have looked everywhere for you, dear."
"I've been helping Mr. Carver get his hay in. It was fun. I drank molasses and water out of a stone jug and I got almost all of it in my mouth; a little of it went down my neck, but not much."
The minister tried not to look disgusted; jolly Ethel tried not to laugh; Ned tried not to stare; the aunts tried not to look displeased—and all did precisely what they tried not to do.
"But you didn't ask permission, dear," said Miss Celia, reproachfully. This sudden relapse into evil ways after the excellent behavior of yesterday was mortifying to the lady.
"I know it, auntie," said Gay, stealing his armaround Miss Celia's neck. "If I had asked permission you wouldn't have let me go."
Miss Celia smiled at this reasoning, and Ned and Ethel laughed.
"It must have been fun on the hay," said Ethel. "Mustn't it, Ned?"
"Yes, I'd have liked it myself," said Ned, graciously.
"Come with me to-morrow morning, won't you?" asked Gay. "Mr. Carver has another load to get in and the boys would be glad to see you."
"I'm not sure of that," said Ned. "They are always firing stones at us Academy fellows."
"What did you Academy boys do first? Something, I'll bet."
"May, you must try not to use slang," murmured Miss Linn.
"Uncle George says slang is picturesque English," laughed mischievous Gay. "I try not to use it, for mother says she doesn't like too much of it, but it slips in. It's such handy stuff, you always find it when you want it, and sometimes when you don't, and that's more than you can say of proper words. But, Ned, what have the Academy fellows done?"
"We may have called them a name or two," admitted Ned.
"And they answered with a stone about as hardas your name. Well, I don't see much to choose between stones and names," said Gay.
"Perhaps not," said Ned. He was not insensible to Gay's reasoning, but he was not quite ready to admit its truth.
"I fear, Miss May," began the minister, endeavoring to speak pleasantly, although feeling an un-Christian desire to shake this terrible child, "I fear that your parents would not approve of your intimacy with these boys; they are uncultivated and otherwise undesirable acquaintances."
"Excuse me, sir," said Gay, with exasperating politeness, "you said you didn't know the boys; if you don't how do you know that they are uncultivated and undesirable?"
"I know the class they represent," explained the minister, not without impatience, for he did not like to be argued with by a child.
"If they are uncultivated I should think a good way to keep them so would be for cultivated people to avoid knowing them," Gay said, slowly.
"I fear you are a hopeless radical, Miss May," the minister said with a desire to bring the conversation to an end.
"Radical" was a new word to Gay, but he grasped its meaning after a moment's thought. "I am afraid I am," said he, "if radical means somebody who thinks one person should be treated as well as another."
The General must have thought his housekeeper too valuable to lose, for May was neither placed under lock and key nor condemned to prison fare of bread and water. In one way this order of severity would have been easier to bear than daily meetings with the silent General. Only a child of coarse calibre can stand out against the silent condemnation of an elder; to May, who had lived in an atmosphere of sunshine, the General's demeanor was well-nigh unbearable. Confession trembled on her lips more than once, but was repressed.
"What good will it do to tell?" she argued with herself. "Uncle Harold will not believe what I say until something happens to change his opinion of me."
The last accusation, that of sowing the seeds of tobacco-using, did not trouble May greatly. That would be easily disposed of when it was known that she was a girl; no one, then, would believe that she had given a boy tobacco. But a girl might fire a heap of hay and tell a fib about it afterwards,both acts being within a girl's province of wickedness. And if Philip never told, and if her uncle continued to disbelieve her, might not everybody, Gay, father, mother, all, believe her guilty? This thought brought May to the verge of despair.
Every morning a message was brought to May, "Will you apologize?" And to this message the unvarying reply was returned, "No, sir."
This exchange of semi-hostilities was the only intercourse between May and her uncle. The General began to feel some respect for a nature that could hold out against the enemy and refuse to yield even under continuous siege. "He's a naughty boy, but I believe he has the making of a soldier," thought the old man.
One day the uncle and the mock nephew encountered one another on the porch.
"Well, boy," said the uncle sitting down as if to make ready for a confession.
"Oh, Uncle Harold, if you would only believe me!" cried May, overcome by this unwonted gentleness.
"I will when you tell the truth; take back your words to the doctor and apologize to Philip," the General replied.
"Can't you see that I'm telling the truth and that I can't apologize to Philip?" May exclaimed,earnestly, clasping her hands on the General's arm and looking into his eyes.
The General rose, and put aside the clinging hands. He wanted to take the childish figure in his arms and forgive all that had passed, but the determination to conquer the stubborn will opposed to his own withheld him.
"I shall say no more about the matter. When you have anything to tell me you can seek me," he said, and then he walked away to hide his feelings.
"Philip did it!" May's lips formed these words, but no sound came from them. "Tell him," an inward voice whispered. May looked after the retreating figure; its outline was so stern that her courage faded and she turned hopelessly away in the other direction. "What is the use; he wouldn't believe me," she said to herself.
This encounter bore good fruit, however. It helped May to make an effort to lift the heavy cloud of suspicion that rested upon her. In the afternoon she asked Phyllis to walk over to the village with her.
"If Miss Sarah is willing," said Phyllis.
Sarah was willing, but when Phyllis said, "He's going to make that Brentwood boy speak out," she said, "Haven't you got that idea out of your head yet?"
"No, Miss Sarah," Phyllis replied, "I'm surer ofit than ever since Dr. Brentwood said Gay had given Philip tobacco—the idea of it! That Philip is a little scamp; you see if I am not right."
This decided expression of opinion from her meek serving-maid so surprised Sarah that she allowed Phyllis to depart without saying a word!
It was indeed May's intention to see Philip, but when Dr. Brentwood's was reached they were told that Philip had gone, with a companion, to play near the lake. "But the doctor is in his office," said the maid, looking significantly at May.
It was plain that she knew the whole story, and thought the young caller had come to make the expected apology, and so, also, thought the doctor, who was looking through the window and trying to persuade himself not to be too severe with the corrupter of Philip's morals.
"I don't care to see the doctor," May replied, with rising color. Then she added, "I am going to the lake, Phyllis."
"Very well," said Phyllis, now more than ever convinced of the insight of her conjectures.
Philip and his friend were in a boat a short distance from the shore. They were not rowing but drifting, and rocking the boat from side to side.
"I want to see you, Philip; come ashore, please."
The rocking ceased. "I don't want to see you,"Philip answered, telling the truth, in its deepest significance, unintentionally. "I shall not come ashore." And the rocking was resumed.
"You will have to come ashore some time; I will wait for you," May answered. "Sit down, Phyllis; I shall wait for him if I stay all night."
They sat down on the grass-fringed edge of the lake. Philip and his companion rocked, and jumped, and shouted noisily. They were too far distant for May or Phyllis to hear how it began, but presently they began to dispute and to push each other, and then, somehow—for no one ever knows how such accidents occur—they made a false movement, the boat tipped over on one side, and they went into the water with a great splash. The boat righted itself and swung idly on the little waves.
"They will drown!" shouted Phyllis, springing to her feet.
"No, they won't," said May. "They will get a good wetting, that's all. The water can't be deep; besides, Philip told me he could swim."
"They are not swimming," said Phyllis. "We'd better go for somebody."
"Help!" shouted one of the boys, coming to the surface.
At this cry May threw her hat on the bank and walked into the water without a word.
"Come back!" cried Phyllis, in alarm.
But May kept on. By this time the water was on a level with her chest, and she struck out boldly. She was a fearless swimmer and the distance was short, but as she swam along she could not help thinking, uneasily, "I wonder if I can manage both!"
When she reached them Philip was doing his utmost, in his fright, to drown himself and his companion, and must have succeeded in doing so if May had not arrived. She grasped him by the back, and they rose to the surface, where she made him understand that he must loose his hold of his companion. This he did and clung to May instead, plunging, struggling, and screaming, but she was equal to him, and by scolding, persuading and even threatening him she kept him afloat until the other boy, who could swim very well, recovered his breath, then together they got Philip ashore.
"I couldn't have held him a minute longer," gasped the boy, when they were on land again. "Philip hung hold of me so—why, I should think he must have been as strong as ten men—and he grabbed me every time I tried to swim a stroke and pulled me down. Oh, it was awful!"
"I thought you could swim," said May, "else I'd have been there sooner."
She didn't say "Philip told me he could swim,"and for the first time since their acquaintance began, Philip appreciated May's forbearance and realized that the "girl-boy," "coward," and "sissy," had returned his evil conduct with good. His shame would have increased had he known that he was indebted to a girl for his safety.
"You're a good swimmer," said Philip's companion.
"I ought to be," said May, beginning to wring blouse and knickerbocker to get rid of the water. "Father taught my brother and me to swim when we were four years old, and he says we took to the water as naturally as Newfoundland puppies. How do you feel, Philip?" May added, with an anxious glance at Philip, who had not spoken, and who stood at her side, shivering, and looking blue and pinched about his nose and mouth.
"Queer," Philip replied, faintly.
"You must move around," May said, taking Philip's hands and chafing them smartly. "The best thing to do is to start for home. Wring yourself out a little, Philip; then we'll go."
But Philip protested that he was dying and couldn't walk a step, and that somebody must go for his grandfather's carriage.
"I'll go," said Philip's friend.
"No," said May, decidedly, "Philip must keep moving or he'll take cold. Come, Philip, take my arm, and your friend——"
"My name is Rob Lawrence," interrupted the boy.
"And Rob will take your other arm, and you can get along nicely," May continued.
Philip took the proffered arms very meekly and the procession moved; Philip, Rob and May abreast, and Phyllis in the next rank, carrying May's hat and weeping quietly from sheer excitement. When they reached the Brentwood's, they helped exhausted Philip in at a side door. "I want you to come in with me," he said.
"I can't, I'm so wet," said May; "I'll come down by and by."
"I want you to come in now; I may be dead by and by," said Philip, tragically.
So they went in, Rob, May, and Phyllis, the latter privately convinced that some new infliction was in store for her favorite. This was an unnecessary suspicion, as she soon learned.
The maid preceded them into the drawing-room, crying,—
"Oh, docther, docther, Master Philip is drownded, and the Gineral's boy pulled him out alive!"
Then there was a great flurry! Grandmamma Brentwood tried to faint and the General, who was making an afternoon call, supplied her with water, and a bouquet of roses, from a handy vase! The water and indignation brought the old lady out of her swoon, and just then Philip and May and Rob,all dripping like half-wrung clothes, came in, followed by faithful Phyllis.
"Grandpapa!" said Philip, and oh, how hard the words came! "when I was drowning—I threw the matches in the hay. I didn't really mean to do it—I was ashamed when I was being pulled ashore—that tobacco and stuff was mine—and—Gay told the truth and I—didn't!"
This was incoherent, but everybody understood it. The General opened his arms to May, then and there, and she nestled within them and nobody as much as thought of the damage her water-soaked clothing might do to the General's "old-school" finery. Doctor and Mrs. Brentwood looked sadly at their shame-faced grandchild. As for Phyllis, it was the happiest moment of her life—not only was her pet completely vindicated, but now she could prove to her mistress that her reasoning powers had not been injured by excess of romance reading.
The doctor was ashamed of the part his belief in Philip had caused him to play. "Gay," said he, "why didn't you tell in the first place that Philip set the hay afire?"
"I thought Philip would tell," May replied. "And he has told and that is all there is about it." May glanced at Philip with a forgiving smile, and he smiled in return, with full appreciation of her magnanimity.
"No, that is not all," said the doctor, sternly. "You shall say what punishment shall be Philip's."
"Punishment!" echoed May in astonishment. "I should think he'd had enough already! with doing what he was ashamed of, and half drowning besides."
"He'd have been wholly drowned if it hadn't been for you. And so would I," Rob ventured to say.
"What shall we do to him?" persisted the doctor. "He made you suffer; it is only justice that you should select his punishment."
"I shouldn't call that justice," said May decidedly. "I should call it paying him back, and father won't let us think of doing such things. If you please, Doctor Brentwood, I think we'll call it square as it is." She turned to Philip and added, earnestly, "You won't be so hateful again, will you?"
"No," Philip replied, so soberly that May did not doubt his sincerity.
Then somebody was wise enough to realize that the children were courting lung fever and rheumatism. May scampered for home, and was dressed in a dry suit before the General and Phyllis got there, and before Sarah knew anything about it.
When Sarah heard the story she expressed no surprise. "Phyllis and I have thought for some time that Philip knew more about it than he chose to tell," she said.
This cool assertion naturally surprised Phyllis, but a little later she received a second shock of surprise beside which the first faded into insignificance. Sarah gave her a bunch of keys, saying,—
"The keys of the small storeroom. Hereafter you will deal out the stores to the farm hands. Anybody that ferreted out Philip's mischief deserves to have the control of keys." Then, because Phyllis didn't know what to say, she added, "Take them; don't stand there looking as if you hadn't an idea in your head."
"Yes'm," said Phyllis, accepting the keys without another word.
As for the General, he held May on his knees all the evening, so proud, so happy, and so contrite was he. May would hear no reproaches, but the General silently vowed never again to doubt his "little soldier."
But bless you, he did! Within twenty-four hours the unfortunate "little soldier" was once more in disgrace.
The next morning Dr. Brentwood drove over to the General's with a message from Philip; he was sick in bed; would Gay come and see him?
"Why, of course I'll go," said sympathetic May. "And I'll stay as long as he wants me."
This answer seemed so broad-minded, viewed in the light of the recent events, that the General saw May drive away with the doctor with feelings of pride and pleasure.
"He's the finest boy I have ever known!" the General said to Sarah.
"I told you so, but you called him a 'molly cott' and a 'girl boy.'"
"I admit my error. Fancy my calling that manly little fellow such names! A boy of the best type, Sarah; an out-and-out boy."
"Anybody can see that. I don't take any credit to myself for seeing just what kind of a boy he is, for honesty, sincerity and loveableness shine right out on his bright little face, bless him!"
"That is true, Sarah. Still, I believe that the first day he came you said you didn't take any stock in him—how is that?"
"Quite a different thing. But I can't waste my time here; I've something to do elsewhere," and Sarah hurried away, leaving the General smiling broadly.
Once in awhile, as often as a very wicked man has a good impulse, let us say, the General enjoyed a quiet laugh at the expense of his housekeeper, and it made him feel at peace with all mankind. It was in a very agreeable frame of mind, therefore, that he sought his library and picked up what he believed to be a book of the Æneid, opened it at random, and at a passage that was worse than Greek to him. It was:
"Wednesday—I wish I had never tried to be a Boy. I drilled this morning with Uncle Harold and a dreadful rifle. I blistered my hands, carrying the gun that wanted to explode and kill everybody, and my heels marching front rank obleek."
"Bless me!" exclaimed the General; then he read the next entry.
"Thursday.—I don't mind drilling with a rifle that has cotton wool in it. I wish Gay was here and I was in Hazelnook. I don't like to deceve. Uncle H. half-and-half likes me; Sarah and Fillis like me. I wish I could have a dress like Fillisesand Miss Sarah's. When I am a girl again I shall ask mother if I may have one, and wear a little apron and a kerchief, and have a bunch of kees. I have two kees of my own, and Gay might let me have the kee to his tool chest; then he would know where it was. I don't think my uncle is very hospityable; but, maybe, that is my punishment for letting him think I am a boy. They got punished in Bible times, for things they did—grasshoppers like a cloud and lots more; and I think people get punished now—not grasshoppers, perhaps, because there aren't enough now to go round. There is a tiny, wee chest in the attic filled with a little girl's clothes. I put them all on. It seemed good and very natcheral, too, although the dresses must be a hundred and seventy-five years old, at least. I like knickerbockers. I rode bareback on old Kate, the roan mare, yesterday, and climbed to the top of the tree in the corner of the garden, and I did it a great deal easier than I could in skirts.
"P. S.—I musn't forget the officer's salute."
"In the afternoon.—We are friends! Now I feel worse than I did before, because I am deseving somebody that likes me."
"What does this mean?" thought the General, when he had read these remarkable disclosures. "Is Gay a girl? Is he my nephew or my niece, or somebody else altogether! If he—she—hasbeen cheating me all this time I shall never forgive him—her, I mean."
Then, stifling his conscience by saying that he was not spying, but looking into something that needed to be looked into—I am not sure that he did not say, "For the good of the commonwealth!"—the General finished reading the poor little journal, all blotted as it was with ink and tears. As he read, his emotions ranged from pity to anger; from anger back to pity again. He pitied the suffering of the child; he was angry at the deceit that had been practised upon him.
"Sarah!" he called, when he had read the last entry made that morning in his own library, and possibly interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, for a sentence was left unfinished. "Sarah, come here!"
"What is it?" said Sarah, appearing at the door.
"Come in," said the General.
Sarah entered the room, and seated herself with an ill-concealed air of indifference in the most uncomfortable chair in the room. She never sat in a comfortable chair during an interview with the General; it seemed as if she feared being led into a state of amiable receptivity if her body were at ease; it was her way of delivering herself from temptation to be acquiescent.
"An unexpected complication," the General began. "A most unexpec——"
"What is it?" demanded Sarah, cutting him short.
"Read this and see for yourself," the General replied, extending May's journal.
Sarah took the leather-bound book and read it through without comment.
"Well," said the General, impatiently, "what do you think of it? Have you ever known such duplicity?"
"No duplicity about it," Sarah said, contrary-minded, as usual. "These children went into it for a 'lark,' as Gay—May, I mean—says here. Just think of that dear little girl drilling, putting out fires, keeping up during that Brentwood scrape, and pulling that boy out of the pond! I declare, when I think of that Philip, I'd like to shake him. If our child is a girl, she is the pluckiest one I have ever seen!"
"Sarah!" said the General, weakly, "you are the most inconsistent woman I have ever known."
"You haven't known women enough to be able to judge of my inconsistency," Sarah rejoined, dryly.
"I shall write to their father and to Hazelnook to-night," said the General, glad to change the subject.
"If you've a grain of sense you'll do nothing of the sort," Sarah exclaimed. "Those children kept quiet that their mother might not be troubled, and you mustn't break up all their plans."
"I will take Gay, or May, or whichever it is, down to Hazelnook to-morrow, and straighten out matters there," said the General.
"It would be a good idea to stop this masquerading just where it is," Sarah admitted. "You had better bring Gay—May—back with you, unless you prefer the boy, and let her finish her visit here in her own clothes."
"I don't think I prefer the boy," the General said rather sheepishly. "Still——"
"You know you love that child better than you could love fifty boys!" cried Sarah. "We don't want a noisy boy in the house."
"What? Not a boy whose 'honesty, sincerity and lovableness shine right out on his dear little face?'" laughed the General.
"No, nor 'an out and out boy!'" Sarah retorted. "I'm afraid you can't go until after to-morrow," she added. "May writes: 'Gay has spoiled all my pretty summer dresses,' in one of her entries, and we shall have to make her some sort of a frock before she can go, for that boy hasn't left her a rag, and you may be sure he'll want his jackets and trousers when he sees them again."
The General laughed.
"What a pair of madcaps they must be when they are together!" he said.
"Bring them both back with you," said Sarah, heartily. "It is cruel to separate them any longer."
"It would suit me perfectly," said the General. "But do you want two children in the house?"
"Certainly," Sarah replied. "There is room enough for a dozen, and it will brighten up this dull old house a bit." She turned to the General and demanded, defiantly, "Did you ever hear me say I didn't like children?"
"I don't know that I ever did," replied the General, meekly.
"Well!" said Sarah.
And that ended their conversation.
When May came home late in the afternoon, the General, Sarah and Phyllis were on the porch.
"How is Philip?" asked the General.
"Lots and lots better," said May. "I played checkers and read and sung and told stories about our children at home, and made him forget his cold—and what he did. Philip is all right, I think; getting into the water seemed to wash the naughty all out of him."
"You are a genuine reformer, littlegirl!" said the General.
His emphasis was so marked that May lookedat him an instant, then threw herself into his arms, crying:
"Oh, who told you? Has Gay told the aunties? Does mother know?"
"Your journal told," said Sarah, smiling pleasantly.
"I'm glad it did," cried May, emphatically. "I was never so tired of being myself as I am of being somebody else!"
She ran up to Sarah and kissed her rapturously; then to Phyllis and kissed her three, four, yes, six, times. With her arms around Phyllis's neck, May said,—
"You couldn't have been kinder to me when I was unhappy if you had been my own sister. You just believed in me without question, and that's true friendship."
Phyllis was too happy at this praise even to answer, but May knew the reason of her silence and saved her the trouble of replying, saying,—
"Will you all excuse me a minute, please?" Then she darted into the house before they could speak.
They excused her five, ten, fifteen minutes, and then she returned. Knickerbockers and blouse were gone, and in their place was a quaint white frock, with low, short waist and elaborate full sleeves covered with exquisite embroidery.
"Katherine's dress!" exclaimed Sarah, looking at the General.
"I found it in the little cedar chest in the attic," said May, looking at her waist and sleeves with admiring eyes. "Doesn't it fit well? May I wear these clothes while I stay, Miss Sarah? They fit, for I tried them on a week ago and they look just like my dresses, only mine are not so much like silk. May I wear them? I won't hurt them a bit!"
Sarah looked at the General, who nodded his head vigorously.
"Yes, you may wear them," Sarah said. "They belonged to your little great-aunt, Katherine Haines, who died sixty years ago."
"Poor little great-aunt," said May, looking sad and touching the fine India muslin frock reverently.
But May's pensive mood did not last. Seizing the General's walking stick she took the soldier's position, arms at a carry, and in an excellent imitation of the General's manner, shouted,——
"Fire as by single rank. Ready, aim, fire!"
These commands she executed with great spirit amid applause from the audience. Then the General put her through several motions and when drill was over she paused before him, and asked,—
"Which way do you like me best, Uncle Harold—as a boy or a girl?"