note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) great-uncle hoot-toot. by mrs. molesworth, author of "the palace in the garden," "'carrots': just a little boy," "the cuckoo clock," etc. illustrated by gordon browne, e. j. walker, lizzie lawson, j. bligh, and maynard brown. published under the direction of the committee of general literature and education appointed by the society for promoting christian knowledge. london: society for promoting christian knowledge, northumberland avenue, charing cross, w.c.; , queen victoria street, e.c. brighton: , north street. new york: e. & j. b. young and co. [illustration: frances and elsa.] great-uncle hoot-toot. "... what we have we prize not to the worth whiles we enjoy it; but being lack'd and lost, why then we rack the value."--_much ado about nothing._ chapter i. the master of the house. "that's geoff, i'm sure," said elsa; "i always know his ring. i do hope----" and she stopped and sighed a little. "what?" said frances, looking up quickly. "oh, nothing particular. run down, vic, dear, and get geoff to go straight into the school-room. order his tea at once. i _don't_ want him to come upstairs just now. mamma is so busy and worried with those letters." [illustration: vicky.] vic, a little girl of nine, with long fair hair and long black legs, and a pretty face with a bright, eager expression, needed no second bidding. she was off almost before elsa had finished speaking. "what a good child she is!" said frances. "what a clever, nice boy she would have made! and if geoff had been a girl, perhaps he would have been more easily managed." "i don't know," said elsa. "perhaps if vicky had been a boy she would have been spoilt and selfish too." "elsa," said frances, "i think you are rather hard upon geoff. he is like all boys. everybody says they are more selfish than girls, and then they grow out of it." "they grow out of showing it so plainly, perhaps," replied elsa, rather bitterly. "but you contradict yourself, frances. just a moment ago you said what a much nicer boy vic would have made. all boys aren't like geoff. of course, i don't mean that he is really a bad boy; but it just comes over me now and then that it is a _shame_ he should be such a tease and worry, boy or not. when mamma is anxious, and with good reason, and we girls are doing all we can, why should geoff be the one we have to keep away from her, and to smooth down, as it were? it's all for her sake, of course; but it makes me ashamed, all the same, to feel that we are really almost afraid of him. there now----" and she started up as the sound of a door, slammed violently in the lower regions, reached her ears. but before she had time to cross the room, vicky reappeared. "it's nothing, elsa," the child began eagerly. "geoff's all right; he's not cross. he only slammed the door at the top of the kitchen stair because i reminded him not to leave it open." "you might have shut it yourself, rather than risk a noise to-night," said elsa. "what was he doing at the top of the kitchen stair?" vicky looked rather guilty. "he was calling to phoebe to boil two eggs for his tea. he says he is so hungry. i would have run up to tell you; but i thought it was better than his teasing mamma about letting him come in to dinner." elsa glanced at frances. "you see," her glance seemed to say. "yes, dear," she said aloud to the little sister, "anything is better than that. run down again, vicky, and keep him as quiet as you can." "would it not be better, perhaps," asked frances, rather timidly, "for one of us to go and speak to him, and tell him quietly about mamma having had bad news?" "he wouldn't rest then till he had heard all about it from herself," said elsa. "of course he'd be sorry for her, and all that, but he would only show it by teasing." it was frances's turn to sigh, for in spite of her determination to see everything and everybody in the best possible light, she knew that elsa was only speaking the truth about geoffrey. half an hour later the two sisters were sitting at dinner with their mother. she was anxious and tired, as they knew, but she did her utmost to seem cheerful. "i have seen and heard nothing of geoff," she said suddenly. "has he many lessons to do to-night? he's all right, i suppose?" "oh yes," said frances. "vic's with him, looking out his words. he seems in very good spirits. i told him you were busy writing for the mail, and persuaded him to finish his lessons first. he'll be coming up to the drawing-room later." "i think mamma had better go to bed almost at once," said elsa, abruptly. "you've finished those letters, dear, haven't you?" "yes--all that i can write as yet. but i must go to see mr. norris first thing to-morrow morning. i have said to your uncle that i cannot send him particulars till next mail." "mamma, darling," said frances, "do you really think it's going to be very bad?" mrs. tudor smiled rather sadly. "i'm afraid so," she said; "but the suspense is the worst. once we really _know_, we can meet it. you three girls are all so good, and geoff, poor fellow--he _means_ to be good too." "yes," said frances, eagerly, "i'm sure he does." "but 'meaning' alone isn't much use," said elsa. "mamma," she went on with sudden energy, "if this does come--if we really do lose all our money, perhaps it will be the best thing for geoff in the end." mrs. tudor seemed to wince a little. "you needn't make the very worst of it just yet, any way," said frances, reproachfully. "and it would in one sense be the hardest on geoff," said the mother, "for his education would have to be stopped, just when he's getting on so well, too." "but----" began elsa, but she said no more. it was no use just then expressing what was in her mind--that getting on well at school, winning the good opinion of his masters, the good fellowship of his companions, did not comprise the whole nor even the most important part of the duty of a boy who was also a son and a brother--a son, too, of a widowed mother, and a brother of fatherless sisters. "i would almost rather," she said to herself, "that he got on less well at school if he were more of a comfort at home. it would be more manly, somehow." her mother did not notice her hesitation. "let us go upstairs, dears," she said. "i _am_ tired, but i am not going to let myself be over-anxious. i shall try to put things aside, as it were, till i hear from great-uncle hoot-toot. i have the fullest confidence in his advice." "i wish he would take it into his head to come home," said frances. "so do i," agreed her mother. they were hardly settled in the drawing-room before vic appeared. "elsa," she whispered, "geoff sent me to ask if he may have something to eat." "something to eat," repeated elsa. "he had two eggs with his tea. he can't be hungry." "no--o-- but there were anchovy toasts at dinner--harvey told him. and he's so fond of anchovy toasts. i think you'd better say he may, elsa, because of mamma." "very well," the elder sister replied. "it's not right--it's always the way. but what are we to do?" vicky waited not to hear her misgivings, but flew off. she was well-drilled, poor little soul. her brother was waiting for her, midway between the school-room and dining-room doors. "well?" he said, moving towards the latter. "yes. elsa says you may," replied the breathless little envoy. "elsa! what has she to do with it? i told you to ask mamma, not elsa," he said roughly. he stood leaning against the jamb of the door, his hands in his pockets, with a very cross look on his handsome face. but victoria, devoted little sister though she was, was not to be put down by any cross looks when she knew she was in the right. "geoff," she said sturdily, "i'll just leave off doing messages or anything for you if you are _so_ selfish. how could i go teasing mamma about anchovy toasts for you when she is so worried?" "how should i know she is busy and worried?" said geoff. "what do you mean? what is it about?" "i don't know. at least i only know that elsa and francie told me that she _was_ worried, and that she had letters to write for the ship that goes to india to-morrow." "for the indian mail you mean, i suppose," said geoff. "what a donkey you are for your age, vic! oh, if it's only that, she's writing to that old curmudgeon; _that's_ nothing new. come along, vicky, and i'll give you a bit of my toasts." [illustration: her brother was waiting for her.] he went into the dining-room as he spoke, and rang the bell. "harvey'll bring them up. i said i'd ring if i was to have them. upon my word, vic, it isn't every fellow of my age that would take things so quietly. never touching a scrap without leave, when lots like me come home to late dinner every night." "elsa says it's only middle-class people who let children dine late," said vic, primly, "_i_ shan't come down to dinner till i'm _out_." geoffrey burst out laughing. "rubbish!" he said. "elsa finds reasons for everything that suits her. here, vicky, take your piece." vicky was not partial to anchovy toasts, but to-night she was so anxious to keep geoff in a good humour, that she would have eaten anything he chose to give her, and pretended to like it. so she accepted her share, and geoff munched his in silence. he was a well-made, manly looking boy, not tall for his years, which were fourteen, but in such good proportion as to give promise of growing into a strong and vigorous man. his face was intended by nature to be a very pleasing one. the features were all good; there was nobility in the broad forehead, and candour in the bright dark eyes, and--sometimes--sweetness in the mouth. but this "sometimes" had for long been becoming of less and less frequent occurrence. a querulous, half-sulky expression had invaded the whole face: its curves and lines were hardening as those of no young face should harden; the very carriage of the boy was losing its bright upright fearlessness--his shoulders were learning to bend, his head to slouch forward. one needed but to glance at him to see that geoffrey tudor was fast becoming that most disagreeable of social characters, a grumbler! and with grumbling unrepressed, and indulged in, come worse things, for it has its root in that true "root of all evil," selfishness. as the last crumbs of the anchovy toasts disappeared, geoff glanced round him. "i say, vic," he began, "is there any water on the sideboard? those things are awfully salt. but i don't know that i'm exactly thirsty, either. i know what i'd like--a glass of claret, and i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. at my age it's really too absurd that----" "what are you talking about, geoff?" said elsa's voice in the doorway. "mamma wants you to come up to the drawing-room for a little. what is it that is too absurd at your age?" "nothing in particular--or rather everything," said geoff, with a slight tone of defiance. there was something in elsa's rather too superior, too elder-sisterly way of speaking that, as he would have expressed it, "set him up." "i was saying to vic that i'd like a glass of claret, and that i don't see why i shouldn't have it, either. other fellows would help themselves to it. i often think i'm a great donkey for my pains." elsa looked at him with a strange mixture of sadness and contempt. "what will he be saying next, i wonder?" her glance seemed to say. but the words were not expressed. "come upstairs," she said. "vicky has told you, i know, that you must be _particularly_ careful not to tease mamma to-night." geoff returned her look with an almost fierce expression in the eyes that could be so soft and gentle. "i wish you'd mind your own business, and leave mother and me to ourselves. it's your meddling puts everything wrong," he muttered. but he followed his elder sister upstairs quietly enough. down in the bottom of his heart was hidden great faith in elsa. he would, had occasion demanded it, have given his life, fearlessly, cheerfully, for her or his mother, or the others. but the smaller sacrifices, of his likes and dislikes, of his silly boyish temper and humours--of "self," in short, he could not or would not make. still, something in elsa's words and manner this evening impressed him in spite of himself. he followed her into the drawing-room, fully _meaning_ to be good and considerate. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ii. "mayn't i speak to you, mamma?" that was the worst of it--the most puzzling part of it, rather, perhaps we should say--with geoffrey. he _meant_ to be good. he would not for worlds have done anything that he distinctly saw to be wrong. he worked well at his lessons, though to an accompaniment of constant grumbling--at home, that is to say; grumbling at school is not encouraged. he was rather a favourite with his companions, for he was a manly and "plucky" boy, entering heartily into the spirit of all their games and amusements, and he was thought well of by the masters for his steadiness and perseverance, though not by any means of naturally studious tastes. the wrong side of him was all reserved for home, and for his own family. yet, only son and fatherless though he was, he had not been "spoilt" in the ordinary sense of the word. mrs. tudor, though gentle, and in some ways timid, was not a weak or silly woman. she had brought up her children on certain broad rules of "must," as to which she was as firm as a rock, and these had succeeded so well with the girls that it was a complete surprise as well as the greatest of sorrows to her when she first began to see signs of trouble with her boy. and gradually her anxiety led her into the fatal mistake of spoiling geoffrey by making him of too much consequence. it came to be recognized in the household that his moods and humours were to be a sort of family barometer, and that all efforts were to be directed towards the avoidance of storms. not that geoff was passionate or violent. had he been so, things would have sooner come to a crisis. he was simply _tiresome_--tiresome to a degree that can scarcely be understood by those who have not experienced such tiresomeness for themselves. and as there is no doubt a grain of the bully somewhere in the nature of every boy--if not of every human being--what this tiresomeness might have grown into had the fates, or something higher than the fates, not interposed, it would be difficult to exaggerate. the cloudy look had not left geoff's face when he came into the drawing-room. but, alas! it was nothing new to see him "looking like that." his mother took no notice of it. "well, geoff?" she said pleasantly. "how have you got on to-day, my boy?" he muttered something indistinctly, which sounded like, "oh, all right;" then catching sight of elsa's reproachful face, he seemed to put some constraint on himself, and, coming forward to his mother, kissed her affectionately. "are you very tired to-night, mamma?" he said. "must i not speak to you?" mrs. tudor _was_ very tired, and she knew by old experience what geoff's "speaking" meant--an hour or more's unmitigated grumbling, and dragging forward of every possible grievance, to have each in turn talked over, and sympathized about, and smoothed down by her patient hand. such talks were not without their effect on the boy; much that his mother said appealed to his good sense and good feeling, though he but seldom gave her the satisfaction of seeing this directly. but they were very wearing to _her_, and it was carrying motherly unselfishness too far to undertake such discussion with geoff, when she was already worn out with unusual anxiety. she smiled, however, brightly enough, in reply to his questions. it cheered her to see that he could consider her even thus much. "of course i can speak to you, geoff. have you anything particular to tell me?" "lots of things," said the boy. he drew forward a chair in which to settle himself comfortably beside his mother, darting an indignant glance at his sisters as he did so. "humbugging me as usual about mamma--anything to keep me away from her," he muttered. but elsa and frances only glanced at each other in despair. "well," said mrs. tudor, resignedly, leaning back in her chair. "mamma," began geoffrey, "there must be something done about my pocket-money. i just can't do with what i've got. i've waited to speak about it till i had talked it over with some of the other fellows. they nearly all have more than i." "boys of your age--surely not?" interposed mrs. tudor. [illustration: "there must be something done about my pocket-money."] "well, _some_ of them are not older than i," allowed geoff. "if you'd give me more, and let me manage things for myself--football boots, and cricket-shoes, and that sort of thing. the girls"--with cutting emphasis--"are always hinting that i ask you for too many things, and _i_ hate to be seeming to be always at you for something. if you'd give me a regular allowance, now, and let me manage for myself." "at your age," repeated his mother, "that surely is very unusual." "i don't see that it matters exactly about age," said geoff, "if one's got sense." "but have you got sense enough, geoff?" said frances, gently. "i'm three years older than you, and i've only just begun to have an allowance for my clothes, and i should have got into a dreadful mess if it hadn't been for elsa helping me." "girls are quite different," said geoff. "they want all sorts of rubbishing ribbons and crinolines and flounces. boys only need regular necessary things." "then you haven't any wants at present, i should think, geoff," said elsa, in her peculiarly clear, rather aggravating tones. "you were completely rigged out when you came back from the country, three weeks ago." geoff glowered at her. "mamma," he said, "will you once for all make elsa and frances understand that when i'm speaking to you they needn't interfere?" mrs. tudor did not directly respond to this request. "will you tell me, geoff," she said, "what has put all this into your head? what things are you in want of?" geoff hesitated. fancied wants, like fancied grievances, have an annoying trick of refusing to answer to the roll-call when distinctly summoned to do so. "there's lots of things," he began. "i _should_ have a pair of proper football boots, instead of just an old common pair with ribs stuck on, you know, like i have. all the fellows have proper ones when they're fifteen or so." "but you are not fifteen." "well, i might wait about the _boots_ till next term. but i do really want a pair of boxing-gloves dreadfully," he went on energetically, as the idea occurred to him; "you know i began boxing this term." "and don't they provide boxing-gloves? how have you managed hitherto?" asked his mother, in surprise. "oh, well, yes--there _are_ gloves; but of course it's much nicer to have them of one's own. it's horrid always to seem just one of the lot that can't afford things of their own." "and if you are _not_ rich--and i dare say nearly all your schoolfellows are richer than you"--said elsa, "is it not much better not to sham that you are?" "sham," repeated geoff, roughly. "mamma, i do think you should speak to elsa.--if you were a boy----" he added, turning to his sister threateningly. "i don't want to sham about anything; but it's very hard to be sent to a school when you can't have everything the same as the others." a look of pain crept over mrs. tudor's tired face. had she done wrong? was it another of her "mistakes"--of which, like all candid people, she felt she had made many in her life--to have sent geoff to a first-class school? "geoff," she said weariedly, "you surely do not realize what you cause me when you speak so. it was almost my principal reason for settling in london seven years ago, that i might be able to send you to one of the best schools. we could have lived more cheaply, and more comfortably, in the country; but you would have had to go to a different class of school." "well, i wish i had, then," said geoff, querulously. "i perfectly hate london; i have always told you so. i shouldn't mind what i did if it was in the country. it isn't that i want to spend money, or that i've extravagant ideas; but it's too hard to be in a false position, as i am at school--not able to have things like the other fellows. you would have made _me_ far happier if you had gone to live in the country and let me go to a country school. i _hate_ london; and just because i want things like other fellows, i'm scolded." mrs. tudor did not speak. she looked sad and terribly tired. "geoff," said elsa, putting great control on herself so as to speak very gently, for she felt as if she could gladly shake him, "you must see that mamma is very tired. do wait to talk to her till she is better able for it. and it is getting late." "do go, geoff," said his mother. "i have listened to what you have said; it is not likely i shall forget it. i will talk to you afterwards." the boy looked rather ashamed. "i haven't meant to vex you," he said, as he stooped to kiss his mother. "i'm sorry you're so tired." there was silence for a moment after he had left the room. "i am afraid there is a mixture of truth in what he says," said mrs. tudor, at last. "it has been one of the many mistakes i have made, and now i suppose i am to be punished for it." elsa made a movement of impatience. "mamma dear!" she exclaimed, "i don't think you would speak that way if you weren't tired. there isn't any truth in what geoff says. i don't mean that he tells stories; but it's just his incessant grumbling. he makes himself believe all sorts of nonsense. he has everything right for a boy of his age to have. i know there are boys whose parents are really rich who have less than he has." "yes, indeed, mamma; elsa is right," said frances. "geoff is insatiable. he picks out the things boys here and there may have as an exception, and wants to have them all. he has a perfect genius for grumbling." "because he is always thinking of himself," said elsa. "mamma, don't think me disrespectful, but would it not be better to avoid saying things which make him think himself of such consequence--like telling him that we came to live in town principally for _his_ sake?" "perhaps so," said her mother. "i am always in hopes of making him ashamed, by showing how much _has_ been done for him." "and he does feel ashamed," said frances, eagerly. "i saw it to-night; he'd have liked to say something more if he hadn't been too proud to own that he had been inventing grievances." "things have been too smooth for him," said elsa; "that's the truth of it. he needs some hardships." "and as things are turning out he's very likely to get them," said mrs. tudor, with a rather wintry smile. "oh, mamma, forgive me! do you know, i had forgotten all about our money troubles," elsa exclaimed. "why don't you tell geoff about them, mamma? it's in a way hardly fair on him; for if he knew, it _might_ make him understand how wrong and selfish he is." "i will tell him soon, but not just yet. i do not want to distract his mind from his lessons, and i wish to be quite sure first. i think i should wait till i hear from your great-uncle." "and that will be--how long? it is how many weeks since mr. norris first wrote that he was uneasy? about seven, i should say," said elsa. "quite that," said her mother. "it is the waiting that is so trying. i can do nothing without great-uncle hoot-toot's advice." that last sentence had been a familiar one to mrs. tudor's children almost ever since they could remember. "great-uncle hoot-toot" had been a sort of autocrat and benefactor in one, to the family. his opinions, his advice had been asked on all matters of importance; his approval had been held out to them as the highest reward, his displeasure as the punishment most to be dreaded. and yet they had never seen him! "i wish he would come home himself," said elsa. "i think geoff would be much the better for a visit from him," she added, with a slight touch of sharpness in her tone. "poor geoff!" said her mother. "i suppose the truth is that very few women know how to manage boys." "i don't see that," said elsie. "on the contrary, a generous-natured boy is often more influenced by a woman's gentleness than by a man's severity. it is just that, that i don't like about geoff. there is a want of generous, chivalrous feeling about him." "no," said frances. "i don't quite agree with you. i think it is there, but somehow not awakened. mamma," she went on, "supposing our great-uncle did come home, would he be dreadfully angry if he found out that we all called him 'hoot-toot'?" "oh no," said her mother, smiling; "he's quite used to it. your father told me he had had the trick nearly all his life of saying 'hoot-toot, hoot-toot!' if ever he was perplexed or disapproving." "what a _very_ funny little boy he must have been!" exclaimed both the girls together. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iii. an unlooked-for arrival. the next few days were trying ones for all the tudor family. the mother was waiting anxiously for further news of the money losses, with which, as her lawyers told her, she was threatened; the sisters were anxious too, though, with the bright hopefulness of their age, the troubles which distressed their mother fell much more lightly on them: _they_ were anxious because they saw _her_ suffering. vicky had some misty idea that something was wrong, but she knew very little, and had been forbidden to say anything to geoff about the little she did know. so that of the whole household geoff was the only one who knew nothing, and went on living in his fool's paradise of having all his wants supplied, yet grumbling that he had nothing! he was in a particularly tiresome mood--perhaps, in spite of themselves, it was impossible for his sisters to bear with him as patiently as usual; perhaps the sight of his mother's pale face made him dissatisfied with himself and cross because he would not honestly own that he was doing nothing to help and please her. and the weather was very disagreeable, and among geoff's many "hates" was a very exaggerated dislike to bad weather. about this sort of thing he had grumbled much more since his return from a long visit to some friends in the country the summer before, when the weather had been splendid, and everything done to make him enjoy himself, in consequence of which he had come home with a fixed idea that the country was always bright and charming; that it was only in town that one had to face rain and cold and mud. as to fog, he had perhaps more ground for his belief. "did you ever see such beastly weather?" were his first words to vicky one evening when the good little sister had rushed to the door on hearing geoff's ring, so that his majesty should not be kept waiting an unnecessary moment. "i am perfectly drenched, and as cold as ice. is tea ready, vic?" "quite ready--at least it will be by the time you've changed your things. do run up quick, geoff. it's a bad thing to keep on wet clothes." "mamma should have thought of that before she sent me to a day-school," said geoff. "i've a good mind just _not_ to change my clothes, and take my chance of getting cold. it's perfect slavery--up in the morning before it's light, and not home till pitch dark, and soaked into the bargain." "hadn't you your mackintosh on?" asked vicky. "my mackintosh! it's in rags. i should have had a new one ages ago." "geoff! i'm sure it can't be so bad. you've not had it a year." "a year. no one wears a mackintosh for a year. the buttons are all off, and the button-holes are burst." "i'm sure they can be mended. martha would have done it if you'd asked her," said vic, resolving to see to the unhappy mackintosh herself. "i know poor mamma doesn't want to spend any extra money just now." "there's a great deal too much spent on elsa and frances, and all their furbelows," said geoff, in what he thought a very manly tone. "here, vicky, help me to pull off my boots, and then i must climb up to the top of the house to change my things." vicky knelt down obediently and tugged at the muddy boots, though it was a task she disliked as much as she could dislike anything. she was rewarded by a gruff "thank you," and when geoff came down again in dry clothes, to find the table neatly prepared, and his little sister ready to pour out his tea, he did condescend to say that she was a good child! but even though his toast was hot and crisp, and his egg boiled to perfection, geoff's pleasanter mood did not last long. he had a good many lessons to do that evening, and they were lessons he disliked. vicky sat patiently, doing her best to help him till her bedtime came, and he had barely finished when frances brought a message that he was to come upstairs--mamma said he was not to work any longer. "you have finished, surely, geoff?" she said, when he entered the drawing-room. "if i had finished, i would have come up sooner. you don't suppose i stay down there grinding away to please myself, do you?" replied the boy, rudely. "geoff!" exclaimed his sisters, unwisely, perhaps. he turned upon them. "i've not come to have you preaching at me. mamma, will you speak to them?" he burst out. "i hate this life--nothing but fault-finding as soon as i show my face. i wish i were out of it, i do! i'd rather be the poorest ploughboy in the country than lead this miserable life in this hateful london." [illustration: vicky ... tugged at the muddy boots.] he said the last words loudly, almost shouting them, indeed. to do him justice, it was not often his temper got so completely the better of him. the noise he was making had prevented him and the others from hearing the bell ring--prevented them, too, from hearing, a moment or two later, a short colloquy on the stairs between harvey and a new-comer. "thank you," said the latter; "i don't want you to announce me. i'll do it myself." geoff had left the door open. "yes," he was just repeating, even more loudly than before, "i hate this life, i do. i am grinding at lessons from morning to night, and when i come home this is the way you treat me. i----" but a voice behind him made him start. "hoot-toot, young man," it said. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! come, i say, this sort of thing will never do. and ladies present! hoot----" but the "toot" was drowned in a scream from mrs. tudor. "uncle, dear uncle, is it you? can it be you yourself? oh, geoff, geoff! he is not often such a foolish boy, uncle, believe me. oh, how--how thankful i am you have come!" she had risen from her seat and rushed forward to greet the stranger, but suddenly she grew strangely pale, and seemed on the point of falling. elsa flew towards her on the one side, and the old gentleman on the other. "poor dear!" he exclaimed. "i have startled her, i'm afraid. hoot-toot, hoot-toot, silly old man that i am. where's that ill-tempered fellow off to?" he went on, glancing round. "can't he fetch a glass of water, or make himself useful in some way?" "i will," said frances, darting forward. geoffrey had disappeared, and small wonder. "i am quite right now, thank you," said mrs. tudor, trying to smile, when elsa had got her on to the sofa. "don't be frightened, elsa dear. nor you, uncle; it was just the--the start. i've had a good deal to make me anxious lately, you know." "i should think i did--those idiots of lawyers!" muttered the old man. "and poor geoff," she went on; "i am afraid i have not paid much attention to him lately, and he's felt it--foolishly, perhaps." "rubbish!" said uncle hoot-toot under his breath. "strikes me he's used to a good deal too much attention," he added as an aside to elsa, with a quick look of inquiry in his bright keen eyes. elsa could hardly help smiling, but for her mother's sake she restrained herself. "it will be all right now you have come home, dear uncle," mrs. tudor went on gently. "how was it? had you started before you got my letters? why did you not let us know?" "i was on the point of writing to announce my departure," said the old gentleman, "when your letter came. it struck me then that i could get home nearly as quickly as a letter, and so i thought it was no use writing." "then you know--you know all about this bad news?" said mrs. tudor falteringly. [illustration: the arrival of great-uncle hoot-toot.] "yes; those fellows wrote to me. _that_ was right enough; but what they meant by worrying you about it, my dear, i can't conceive. it was quite against all my orders. what did poor frank make me your trustee for, if it wasn't to manage these things for you?" "then you think, you hope, there may be something left to manage, do you?" asked mrs. tudor, eagerly. "i have been anticipating the very worst. i did not quite like to put it in words to these poor children"--and she looked up affectionately at the two girls; "but i have really been trying to make up my mind to our being quite ruined." "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said her uncle. "no such nonsense, my dear. i shall go to norris's to-morrow morning and have it out with him. ruined! no, no. it'll be all right, you'll see. we'll go into it all, and you have nothing to do but leave things to me. now let us talk of pleasanter matters. what a nice, pretty little house you've got! and what nice, pretty little daughters! good girls, too, or i'm uncommonly mistaken. they're comforts to you, alice, my dear, eh?" "the greatest possible comforts," answered the mother, warmly. "and so is little vic. you haven't seen her yet." "little vic? oh, to be sure--my namesake." for great-uncle hoot-toot's real name, you must know, was mr. victor byrne. "to be sure; must see her to-morrow; vic, to be sure." "and geoffrey," mrs. tudor went on less assuredly. "geoff is doing very well at school. you will have a good report of him from his masters. he is a steady worker, and----" "but how about the _home_ report of him, eh?" said mr. byrne, drily. "there's two sides to most things, and i've rather a weakness for seeing both. never mind about that just now. i never take up impressions hastily. don't be afraid. i'll see master geoff for myself. let's talk of other things. what do these young ladies busy themselves about? are they good housekeepers, eh?" mrs. tudor smiled. "can you make a pudding and a shirt, elsa and frances?" she asked. "tell your uncle your capabilities." "i could manage the pudding," said elsa. "i think the days for home-made shirts are over." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" said mr. byrne; "new-fangled notions, eh?" "no, indeed, great-uncle hoot----" began frances, eagerly. then blushing furiously, she stopped short. the old gentleman burst out laughing. "never mind, my dear; i'm used to it. it's what they always called me--all my nephews and nieces." "have you a great many nephews and nieces besides us?" asked elsa. mr. byrne laughed again. "that depends upon myself," he said. "i make them, you see. i have had any quantity in my day, but they're scattered far and wide. and--there are a great many blanks, alice, my dear, since i was last at home," he added, turning to mrs. tudor. "i don't know that any of them was ever quite such a pet of mine as this little mother of yours, my dears." "oh!" said elsa, looking rather disappointed; "you are not our real uncle, then? i always thought you were." [illustration: my blackamoor.] "well, think so still," said mr. byrne. "at any rate, you must treat me so, and then i shall be quite content. but i must be going. i shall see you to-morrow after i've had it out with that donkey norris. what a stupid idiot he is, to be sure!" and for a moment great-uncle hoot-toot looked quite fierce. "and then i must see little vic. what time shall i come to-morrow, alice?" "whenever you like, uncle," she said. "will you not come and stay here altogether?" "no, thank you, my dear. i've got my own ways, you see. i'm a fussy old fellow. and i've got my servant--my blackamoor. he'd frighten all the neighbours. and you'd fuss yourself, thinking i wasn't comfortable. i'll come up to-morrow afternoon and stay on to dinner, if you like. and just leave the boy to me a bit. good night, all of you; good night." and in another moment the little old gentleman was gone. the two girls and their mother sat staring at each other when he had disappeared. "isn't it like a dream? can you believe he has really come, mamma?" said elsa. "hardly," replied her mother. "but i am very thankful. if only geoff will not vex him." elsa and frances said nothing. they had their own thoughts about their brother, but they felt it best not to express them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter iv. foolish geoff. "is he like what you expected, elsa?" asked frances, when they were in their own room. "who? great-uncle hoot-toot? i'm sure i don't know. i don't think i ever thought about what he'd be like." "oh, i _had_ an idea," said frances. "quite different, of course, from what he really is. i had fancied he'd be tall and stooping, and with a big nose and very queer eyes. i think i must have mixed him up with the old godfather in the 'nutcracker of nuremberg,' without knowing it." "well, he's not so bad as that, anyway," said elsa. "he looks rather shrivelled and dried up; but he's so very neat and refined-looking. did you notice what small brown hands he has, and such _very_ bright eyes? isn't it funny that he's only an adopted uncle, after all?" "i think mamma had really forgotten he wasn't our real uncle," said frances. "elsa, i am very glad he has come. i think poor mamma has been far more unhappy than she let us know. she does look so ill." "it's half of it geoff," said elsa, indignantly. "and now he must needs spoil great-uncle hoot-toot's arrival by his tempers. perhaps it's just as well, however. 'by the pricking of my thumbs,' i fancy geoff has met his master." "elsa, you frighten me a little," said frances. "you don't think he'll be very severe with poor geoff?" "i don't think he'll be more severe than is for geoff's good," replied elsa. "i must confess, though, i shouldn't like to face great-uncle hoot-toot if i felt i had been behaving badly. how his eyes can gleam!" "and how he seemed to flash in upon us all of a sudden, and to disappear almost as quickly! i'm afraid there's something a little bit uncanny about him," said frances, who was very imaginative. "but if he helps to put all the money troubles right, he will certainly be like a good fairy to us." "yes; and if he takes geoff in hand," added elsa. "but, frances, we must go to bed. i want to make everything very nice to-morrow; i'm going to think about what to have for dinner while i go to sleep." for elsa was housekeeper--a very zealous and rather anxious-minded young housekeeper. her dreams were often haunted by visions of bakers' books and fishmongers' bills; to-night curry and pilau chased each other through her brain, and frances was aroused from her first sweet slumbers to be asked if she would remember to look first thing to-morrow morning if there was a bottle of chutney in the store-closet. [illustration: elsa was housekeeper.] at breakfast geoff came in, looking glum and slightly defiant. but he said nothing except "good morning." he started, however, a little, when he saw his mother. "mamma," he said, "are you not well? you look so very pale." the girls glanced up at this. it was true. they had not observed it in the excitement of discussing the new arrival, and the satisfaction of knowing it had brought relief to mrs. tudor's most pressing anxieties. "yes, mamma dear. it is true. you do look very pale. now, you must not do anything to tire yourself all day. we will manage everything, so that great-uncle hoot-toot shall see we are not silly useless girls," said elsa. geoffrey's lips opened as if he were about to speak, but he closed them again. he was still on his high horse. "geoff," said his mother, as he was leaving, "you will dine with us this evening. try to get your lessons done quickly. uncle will wish to see something of you." he muttered an indistinct "very well, mamma," as he shut the door. "humph!" he said to himself, "i suppose elsa will want to make him think i'm properly treated. but _i_ shall tell him the truth--any _man_ will understand how impossible it is for me to stand it any longer. i don't mind if he did hear me shouting last night. there's a limit to endurance. but i wish mamma didn't look so pale. of course they'll make out it's all _my_ fault." and feeling himself and his grievances of even more consequence than usual, master geoff stalked off. great-uncle hoot-toot made his appearance in the afternoon rather earlier than he was expected. he found mrs. tudor alone in the drawing-room, and had a talk with her by themselves, and then vicky was sent for, to make his acquaintance. the little girl came into the drawing-room looking very much on her good behaviour indeed--so much so that elsa and frances, who were with her, could scarcely help laughing. "how do you do, my dear?" said her great-uncle, looking at her with his bright eyes. "quite well, thank you," replied the little girl. "hoot-toot!" said the old gentleman; "and is that all you've got to say to me?--a poor old fellow like me, who have come all the way from india to see you." vicky looked up doubtfully, her blue eyes wandered all over great-uncle hoot-toot's queer brown face and trim little figure. a red flush spread slowly upwards from her cheeks to the roots of her fair hair, and by the peculiar droop in the corners of her mouth, elsa, who was nearest her, saw that tears were not far off. "what is it, vicky dear?" she whispered. "what _will_ he think of the children? geoff in a temper, and vicky crying for nothing!" she said to herself. "you are not frightened?" she added aloud. "no," said vicky, trying to recover herself. "it's only about geoff. i want to ask--_him_--not to be angry with geoff." "and why should i be angry with geoff?" said the old gentleman, his eyes twinkling. "has he been saying so to you?" "oh no!" the little girl eagerly replied. "geoff didn't say anything. it was harvey and martha. they said they hoped he'd find his master now _you'd_ come, and that it was time he had some of his nonsense whipped out of him. you won't whip him, will you? oh, please, please say you won't!" and she clasped her hands beseechingly. "geoff isn't naughty _really_. he doesn't mean to be naughty." the tears were very near now. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. "come, come, my little vic; i don't like this at all. so they've been making me out an ogre. that's too bad. me whip geoff! why, i think he could better whip me--a strong, sturdy fellow like that. no, no, i don't want to whip him, i assure you. but i'm glad to see geoff's got such a good little sister, and that she's so fond of him. he's not a bad brother to you, i hope? you couldn't be so fond of him if he were." "oh no; geoff's not naughty to me, scarcely _never_," said vicky, eagerly. "i'm sure he never wants to be naughty. it's just that he's got some bad habits, of teasing and grumbling, and he can't get out of them," she went on, with a little air of wisdom that was very funny. "exactly," said uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head. "well, don't you think it would be a very good thing if we could help him to get out of them?" vicky looked up doubtfully again. "if i think of some plan--something that may really do him good, you'll trust your poor old uncle, won't you, my little vic?" she gave him a long steady stare. "yes," she said at last. then with a sigh, "i would like geoff to get out of his tiresome ways." and from this time great-uncle hoot-toot and vicky were fast friends. then he asked elsa and frances to go out a little walk with him. "is your mother always as pale as i have seen her?" he said abruptly, almost as soon as they were alone. elsa hesitated. "no," she said at last. "i'm afraid she is not at all well. geoff noticed it this morning." "oh, indeed! then he does notice things sometimes?" said mr. byrne, drily. "he's very fond of mamma," put in frances. "he takes a queer way to show it, it strikes me," remarked her uncle. "it's--it's all his temper, i'm afraid," frances allowed reluctantly. "it is that he's spoilt," said elsa. "he's perhaps not spoilt in one way, but in another he is. he has never known any hardships or been forced into any self-denial. great-uncle," she went on earnestly, "if it's true that we have lost or are going to lose nearly all our money, won't it perhaps be a good thing for geoff?" "who says you're going to lose your money?" "i don't know exactly why i feel sure it's not coming right. i know you said so to mamma--at least you tried to make her happier; but i can't understand it. if that mr. norris wrote so strongly, there must be something wrong." mr. byrne moved and looked at her sharply. "you don't speak that way to your mother, i hope?" "of course not," said elsa; "i'm only too glad for her to feel happier about it. i was only speaking of what i thought myself." "well--well--as long as your mother's mind is easier it doesn't matter. i cannot explain things fully to you at present, but you seem to be sensible girls, and girls to be trusted. i may just tell you this much--all this trouble is nothing new; i had seen it coming for years. the only thing i had not anticipated was that those fools of lawyers should have told your mother about the crash when it did come. there was no need for her to know anything about it. i'm her trustee----" "but not legally," interrupted elsa. "mamma explained to us that you couldn't be held responsible, as it was only like a friend that you had helped her all these years." "hoot-toot, toot-toot!" he replied testily; "what difference does that make? but never mind. i will explain all about it to you both--before long. just now the question is your mother. i think you will agree with me when i say that it is plain to me that master geoff should leave home?" "i'm afraid mamma will be very much against it," said elsa. "you see, geoff is a good boy in big things, and mamma thinks it is owing to her having kept home influence over him. he's truthful and conscientious--he is, indeed, and you must see i'm not inclined to take his part." "but he's selfish, and bullying, and ungrateful. not pretty qualities, my dear, or likely to make a good foundation for a man's after-life. i'm not going to send him to a grand boarding-school, however--that i promise you, for i think it would be the ruin of him. whatever i may do to save your mother, i don't see but that master geoff should face his true position." "and we too, great-uncle," said frances, eagerly. "elsa and i are quite ready to work; we've thought of several plans already." "i quite believe you, my dear," said mr. byrne, approvingly. "you shall tell me your plans some time soon, and i will tell you mine. no fear but that you shall have work to do." "and----" began elsa, but then she hesitated. "i was going to ask you not to decide anything about geoff till you have seen more of him. if frances and i could earn enough to keep him at school as he is, so that mamma could have the comf---- no, i'm afraid i can't honestly say that having geoff at home would be any comfort to her--less than ever if frances and i were away. great-uncle, don't you think geoff should have some idea of all this?" "certainly. but i cannot risk his teasing your mother. we will wait a few days. i should like to see poor alice looking better; and i shall judge of geoff for myself, my dears." they were just at home again by this time. vicky met them at the door. she was in great excitement about mr. byrne's indian servant, who had come with his master's evening clothes. "i was watching for geoff, to tell him!" she exclaimed. "but my tea's ready; i must go." and off she ran. "good little girl," said great-uncle hoot-toot, nodding his head approvingly. "no grumbling from _her_, eh?" "no, never," said elsa, warmly. "she's having her tea alone to-day. geoff's coming in to dinner in your honour." "humph!" said the old gentleman. [illustration] [illustration: geoff's interview with great-uncle hoot-toot.] [illustration] chapter v. a crisis. mrs. tudor and the two girls had gone upstairs to the drawing-room. geoff glanced dubiously at great-uncle hoot-toot. "shall i--shall i stay with you, sir?" he asked. geoff was on his good behaviour. the old gentleman glanced at him. "certainly, my boy, if you've nothing better to do," he said. "no lessons--eh?" "no, sir," geoff replied. "i've got all done, except a little i can do in the morning." "they work you pretty hard, eh?" "yes, they do. there's not much fun for a fellow who's at school in london. it's pretty much the same story--grind, grind, from one week's end to another." "hoot-toot! that sounds melancholy," said mr. byrne. "no holidays, eh?" "oh, of course, i've some holidays," said geoff. "but, you see, when a fellow has only got a mother and sisters----" "_only_," repeated the old gentleman; but geoff detected no sarcasm in his tone. "and mother's afraid of my skating, or boating on the river, or----" "doesn't she let you go in for the school games?" interrupted mr. byrne again. "oh yes; it would be too silly not to do _that_. i told her at the beginning--i mean, she understood--it wouldn't do. but there's lots of things i'd like to do, if mother wasn't afraid. i should like to ride, or at least to have a tricycle. it's about the only thing to make life bearable in this horrible place. such weather! i do hate london!" "indeed!" said mr. byrne. "it's a pity your mother didn't consult you before settling here." "she did it for the best, i suppose," said geoff. "she didn't want to part with me, you see. but i'd rather have been at a boarding-school in the country; i do so detest london. and then it's not pleasant to be too poor to have things one should have at a public school." "what may those be?" inquired the old gentleman. "oh, heaps of things. pocket-money, for one thing. i was telling mother about it. i really should have more, if i'm to stay properly at school. there's dick colethorne, where i was staying last holidays--cousins of ours; he has six times what i have, and he's only two years older." "and--is his mother a widow, and in somewhat restricted circumstances?" asked mr. byrne. "oh no," replied geoff, unwarily. "his father's a very rich man; and dick is the only child." "all the same, begging mr. colethorne's pardon, if he were twenty times as rich as croesus, i think he's making a tremendous mistake in giving his boy a great deal of pocket-money," said mr. byrne. "well, of course, i shouldn't want as much as he has," said geoff; "but still----" "geoffrey, my boy," said the old gentleman, rising as he spoke, "it strikes me you're getting on a wrong tack. but we'll have some more talk about all this. i don't want to keep your mother waiting, as i promised to talk some more to _her_ this evening. so we'll go upstairs. some day, perhaps, i'll tell you some of the experiences of _my_ boyhood. i'm glad, by-the-by, to see that you don't take wine." "no-o," said geoff. "that's one of the things mother is rather fussy about. i'd like to talk about it with you, sir; i don't see but that at my age i might now and then take a glass of sherry--or of claret, even. it looks so foolish never to touch any. it's not that i _care_ about it, you know." "at your age?" repeated mr. byrne, slowly. "well, geoff--do you know, i don't quite agree with you. nor do i see the fun of taking a thing you 'don't care about,' just for the sake of looking as if those who had the care of you didn't know what they were about." they were half-way upstairs by this time. geoff's face did not wear its pleasantest expression as they entered the drawing-room. "he's a horrid old curmudgeon," he whispered to vicky; "i believe elsa's been setting him against me." vicky looked at him with reproachful eyes. "oh, geoff," she said, "i do think he's so nice." "you do, do you?" said he. "well, i don't. i'll tell you what, vicky; i've a great mind to run away. i do so hate this life. i work ever so much harder than most of the fellows, and i never get any thanks for it; and everything i want is grudged me. my umbrella's all in rags, and i'm ashamed to take it out; and if i was to ask mamma for a new one, they'd all be down on me again, you'd see." "but you haven't had it long, geoff," said vic. "i've had it nearly a year. you're getting as bad as the rest, vicky," he said querulously. he had forgotten that he was not alone in the room with his little sister, and had raised his tone, as he was too much in the habit of doing. "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" said a now well-known voice from the other side of the room; "what's all that about over there? you and victoria can't be quarrelling, surely?" mrs. tudor looked up anxiously. "oh no," said vicky, eagerly; "we were only talking." "and about what, pray?" persisted mr. byrne. vicky hesitated. she did not want to vex geoff, but she was unused to any but straightforward replies. "about geoff's umbrella," she said, growing very red. "about geoff's umbrella?" repeated the old gentleman. "what could there be so interesting and exciting to say about geoff's umbrella?" "only that i haven't got one--at least, mine's in rags; and if i say i need a new one, they'll all be down upon me for extravagance," said geoff, as sulkily as he dared. "my dear boy, don't talk in that dreadfully aggrieved tone," said his mother, trying to speak lightly. "you know i have never refused you anything you really require." geoffrey did not reply, at least not audibly. but elsa's quick ears and some other ears besides hers--for it is a curious fact that old people, when they are not deaf, are often peculiarly the reverse--caught his muttered whisper. "of course. always the way if _i_ want anything." mr. byrne did not stay late. he saw that mrs. tudor looked tired and depressed, and he did not wish to be alone with her to talk about geoff, as she probably would have done, for he could not have spoken of the boy as she would have wished to hear. a few days passed. great-uncle hoot-toot spent a part of each with the tudor family, quietly making his observations. geoff certainly did not show to advantage; and though his mother wore herself out with talking to him and trying to bring him to a more reasonable frame of mind, it was of no use. so at last she took elsa's advice and left the discontented, tiresome boy to himself, for perhaps the first time in his life. and every evening, when alone with victoria, the selfish boy entertained his poor little sister with his projects of running away from a home where he was so little appreciated. but a change came, and that in a way which geoffrey little expected. one evening when mr. byrne said "good night," it struck him that his niece looked particularly tired. "make your mother go to bed at once, elsa," he said, "i don't like her looks. if she's not better to-morrow, i must have a doctor to see her. and," he added in a lower tone still, "don't let geoffrey go near her to-morrow morning. has he bothered her much lately?" "mamma has left him alone. it was much the best thing to do," elsa replied. "but all the same, i can see that it is making her very unhappy." "time something should be done; that's growing very plain," said mr. byrne. "try and keep her quiet in the mean time, my dear. i have nearly made up my mind, and i'll tell you all about it to-morrow." elsa felt rather frightened. "great-uncle," she said, "i don't want to make silly excuses for geoff, but it is true that he has never been quite so ill-natured and worrying as lately." "or perhaps you have never seen it so plainly," said the old gentleman. "but you needn't think i require to be softened to him, my dear; i am only thinking of his good. he's not a bad lad at bottom; there's good stuff in him. but he's ruining himself, and half killing your mother. life's been too easy to him, as you've said yourself. he needs bringing to his senses." geoff slept soundly; moreover, his room was at the top of the house. he did not hear any disturbance that night--the opening and shutting of doors, the anxious whispering voices, the sound of wheels driving rapidly up to the door. he knew nothing of it all. for, alas! his tiresome, fidgety temper had caused him to be looked upon as no better than a sort of naughty child in the house--of no use or assistance, concerning whom every one's first thought in any trouble was, "we must manage to get geoff out of the way, or to keep him quiet." when he awoke it was still dark. but there was a light in his room--some one had come in with a candle. it was elsa. he rubbed his eyes and looked at her with a strange unreal feeling, as if he were still dreaming. and when he saw her face, the unreal feeling did not go away. she seemed so unlike herself, in her long white dressing-gown, the light of the candle she was holding making her look so pale, and her eyes so strained and anxious--_was_ it the candle, or was she really so very pale? "elsa," he said sleepily, "what are you doing? what is the matter? isn't it dreadfully late--or--or early for you to be up?" he went on confusedly. "it's the morning," said elsa, "but we haven't been in bed all night--frances and i. at least, we had only been in bed half an hour or so, when we were called up." "what was it?" asked geoff, sleepily still. "was the house on fire?" "oh, geoff, don't be silly!" said elsa; "it's--it's much worse. mamma has been so ill--she is still." geoff started up now. "do you want me to go for the doctor?" he said. "the doctor has been twice already, and he's coming back at nine o'clock," she answered sadly. "he thought her a tiny bit better when he came the last time. but she's very ill--she must be kept most _exceedingly_ quiet, and----" "i'll get up now at once," said geoff; "i won't be five minutes, elsa. tell mamma i'd have got up before if i'd known." "but, geoff," said elsa, firmly, though reluctantly, "it's no use your hurrying up for that. you can't see her--you can't possibly see her before you go to school, anyway. the doctor says she is to be kept _perfectly_ quiet, and not worried in any way." "i wouldn't worry her, not when she's ill," said geoff, hastily. [illustration: it was elsa.] "you couldn't help it," said elsa. "she--she was very worried about you last night, and she kept talking about your umbrella in a confused sort of way now and then all night. we quieted her at last by telling her we had given you one to go to school with. but if she saw you, even for an instant, she would begin again. the doctor said you were not to go into her room." a choking feeling had come into geoff's throat when elsa spoke about the umbrella; a very little more and he would have burst into tears of remorse. but as she went on, pride and irritation got the better of him. he was too completely unused to think of or for any one before himself, to be able to do so all of a sudden, and it was a sort of relief to burst out at his sister in the old way. "i think you're forgetting yourself, elsa. is mamma not as much to _me_ as to you girls? do you think i haven't the sense to know how to behave when any one's ill? i tell you i just will and shall go to see her, whatever you say;" and he began dragging on his socks as if he were going to rush down to his mother's room that very moment. elsa grew still paler than she had been before. "geoff," she said, "you must listen to me. it was for that i came up to tell you. you must _not_ come into mother's room. i'd do anything to prevent it, but i can't believe that you'll force me to quarrel with you this morning when--when we are all so unhappy. i don't want to make you more unhappy, but i can't help speaking plainly to you. you _have_ worried mamma terribly lately, geoff, and now you must bear the punishment. it's--it's as much as her life is worth for you to go into her room and speak to her this morning. i cannot allow it." "_you_ allow it!" burst out geoff. "are you the head of the house?" "yes," said elsa, "when mamma is ill, i consider that i am. and what's more, geoff, i have telegraphed to great-uncle hoot-toot. he made me promise to do so if mamma were ill. i expect him directly. it is past seven. geoff, you had better dress and take your breakfast as usual. i will come down and tell you how mamma is the last thing before you go." "i _will_ see mamma before i go to school," he replied sharply. "i give you fair warning." "geoff," said elsa, "you shall not." and with these words she left the room. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vi. geoff "won't stand it." geoff hurried on with his dressing. he was wretchedly unhappy--all the more so because he was furiously angry with elsa, and perhaps, at the bottom of his heart, with himself. his room was, as i have said, at the top of the house. he did not hear the front-door bell ring while he was splashing in his bath; and as he rushed downstairs a quarter of an hour or so after elsa had left him, he was considerably taken aback to be met at the foot of the first flight by the now familiar figure of mr. byrne. "geoffrey," he said quietly, "your sisters have gone to lie down and try to sleep for a little. they have been up all night, and they are likely to want all their strength. go down to the school-room and get your breakfast. when you have finished, i will come to talk to you a little before you go to school." geoff glanced up. there was something in great-uncle hoot-toot's face which made him feel there was no use in blustering or resisting. "very well," he said, putting as little expression in his voice as he could; and as mr. byrne turned away, the boy made his way down to the school-room. it looked dreary and strange this morning. it was earlier than usual, and perhaps the room had been less carefully done, for mrs. tudor's illness had upset the whole household. the fire was only just lighted; the preparations for geoff's breakfast were only half ready. it was a very chilly day; and as the boy sat down by the table, leaning his head on his hands, he shivered both with cold and unhappiness. "they all hate me," he said to himself. "i've known it for a long time, but i've never been so sure of it before. it is much the best for me to go away. mamma _has_ cared for me; but they're making her leave off, and they'll set her entirely against me. she'll be far better and happier without me; and when she gets well--i dare say they have exaggerated her illness--they will have the pleasure of saying it's because i'm gone. there's only vic who'll really care. but she won't mind so very much, either. i'll write to her now and then. i must think how best to do about going away. i hate the sea; there's no use thinking of that. i don't mind what i do, if it's in the country. i might go down to some farmhouse--one of those jolly farms where dick and i used to get a glass of milk last summer. i wouldn't mind a bit, working on one of those farms. it would be much jollier than grinding away at school. and i am sure dick and i did as much work as any haymakers last summer." he had worked himself up into positively looking forward to the idea of leaving home. vague ideas of how his mother and sisters would learn too late how little they had appreciated him; visions of magnanimously forgiving them all some day when he should have, in some mysterious way, become a landed proprietor, riding about his fields, and of inviting them all down into the country to visit him, floated before his brain. he ate his breakfast with a very good appetite; and when mr. byrne entered the room, he was surprised to see no look of sulkiness on the boy's face; though, on the other hand, there were no signs of concern or distress. "is he really _heartless_?" thought the old man, with a pang of disappointment. "am i mistaken in thinking the good material is there?" "i want to talk to you, geoff," he said. "you are early this morning. you need not start for twenty minutes or more." "am i to understand you intend to prevent me seeing my mother, sir?" said geoff, in a peculiar tone. mr. byrne looked at him rather sadly. "it is not _i_ preventing it," he said. "the doctor has left his orders." "i understand," said geoff, bitterly. "well, it does not much matter. mother and the others are not likely to see much more of me." the old gentleman looked at him sharply. "are you thinking of running away?" he said. "not running away," said geoffrey. "i'm not going to do it in any secret sort of way; but i've made up my mind to go. and now that mother has thrown me over too, i don't suppose any one will care." "you've not been going the way to make any one care, it strikes me," said mr. byrne. "but i have something to say to you, geoff. one thing which has helped to make your poor mother ill has been anxiety about money matters. i had not wished her to know of it; but it was told her by mistake. i myself have known for some time that things were going wrong. but now the worst has come----" "what is the worst?" asked geoffrey. "have we lost everything?" "yes," said mr. byrne, "i think that's about it." "i think i should have been told this before," said geoff. "well," said his uncle, "i'm not sure but that i agree with you. but your mother wished to save you as long as she could. and you have not borne small annoyances so well that she could hope for much comfort from you in a great trouble." [illustration: "i have something to say to you, geoff."] geoff said nothing. "i shall take care of your mother and sisters," mr. byrne went on. "i am not even to be allowed to work for my mother, then?" said geoffrey. "at your age it will be as much as you can do to work for yourself," said the old man. "and as yet, you cannot even do that directly. you must go on with your education. i have found a school in the country where you will be well taught, and where you will not be annoyed by not being able to have all that your companions have, as you have so complained about." "and who is to pay for my schooling?" asked the boy. "i," replied mr. byrne. "thank you," said geoffrey. his tone was not exactly disrespectful, but it was certainly not grateful. "i know i should thank you, but i don't want you to pay schooling or anything else for me. i shall manage for myself. it is much best for me to go away altogether. even--even if this about our money hadn't happened, i was already making up my mind to it." mr. byrne looked at him. "legally speaking, your mother could stop your leaving her," he said. "she is not likely to do so," replied the boy, "if she is so ill that she cannot even see me." "perhaps not," said the old gentleman. "i will send my servant to you at mid-day, to say how your mother is." "thank you," said geoffrey again. then mr. byrne left the room, and geoff went off to school. he was in a strange state of mind. he hardly took in what he had been told of the state of his mother's money matters. he hardly indeed believed it, so possessed was he by the idea that there was a sort of plot to get rid of him. "it isn't mother herself," he reflected. "it's all elsa and frances, and that horrid old hoot-toot. but as for going to any school _he'd_ send me to--no, thank you." he was standing about at noon with some of his companions, when the coloured servant appeared. "please, sir," he said, "i was to tell you that the lady is better--doctor say so;" and with a kind of salaam he waited to see what the young gentleman would reply. "all right," said geoff, curtly; and the man turned to go. geoff did not see that at the gates he stood still a moment speaking to another man, who appeared to have been waiting for him. "that young gentleman with the dark hair. you see plain when i speak to him," he said in his rather broken english. the other man nodded his head. "i shall know him again, no fear. tell your master it's all right," he said. geoff had to stand some chaff from his friends on the subject of the "darkey," of course. at another time he would rather have enjoyed it than otherwise; but to-day he was unable to take part in any fun. "what a surly humour tudor's in!" said one of the boys to another. geoff overheard it, and glared at him. "i shan't be missed here either, it seems," he said to himself. he did not notice that evening, when he went home, that a respectable unobtrusive-looking man, with the air of a servant out of livery, or something of that kind, followed him all the way, only turning back when he had seen the boy safe within his own door. and there, just within, faithful vicky was awaiting him. "i've been watching for you such a time, geoff dear," she said. "mamma's better. _aren't_ you glad? the doctor's been again, just about an hour ago, and he told me so as he went out." "have you seen her?" said geoff, abruptly. vicky hesitated. she knew her answer would vex geoff, and yet she could not say what was not true. [illustration: he stood still a moment speaking to another man.] "i've only _just_ seen her," she said. "elsa just took me in for a moment. she has to be kept very, very quiet, geoff. she'll have to be very quiet for a long time." "you may as well speak plainly," said her brother. "i know what that means--i'm not to be allowed to see her for 'a very, very long time.' oh yes, i quite understand." he was in his heart thankful to know that his mother was better, but the relief only showed itself in additional ill-temper and indignation. "geoffrey dear, don't speak like that," said vicky. "i wish i hadn't gone in to see mamma if you couldn't, but i didn't like to say so to elsa. i know you didn't _mean_ ever to vex mamma, and i'm sure you'll never do it again, when she gets better, will you? would you like me just to run and tell elsa and great-uncle hoot-toot how _dreadfully_ you'd like to see her just for a minute? if you just peeped in, you know, and said 'good night, mamma; i am so awfully glad you're better!' that would be better than nothing. shall i, geoff?" "no," he replied gruffly. "i want to ask nothing. and i'm not sure that i _do_ want dreadfully to see her. caring can't be all on one side." vicky's eyes were full of tears by this time. "oh, geoff!" was all she could say. "mamma not care for you!" her distress softened him a little. "don't _you_ cry about it, vic," he said. "i do believe _you_ care for me, anyway. you always will, won't you, vicky?" "of course i shall," she sobbed, while some tears dropped into geoff's teacup. they were in the school-room by this time, and vicky was at her usual post. "and some day," pursued geoff, condescendingly, "perhaps we'll have a little house of our own, vicky, in the country, you know; we'll have cocks and hens of our own, and always fresh eggs, of course, and strawberries, and----" "cream," suggested vicky, her eyes gleaming with delight at the tempting prospect; "strawberries are nothing without cream." "of course," geoff went on. "i was going to say cream, when you interrupted me. we'd have a cream-cow, vicky." "a cream-cow," vicky repeated. "what's that?" "oh, i don't know exactly. but one often reads of a milk-cow, so i supposed there must be some cows that are all for cream, if some are for milk. i'll find out all about it when----" but he stopped short. "never mind, vicky. when i have a little farm of my own, in the country, i promise you i'll send for you to come and live with me." "but you'll invite mamma and elsa, and francie too, geoff; i wouldn't care to come without them," objected vicky. "mamma; oh yes, if she likes to come. perhaps elsa and frances will be married, and have houses of their own by then. i'm sure i hope so." he had talked himself and vicky into quite good spirits by this time. he was almost forgetting about his plan of running away. but it was soon recalled to him. elsa put her head in at the door. "vicky," she said, "you may come up to see mamma for a few minutes. come now, quick, before geoff comes home, or else he will begin about it again, and he just _must_ not see her for some days. mamma sees that he must not." geoff's face grew dark. "elsa," vicky called out appealingly. but elsa had already disappeared. and then geoffrey _quite_ made up his mind. [illustration] [illustration] chapter vii. a fortunate chance. he was a sensible, practical enough boy in some ways. he thought it all well over that night, and made what preparations he could. he packed up the clothes he thought the most necessary and useful in an old carpet-bag he found in the box-room, and then he looked over his drawers and cupboards to see that all was left in order, and he put together some things to be sent to him in case he found it well to write for them. then he looked at his purse. he had, carefully stowed away, thirty shillings in gold, and of his regular pocket-money a two-shilling piece, a shilling, a threepenny bit, and some coppers. it was enough to take him some hours' distance out of london, where he would be quite as likely to find what he wanted, employment at some farmhouse, as farther away. he did not sleep much that night. he was so anxious to be off early that he kept waking up every hour or two. at last, after striking a match to see what o'clock it was for perhaps the twentieth time, his watch told him it was past six. he got up and dressed, then he shouldered his bag, and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. he could not resist lingering a moment outside his mother's door; it was slightly ajar, and there was a faint light within. elsa's voice came to him as he stood there. "i am _so_ glad you are better this morning, dear mamma," she was saying. "i hoped you would be when i went to bed, at three o'clock. you were sleeping so peacefully. i am sure you will be quite well again soon, if we can manage to keep you quiet, and if you won't worry yourself. everything is quite right." geoff's face hardened again. "i know what all that means," he thought. "yes, indeed, everything is so right that i, _i_, have to run away like a thief, because i am too miserable to bear it any more." and he lingered no longer. he made his way out of the house without difficulty. it was getting light after a fashion by this time, though it was quite half an hour earlier than he usually started for school. he felt chilly--chillier than he had ever felt before, though it was not a very cold morning. but going out breakfastless does not tend to make one feel warm, and of this sort of thing geoff had but scant experience. his bag, too, felt very heavy; he glanced up and down the street with a vague idea that perhaps he would catch sight of some boy who, for a penny or two, would carry it for him to the omnibus; but there was no boy in sight. no one at all, indeed, except a young man, who crossed the street from the opposite side while geoff was looking about him, and walked on slowly a little in front. he was a very respectable-looking young man, far too much so to ask him to carry the bag, yet as geoff overtook him--for, heavy though it was, the boy felt he must walk quickly to get off as fast as possible--the young man glanced up with a good-natured smile. "excuse me, sir," he said civilly, "your bag's a bit heavy for you. let me take hold of it with you, if we're going the same way." geoffrey looked at him doubtfully. he was too much of a londoner to make friends hastily. "thank you," he said. "i can manage it. i'm only going to the corner to wait for the omnibus." "just precisely what i'm going to do myself," said the other. "i'm quite a stranger hereabouts. i've been staying a day or two with a friend of mine who keeps a livery stable, and i'm off for the day to shalecray, to see another friend. can you tell me, sir, maybe, if the omnibus that passes near here takes one to the railway station?" "which railway station?" said geoff, more than half inclined to laugh at the stranger's evident countrifiedness. "victoria station, to be sure. it's the one i come by. isn't it the big station for all parts?" "bless you! no," said geoff. "there are six or seven as big as it in london. what line is this place on?" "that's more nor i can say," said the stranger, looking as if he would have scratched his head to help him out of his perplexity if he had had a hand free. but he had not, for he had caught up the bag, and was walking along beside geoff, and under his arm he carried a very substantial alpaca umbrella. and in the interest of the conversation geoff had scarcely noticed the way in which the stranger had, as it were, attached himself to him. "ah, well! never mind. i'm going to victoria myself, and when we get there i'll look up your place and find you your train," said geoff, patronizingly. he had kept looking at the stranger, and as he did so, his misgivings disappeared. "he is just a simple country lad," he said to himself. and, indeed, the young man's blue eyes, fresh complexion, and open expression would have reassured any but a _most_ suspicious person. [illustration: walking along beside geoff.] "you're very kind, sir," he replied. "you see, london's a big place, and country folk feels half stupid-like in it." "yes, of course," said geoff. "for my part, i often wonder any one that's free to do as they like cares to live in london. you're a great deal better off in the country." "there's bads and goods everywhere, i take it, sir," said the young man, philosophically. but by this time they had reached the corner where the omnibus started, and geoff's attention was directed to hailing the right one. and an omnibus rattling over london stones is not exactly the place for conversation, so no more passed between them till they were dropped within a stone's throw of victoria station. geoff was beginning to feel very hungry, and almost faint as well as chilly. "i say," he said to his companion, "you're not in any very desperate hurry to get off, are you? for i'm frightfully hungry. you don't mind waiting while i have some breakfast, do you? i'll look you out your train for that place as soon as i've had some." "all right, sir," said the stranger. "if it wouldn't be making too free, i'd be pleased to join you. but i suppose you'll be going into the first-class?" "oh no," said geoff. "i don't mind the second-class." and into the second-class refreshment-room they went. they grew very friendly over hot coffee and a rasher of bacon, and then geoff laid out threepence on a railway guide, and proceeded to hunt up shalecray. "here you are!" he exclaimed. "and upon my word, that's a good joke. this place--shalecray--is on the very line i'm going by. i wonder i never noticed it. i came up that way not long ago, from entlefield." "indeed, sir; that's really curious," said the countryman. "and are you going to entlefield to-day?" "well," said geoff, "i fancy so. i've not quite made up my mind, to tell the truth. i know the country about there. i want to find some--some farmhouse." "oh, exactly--i understand," interrupted the young man. "you want somewhere where they'll put you up tidily for a few days--just for a breath of country air." "well, no; not exactly," said geoffrey. "the fact is, i'm looking out for--for some sort of situation about a farm. i'm very fond of country life. i don't care what i do. i'm not a fine gentleman!" the countryman looked at him with interest. "i see," he said. "you're tired of town, i take it, sir. but what do your friends say to it, sir? at sixteen, or even seventeen, you have still to ask leave, i suppose?" "not always," said geoff. "i've made no secret of it. i've no father, and--i'm pretty much my own master." "'i care for nobody, and nobody cares for me,' eh?" quoted the young man, laughing. "something like it, i suppose," said geoff, laughing too, though rather forcedly. for a vision of vicky, sobbing, perhaps, over her lonely breakfast, would come before him--of elsa and frances trying how to break to their mother the news that geoff had really run away. "they'll soon get over it," he said to himself. "they've got that old curmudgeon to console them, and i don't want to live on _his_ money." "do you think i can easily find a place of some kind?" he went on, after a pause. the countryman this time did scratch his head, while he considered. "how old may you be, sir? sixteen or seventeen, maybe?" he inquired. "i'm not so much; i'm only fourteen," said geoff, rather reluctantly. "really! now, who'd 'a' thought it?" said his new friend, admiringly. "you'll be just the man for a country life when you're full-grown. not afraid of roughing it? fond of riding, i dare say?" "oh yes," said geoff. "at least, in town of course i haven't had as much of it as i'd like." he had never ridden in his life, except the previous summer, on a peculiarly gentle old pony of mrs. colethorne's. "no, in course not. well now, sir, if you'd no objection to stopping at shalecray with me, it strikes me my friend there, farmer eames, might likely enough know of something to suit you. he's a very decent fellow--a bit rough-spoken, maybe. but you're used to country ways--you'd not mind that." "oh, not a bit!" said geoff. "i'm much obliged to you for thinking of it. and you say it's possible--that this farmer eames may perhaps have a place that i should do for?" "nay, sir, i can't say that. it's just a chance. i only said he'd maybe know of something." "well, i don't see that it will do any harm to ask him. i'll only take a ticket to shalecray, then. i can go on farther later in the day if i don't find anything to suit me there. we'd better take the first train--a quarter to nine. we've still twenty minutes or so to wait." "yes, there's plenty of time--time for a pipe. you don't object, sir? but, bless me"--and he felt in his pockets one after the other--"if i haven't forgotten my 'bacca! with your leave, sir, i'll run across the street to fetch some. i saw a shop as we came in." "very well," said geoff; "i'll wait here. don't be too late." he had no particular fancy for going to buy cheap tobacco in the company of the very rustic-looking stranger. besides, he thought it safer to remain quiet in a dark corner of the waiting-room. it was curious that, though the countryman came back with a well-filled tobacco-pouch, he had not left the station! he only disappeared for a minute or two into the telegraph office, and the message he there indited was as follows:-- "got him all safe. will report further this evening." and ten minutes later the two were ensconced in a third-class carriage, with tickets for shalecray. geoff had often travelled second, but rarely third. he did not, truth to tell, particularly like it. yet he could not have proposed anything else to his companion, unless he had undertaken to pay the difference. and as it was, the breakfast and his own third-class ticket had made a considerable hole in his thirty shillings. he must be careful, for even with all his inexperience he knew it was _possible_ he might have to pay his own way for some little time to come. "still, the chances are i shall find what i want very easily," he reflected. "it is evidently not difficult, by what this fellow tells me." it did not even strike him as in any way a very remarkable coincidence that almost on the doorstep of his own home he should have lighted upon the very person he needed to give him the particular information he was in want of. for in many ways, in spite of his boasted independence, poor geoff was as innocent and unsuspicious as a baby. [illustration] chapter viii. "half-a-crown a week and his victuals." shalecray was a small station, where no very considerable number of trains stopped in the twenty-four hours. it was therefore a slow train by which geoffrey tudor and his new friend travelled; so, though the distance from london was really short, it took them fully two hours to reach their destination. and two hours on a raw drizzly november morning is quite a long enough time to spend in a third-class carriage, shivering if the windows are down, and suffering on the other hand from the odours of damp fustian and bad tobacco if they are up. cold as it was, it seemed pleasant in comparison when they got out at last, and were making their way down a very muddy, but really country lane. geoff gave a sort of snort of satisfaction. "i do love the country," he said. his companion looked at him curiously. "i believe you, sir," he replied. "you must like it, to find it pleasant in november," he went on, with a tone which made geoff glance at him in surprise. somehow in the last few words the countryman's accent seemed to have changed a little. geoff could almost have fancied there was a cockney twang about it. "why, don't _you_ like it?" said geoff. "you said you were lost and miserable in town." "of course, sir. what else could i be? i'm country born and bred. but it's not often as a londoner takes to it as you do, and it's not to say lively at this time, and"--he looked down with a grimace--"the lanes is uncommon muddy." "how far is it to your friend's place?" geoff inquired, thinking to himself that if _he_ were to remark on the mud it would not be surprising, but that it was rather curious for his companion to do so. "a matter of two mile or so," jowett--for ned jowett, he had told geoff, was his name--replied; "and now i come to think of it, perhaps it'd be as well for you to leave your bag at the station. i'll see that it's all right; and as you're not sure of stopping at crickwood, there's no sense in carrying it there and maybe back again for nothing. i'll give it in charge to the station-master, and be back in a moment." he had shouldered it and was hastening back to the station almost before geoff had time to take in what he said. the boy stood looking after him vaguely. he was beginning to feel tired and a little dispirited. he did not feel as if he could oppose anything just then. "if he's a cheat and he's gone off with my bag, i just can't help it," he thought. "he won't gain much. still, he looks honest." and five minutes later the sight of the young man's cheery face as he hastened back removed all his misgivings. "all right, sir," he called out. "it'll be quite safe; and if by chance you hit it off with mr. eames, the milk-cart that comes to fetch the empty cans in the afternoon can bring the bag too." they stepped out more briskly after that. it was not such a very long walk to the farm, though certainly more than the two miles jowett had spoken of. as they went on, the country grew decidedly pretty, or perhaps it would be more correct to say one saw that in summer and pleasant weather it must be very pretty. geoff, however, was hardly at the age for admiring scenery much. he looked about him with interest, but little more than interest. "are there woods about here?" he asked suddenly. "i do like woods." jowett hesitated. "i don't know this part of the country not to say so very well," he replied. "there's some fine gentlemen's seats round about, i believe. crickwood bolders, now, is a fine place--we'll pass by the park wall in a minute; it's the place that eames's should by rights be the home farm to, so to say. but it's been empty for a many years. the family died down till it come to a distant cousin who was in foreign parts, and he let the farm to eames, and the house has been shut up. they do speak of his coming back afore long." geoff looked out for the park of which jowett spoke; they could not see much of it, certainly, without climbing the wall, for which he felt no energy. but a little farther on they came to gates, evidently a back entrance, and they stood still for a moment or two and looked in. "yes," said geoff, gazing over the wide expanse of softly undulating ground, broken by clumps of magnificent old trees, which at one side extended into a fringe skirting the park for miles apparently, till it melted in the distance into a range of blue-topped hills--"yes, it must be a fine place indeed. that's the sort of place, now, i'd like to own, jowett." he spoke more cordially again, for jowett's acquaintance with the neighbourhood had destroyed a sort of misgiving that had somehow come over him as to whether his new friend were perhaps "taking him in altogether." [illustration: they stood still for a moment or two.] "i believe you," said the countryman, laughing loudly, as if geoff's remark had been a very good joke indeed. geoff felt rather nettled. "and why shouldn't i own such a place, pray?" he said haughtily. "such things, when one is a _gentleman_, are all a matter of chance, as you know. if my father, or my grandfather, rather, had not been a younger son, i should have been----" ned jowett turned to him rather gravely. "i didn't mean to offend you, sir," he said. "but you must remember you're taking up a different line from that. farmer eames, or farmer nobody, wouldn't engage a farm hand that expected to be treated as a gentleman. it's not my fault, sir. 'twas yourself told me what you wished." geoff was silent for a moment or two. it was not easy all at once to make up his mind to _not_ being a gentleman any more, and yet his common sense told him that jowett was right; it must be so. unless, indeed, he gave it all up and went back home again to eat humble pie, and live on great-uncle hoot-toot's bounty, and go to some horrid school of his choosing, and be more "bullied" (so he expressed it to himself) than ever by his sisters, and scarcely allowed to see his mother at all. the silent enumeration of these grievances decided him. he turned round to jowett with a smile. "yes," he said; "i was forgetting. you must tell farmer eames he'll not find any nonsense about me." "all right, sir. but, if you'll excuse me, i'd best perhaps drop the 'sir'?" geoff nodded. "and that reminds me," jowett went on, "you've not told me your name--leastways, what name you wish me to give eames. we're close to his place now;" and as he spoke he looked about him scrutinizingly. "ten minutes past the back way through the park you'll come to a lane on the left. eames's farm is the first house you come to on the right," he repeated to himself, too low for geoff to hear. "yes, i can't be wrong." "you can call me jim--jim jeffreys," said the boy. "he needn't be afraid of getting into any trouble if he takes me on. i've no father, and my mother won't worry about me," he added bitterly. the entrance to the lane just then came in sight. "this here's our way," said jowett. "supposing i go on a bit in front. i think it would be just as well to explain to eames about my bringing you." "all right," said geoff. "i'll come on slowly. where is the farm?" "first house to the right; you can't miss it. but i'll come back to meet you again." he hurried on, and geoff followed slowly. he was hungry now as well as cold and tired--at least, he supposed he must be hungry, he felt so dull and stupid. what should he do if farmer eames could not take him on? he began to ask himself; he really felt as if it would be impossible for him to set off on his travels again like a tramp, begging for work all over the country. and for the first time it began faintly to dawn upon him that he had acted very foolishly. "but it's too late now," he said to himself; "i'd die rather than go home and ask to be forgiven, and be treated by them all as if i deserved to be sent to prison. i've got enough money to keep me going for a day or two, anyway. if it was summer--haymaking-time, for instance, i suppose it would be easy enough to get work. but now----" and he shivered as he gazed over the bare, dreary, lifeless-looking fields on all sides, where it was difficult to believe that the green grass could ever spring again, or the golden grain wave in the sunshine--"i really wonder what work there can be to do in the winter. the ground's as hard as iron; and oh, my goodness, isn't it cold?" suddenly some little way in front he descried two figures coming towards him. the one was jowett; the other, an older, stouter man, must be farmer eames. geoff's heart began to beat faster. would he be met by a refusal, and told to make his way back to the station? and if so, where would he go, what should he do? it had all seemed so easy when he planned it at home--he had felt so sure he would find what he wanted at once; he had somehow forgotten it would no longer be summer when he got out into the country again! for the first time in his life he realized what hundreds, nay, thousands of boys, no older than he, must go through every day--poor homeless fellows, poor and homeless through no fault of their own in many cases. "if ever i'm a rich man," thought geoff, "i'll think of to-day." and his anxiety grew so great that by the time the two men had come up to him his usually ruddy face had become almost white. jowett looked at him curiously. "you look uncommon cold, jim," he said. "this 'ere's jim jeffreys as i've been a-talking to you of, mr. eames," he said, by way of introduction to the farmer. "ah, indeed!" farmer eames replied; "seems a well-grown lad, but looks delicate. is he always so white-like?" "bless you! no," said jowett; "he's only a bit done up with--with one thing and another. we made a hearly start of it, and it's chilly this morning." the farmer grunted a little. "he'd need to get used to starting early of a morning if he was to be any use to me," he said half-grudgingly. but even this sounded hopeful to geoff. "oh, i don't mind getting up early," he said quickly. "i'm not used to lying in bed late." "there's early _and_ early," said the farmer. "what i might take you on trial for would be to drive the milk-cart to and fro the station. there's four sendings in all--full and empty together. and the first time is for the up-train that passes shalecray at half-past five." geoff shivered a little. but it would not do to seem daunted. "i'll be punctual," he said. "and of course, between times you'd have to make yourself useful about the dairy, and the pigs--you'd have to see to the pigs, and to make yourself useful," repeated the farmer, whose power of expressing himself was limited. "of course," agreed geoff as heartily as he could, though, truth to tell, the idea of pigs had not hitherto presented itself to him. "well," farmer eames went on, turning towards jowett, "i dunno as i mind giving him a trial, seeing as i'm just short of a boy as it happens. and for the station work, it's well to have a sharpish lad, and a civil-spoken one. you'll have to keep a civil tongue in your head, my boy--eh?" "certainly," said geoff, but not without a slight touch of haughtiness. "of course i'll be civil to every one who's civil to me." "and who isn't civil to thee, maybe, now and then," said the farmer, with a rather curious smile. "'twon't be all walking on roses--nay, 'twon't be all walking on roses to be odd boy in a farm. but there's many a one as'd think himself uncommon lucky to get the chance, i can tell you." "oh, and so i do," said geoff, eagerly. "i do indeed. i think it's awfully good of you to try me; and you'll see i'm not afraid of work." "and what about his character?" said the farmer, speaking again to jowett. "can you answer for his honesty?--that's the principal thing." geoff's cheeks flamed, and he was starting forward indignantly, when a word or two whispered, sternly almost, in his ear by jowett, forced him to be quiet. "don't be an idiot! do you want to spoil all your chances?" he said. and something in the tone again struck geoff with surprise. he could scarcely believe it was the simple young countryman who was speaking. "i don't think you need be uneasy on that score," he said. "you see it's all come about in a rather--uncommon sort of way." "i should rather think so," said the farmer, shrugging his shoulders, but smiling too. "and," pursued jowett, "you'll have to stretch a point or two. of course he'll want very little in the way of wages to begin." "half-a-crown a week and his victuals," replied the farmer, promptly. "and he must bind himself for three months certain--i'm not going to be thrown out of a boy at the orkardest time of the year for getting 'em into sharp ways. and i can't have no asking for holidays for three months, either." jowett looked at geoff. "very well," said geoff. "and you must go to church reg'lar," added the farmer. "you can manage it well enough, and sunday school, too, if you're sharp--there's only twice to the station on sundays." "on sundays, too?" repeated geoff. sundays at worst had been a day of no work at home. "to be sure," said eames, sharply. "beasts can't do for themselves on sundays no more than any other day. and londoners can't drink sour milk on sundays neither." "no," said geoff, meekly enough. "of course i'm used to church," he added, "but i think i'm rather too old for the sunday school." "i'll leave that to the parson," said the farmer. "well, now then, we may as well see if dinner's not ready. it's quite time, and you'll be getting hungry, mr. jowett," he added, with a slight hesitation. "why not call me ned? you're very high in your manners to-day, eames," said the other, with a sort of wink. then they both laughed and walked on, leaving geoff to follow. nothing was said about _his_ being hungry. "perhaps _i_ shall be expected to dine with the pigs," he thought. [illustration] [illustration] chapter ix. pigs, etc. it was not quite so bad as that, however. farmer eames turned in at the farmyard gate and led the two strangers into a good-sized kitchen, where the table was already set, in a homely fashion, for dinner. a stout, middle-aged woman, with a rather sharp face, turned from the fire, where she was superintending some cooking. "here we are again, wife," said eames. "glad to see dinner's ready. take a chair, mr. ned. you'll have a glass of beer to begin with?" and as he poured it out, "this here's the new boy, missis--i've settled to give him a trial." mrs. eames murmured something, which geoff supposed must have been intended as a kind of welcome. she was just then lifting a large pan of potatoes off the fire, and as she turned her face to the light, geoff noticed that it was very red--redder than a moment before. he could almost have fancied the farmer's wife was shy. "shall i help you?" he exclaimed, darting forward to take hold of the pan. eames burst out laughing. "that's a good joke," he said. "he knows which side his bread's buttered on, does this 'ere young fellow." geoff grew scarlet, and some angry rejoinder was on his lips, when jowett, who to his great indignation was laughing too, clapped him on the shoulder. "come, my boy, there's naught to fly up about. eames must have his joke." "i see naught to laugh at," said mrs. eames, who had by this time shaken the potatoes into a large dish that stood ready to receive them; "the lad meant it civil enough." "you're not to spoil him now, wife," said her husband. "it's no counter-jumpers' ways we want hereabouts. sit thee down, ned; and jim, there, you can draw the bench by the door a bit nearer the dresser, and i'll give you some dinner by-and-by." geoff, his heart swelling, did as he was bid. he sat quietly enough, glad of the rest and the warmth, till mr. and mrs. eames and their guest were all helped, and had allayed the first sharp edge of their appetites. but from time to time the farmer's wife glanced at geoff uneasily, and once, he felt sure, he saw her nudge her husband. "she means to be kind," thought the boy. and her kindness apparently had some effect. the farmer looked round, after a deep draught of beer, and pushed his tankard aside. "will you have a sup, jim?" he said good-naturedly. "i can't promise it you every day; but for once in a way." [illustration: he sat quietly enough.] "no, thank you," geoff replied. "i never take beer; moth----" but he stopped suddenly. "as you like," said the farmer; "but though you're not thirsty, i dare say you're hungry." he cut off a slice of the cold meat before him, and put it on a plate with some potatoes, and a bit of dripping from a dish on the table. the slice of meat was small in proportion to the helping of potatoes; but geoff was faint with hunger. he took the plate, with the steel-pronged fork and coarse black-handled knife, and sat down again by the dresser to eat. but, hungry though he was, he could not manage it all. half-way through, a sort of miserable choky feeling came over him: he thought of his meals at home--the nice white tablecloth, the sparkling glass and silver, the fine china--and all seemed to grow misty before his eyes for a minute or two; he almost felt as if he were going to faint, and the voices at the table sounded as if they came from the other side of the atlantic. he drank some water--for on his refusing beer, mrs. eames had handed him a little horn mug filled with water; _it_ was as fresh and sweet as any he had ever tasted, and he tried at the same time to swallow down his feelings. and by the time that the farmer stood up to say grace, he felt pretty right again. "and what are you going to be about, eames?" said jowett. "i'll walk round the place with you, if you like. i must take the four train up again." "all right," the farmer replied; "jim can take you to the station when he goes to fetch the cans. you'll see that he doesn't come to grief on the way. do 'ee know how to drive a bit?" "oh yes," replied geoff, eagerly. "i drove a good deal last summer at--in the country. and i know i was very fond of it." "well," said the farmer, drily, "you'll have enough of it here. but the pony's old; you mustn't drive him too fast. now, i'll tell one of the men to show you the yard, and the pig-sties, and the missis'll show you where she keeps the swill-tub. it'll want emptying--eh, wife?" "it do that," she replied. "but he must change his clothes afore he gets to that dirty work. those are your best ones, ain't they?" geoff looked down at his suit. it was not his best, for he had left his eton jackets and trousers behind him. the clothes he had on were a rough tweed suit he had had for the country; he had thought them very far from best. but now it struck him that they did look a great deal too good for feeding the pigs in. "i've got an older pair of trousers in my bag," he said; "but this is my oldest jacket." "he should have a rougher one," said mrs. eames. "i'll look out; maybe there's an old coat of george's as'd make down." "all right," said eames. "but you've no need of a coat at all to feed the pigs in. whoever heard o' such a thing?" just then a voice was heard at the door. "i'm here, master," it said, "fur the new boy." "all right," said eames; and, followed by geoff, in his shirt-sleeves by this time, he led the way to the farmyard. it was interesting, if only it had not been so cold. matthew, the man, was not very communicative certainly, and it seemed to the new boy that he eyed him with some disfavour. eames himself just gave a few short directions, and then went off with jowett. "them's the stables," said matthew, jerking his thumb towards a row of old buildings, "and them's the cow-houses," with a jerk the other way. "old pony's with master's mare, as he drives hisself. i've nought to say to pony; it's your business. and i'll want a hand with cart-horses and plough-horses. young folks has no call to be idle." "i don't mean to be idle," said geoff; "but if mr. eames doesn't find fault with me, _you_'ve no call to do so either." he spoke more valiantly than he felt, perhaps, for matthew's stolid face and small, twinkling eyes were not pleasant. he muttered something, and then went grumbling across the yard towards a wall, from behind which emanated an odour which required no explanation. "them's pigs," said he. matthew had a curious trick of curtailing his phrases as his temper waxed sourer. articles, prepositions, and auxiliary verbs disappeared, till at last his language became a sort of spoken hieroglyphics. geoff looked over the pig-sty wall. grunt, grumph, snort--out they all tumbled, one on the top of the other, making for the trough. poor things! it was still empty. geoff could hardly help laughing, and yet he felt rather sorry for them. "i'll go and fetch their dinner," he said. "i don't mind pigs; but they are awfully dirty." "ax the missus for soap to wash 'em," said matthew, with a grin. he hadn't yet made up his mind if the new boy was sharp or not. "no," said geoff, "i'll not do that till the first of april; but i'll tell you what, matthew, i'll not keep them as dirty as they are. and _i_ should say that the chap that's been looking after them is a very idle fellow." matthew scowled. "pigs don't _need_ to be so dirty," geoff went on. "i know at cole----" but he stopped abruptly. he was certainly not going to take matthew into his confidence. he asked to be shown the pony--poor old pony! it didn't look as if it would be over "sperrity"--and then he went back to the house to fetch the pigs' dinner. very hot, instead of cold, he was by the time he had carried across pail after pail of mrs. eames's "swill," and emptied it into the barrel which stood by the sty. it wasn't savoury work, either, and the farmer's wife made a kind of excuse for there being so much of it. "matthew were that idle," and they'd been a hand short the last week or two. but geoff wasn't going to give in; there was a sort of enjoyment in it when it came to the actual feeding of the pigs, and for their digestion's sake, it was well that the farmer's wife warned him that there _might_ be such a thing as over-feeding, even of pigs. he would have spent the best part of the afternoon in filling the trough and watching them squabble over it. he was tired and hot, and decidedly dirtier-looking than could have been expected, when eames and jowett came back from the fields. "time to get the pony to!" shouted the farmer. geoff turned off to the stable. he wanted to manage the harnessing alone; but, simple as it was, he found it harder than it looked, and he would have been forced to apply to matthew, had not jowett strolled into the stable. he felt sorry for the boy, sorrier than he thought it well to show, when he saw his flushed face and trembling hands, and in a trice he had disentangled the mysteries of buckles and straps, and got all ready. "been working hard?" he said good-naturedly. "seems a bit strange at first." "i don't mind the work; but--it does all seem very rough," said geoff. there was a slight quiver in his voice, but jowett said no more till they were jogging along on their way to the station. geoff's spirits had got up a little again by this time. he liked to feel the reins between his fingers, even though the vehicle was only a milk-cart, and the steed a sadly broken-winded old gray pony; and he was rather proud at having managed to steer safely through the yard gate, as to which, to tell the truth, he had felt a little nervous. "is there anything i can do for you on my way through town?" asked jowett. "i'll be in your part of the world to-night." "are you going to sleep at the livery stables?" asked geoff. jowett nodded. "i wish----" began the boy. "if i'd thought of it, i'd have written a letter for you to post in london. but there's no time now." jowett looked at his watch--a very good silver watch it was--"i don't know that," he said. "i can get you a piece of paper and an envelope at the station, and i'll see that your letter gets to--wherever it is, at once." "thank you," said geoff. "and jowett"--he hesitated. "you've been very good to me--would you mind one thing more? there's some one i would like to hear from sometimes, but i don't want to give my address. could i tell them--her--it's my sister--to write to your place, and you to send it to me?" "to be sure," said jowett. "but i won't give my address in the country. you just say to send on the letter to the care of 'mr. abel smith, livery stables, mowbray place mews,' and i'll see it comes straight to you. you won't want to give your name maybe? just put 'mr. james, care of abel smith.'" "thank you," said geoff, with a sigh of relief. "you see," he went on, half apologetically, "there's some one ill at home, and i'd like to know how--how they are." "to be sure," said jowett again; "it's only natural. and however bad one's been treated by one's people--and it's easy to see they must have treated you _on_common badly to make a young gent like you have to leave his home and come down to work for his living like a poor boy, though i respects you for it all the more--still own folks is own folks." he cast a shrewd glance at geoff, as he spoke. the boy could not help colouring. had he been treated so "oncommon badly"? was his determination to run away and be independent of great-uncle hoot-toot's assistance a real manly resolution, or not rather a fit of ill-tempered boyish spite? would he not have been acting with far more true independence by accepting gratefully the education which would have fitted him for an honourable career in his own rank? for mr. byrne, as he knew well by his mother's trust in the old gentleman, was not one to have thrown him aside had he been worthy of assistance. "but anyway, it's done now," thought the boy, choking down the feelings which began to assert themselves. at the station, jowett was as good as his word. he got the paper and a pencil, and geoff wrote a short note to vicky, just to tell her he was "all right," and enclosing the address to which she was to write. and jowett undertook that she should have it that same evening. had the boy been less preoccupied he could not but have been struck by the curious inconsistencies in the young countryman, who, when he had first met him that morning, had seemed scarcely able to find his way to the station, and yet, when occasion arose, had shown himself as sharp and capable as any londoner. but as it was, when the train had whizzed off again, he only felt as if his last friend had deserted him. and it was a very subdued and home-sick geoffrey who, in the chilly, misty autumn evening, drove the old pony through the muddy lanes to the farm, the empty milk-cans rattling in the cart behind him, and the tears slowly coursing down his cheeks now there was no one to see them. [illustration] [illustration] chapter x. poor geoff! he drove into the yard, where matthew's disagreeable face and voice soon greeted him. half forgetting himself, geoff threw the reins on to the pony's neck and jumped out of the cart, with his carpet-bag. he was making his way into the house, feeling as if even the old bag was a kind of comfort in its way, when the farm-man called him back. "dost think i's to groom pony?" he said ill-naturedly. "may stand till doomsday afore i'll touch him." [illustration: matthew, the man.] geoff turned back. of course, he ought to have remembered it was his work, and if matthew had spoken civilly he would even have thanked him for the reminder--more gratefully, i dare say, than he had often thanked elsa or frances for a hint of some forgotten duty. but, as it was, it took some self-control not to "fly out," and to set to work, tired as he was, to groom the pony and put him up for the night. it was all so strange and new too; at colethorne's he had watched the stablemen at their work, and thought it looked easy and amusing, but when it came to doing it, it seemed a very different thing, especially in the dusk, chilly evening, and feeling as he did both tired and hungry. he did his best, however, and the old pony was very patient, poor beast, and geoff's natural love of animals stood him in good stead; he could never have relieved his own depression by ill temper to any dumb creature. and at last old dapple was made as comfortable as geoff knew how, for matthew took care to keep out of the way, and to offer no help or advice, and the boy turned towards the house, carpet-bag in hand. the fire was blazing brightly in the kitchen, and in front of it sat the farmer, smoking a long clay pipe, which to geoff smelt very nasty. he coughed, to attract mr. eames's attention. "i've brought my bag from the station," he said. "will you tell me where i'm to sleep?" the farmer looked up sharply. "you've brought the milk-cans back, too, i suppose? your bag's not the principal thing. have you seen to dapple?" "yes," said geoff, and his tone was somewhat sulky. eames looked at him again, and still more sharply. "i told you at the first you were to keep a civil tongue in your head," he said. "you'll say 'sir' when you speak to me." but just then mrs. eames fortunately made her appearance. "don't scold him--he's only a bit strange," she said. "come with me, jim, and i'll show you your room." "thank you," said the boy, gratefully. mrs. eames glanced at her husband, as much as to say she was wiser than he, and then led the way out of the kitchen down a short, flagged passage, and up a short stair. then she opened a door, and, by the candle she held, geoff saw a very small, very bare room. there was a narrow bed in one corner, a chair, a window-shelf, on which stood a basin, and a cupboard in the wall. mrs. eames looked round. "it's been well cleaned out since last boy went," she said. "master and me'll look in now and then to see that you keep it clean. cupboard's handy, and there's a good flock mattress." then she gave him the light, and turned to go. "please," said geoff, meekly, "might i have a piece of bread? i'm rather hungry." it was long past his usual tea-time. "to be sure!" she replied. "you've not had your tea? i put it on the hob for you." and the good woman bustled off again. geoff followed her, after depositing his bag in the cupboard. she poured out the tea into a bowl, and ladled in a good spoonful of brown sugar. then she cut a hunch off a great loaf, and put it beside the bowl on the dresser. geoff was so hungry and thirsty, that he attacked both tea and bread, though the former was coarse in flavour, and the latter butterless. but it was not the quality of the food that brought back again that dreadful choking in his throat, and made the salt tears drop into the bowl of tea. it was the thought of tea-time at home--the neat table, and vicky's dear, important-looking little face, as she filled his cup, and put in the exact amount of sugar he liked--that came over him suddenly with a sort of rush. he felt as if he could not bear it. he swallowed down the tea with a gulp, and rammed the bread into his pocket. then, doing his utmost to look unconcerned, he went up to the farmer. "shall i go to bed now, please, sir?" he said, with a little hesitation at the last word. "i'm--i'm rather tired." "go to bed?" repeated eames. "yes, i suppose so. you must turn out early--the milk must be at the station by half-past five." "how shall i wake?" asked geoff, timidly. "wake? you'll have to learn to wake like others do. however, for the first, i'll tell matthew to knock you up." "thank you. good-night, sir." "good-night." and the farmer turned again to the newspaper he was reading. "you'll find your bed well aired. i made betsy see to that," called out mrs. eames. "thank you," said geoff again, more heartily this time. but he overheard eames grumbling at his wife as he left the room, telling her "he'd have none of that there coddling of the lad." "and you'd have him laid up with rheumatics--dying of a chill? that'd be a nice finish up to it all. you know quite well----" but geoff heard no more. and he was too worn-out and sleepy to think much of what he had heard. he got out what he required for the night. he wondered shiveringly how it would be possible to wash with only a basin. water he was evidently expected to fetch for himself. he tried to say his prayers, but fell asleep, the tears running down his face, in the middle, and woke up with a sob, and at last managed somehow to tumble into bed. it was very cold, but, as mrs. eames had said, quite dry. the chilly feeling woke him again, and he tried once more to say his prayers, and this time with better success. he was able to add a special petition that "mother" might soon be well again, and that dear vicky might be happy. and then he fell asleep--so soundly, so heavily, that when a drumming at the door made itself heard, he fancied he had only just begun the night. he sat up. where was he? at first, in the darkness, he thought he was in his own bed at home, and he wondered who was knocking so roughly--wondered still more at the rude voice which was shouting out-- "up with you there, jim, d'ye hear? i'm not a-going to stand here all day. it's past half-past four. jim--you lazy lout. i'll call master if you don't speak--a-locking of his door like a fine gentleman!" gradually geoff remembered all--the feeling of the things about him--the coarse bed-clothes, the slightly mildewy smell of the pillow, helped to recall him to the present, even before he could see. [illustration: knocking so roughly.] "i'm coming, matthew!" he shouted back. "i'll be ready in five minutes;" and out of bed he crept, sleepy and confused, into the chilly air of the little room. he had no matches, but there was a short curtain before the window, and when he pulled it back the moonlight came faintly in--enough for him to distinguish the few objects in the room. he dared not attempt to wash, he was so afraid of being late. he managed to get out his oldest pair of trousers, and hurried on his clothes as fast as he could, feeling miserably dirty and slovenly, and thinking to himself he would never again be hard on poor people for not being clean! "i must try to wash when i come back," he said to himself. then he hurried out, and none too soon. [illustration: geoff at the station.] matthew was in the yard, delighted to frighten him. "you'll have to look sharp," he said, as geoff hurried to the stable. "betsy's filling the cans, and rare and cross she is at having to do it. you should have been there to help her, and the missis'll be out in a minute." the harnessing of dapple was not easy in the faint light, and he could not find the stable lantern. but it got done at last, and geoff led the cart round to the dairy door, where betsy was filling the last of the cans. she was not so cross as she might have been, and mrs. eames had not yet appeared. they got the cans into the cart, and in a minute or two geoff found himself jogging along the road, already becoming familiar, to the station. it seemed to grow darker instead of lighter, for the moon had gone behind a cloud, and sunrise was still a good time off. geoff wondered dreamily to himself why people need get up so early in the country, and then remembered that it would take two or three hours for the cans to get to london. how little he or vicky had thought, when they drank at breakfast the nice milk which mrs. tudor had always taken care to have of the best, of the labour and trouble involved in getting it there in time! and though he had hurried so, he was only just at the station when the train whizzed in, and the one sleepy porter growled at him for not having "looked sharper," and banged the milk-cans about unnecessarily in his temper, so that geoff was really afraid they would break or burst open, and all the milk come pouring out. "you'll have to be here in better time for the twelve train," he said crossly. "i'm not a-going to do this sort o' work for you nor no chap, if you can't be here in time." geoff did not answer--he was getting used to sharp words and tones. he nearly fell asleep in the cart as he jogged home again, and to add to his discomfort a fine, small, chill, november rain began to fall. he buttoned up his jacket, and wished he had put on his overcoat; and then he laughed rather bitterly to think how absurd he would look with this same overcoat, which had been new only a month before, driving old dapple in the milk-cart. he was wet and chilled to the bone when he reached the farm, and even if he had energy to drive a little faster he would not have dared to do so, after the farmer's warning. mrs. eames was in the kitchen when, after putting up the cart and pony, geoff came in. there was a delicious fragrance of coffee about which made his mouth water, but he did not even venture to go near the fire. mrs. eames heard him, however, and looked up. she started a little at the sight of his pale, wan face. "bless me, boy!" she exclaimed, "but you do look bad. whatever's the matter?" geoff smiled a little--he looked very nice when he smiled; it was only when he was in one of his ill-tempered moods that there was anything unlovable in his face--and his smile made mrs. eames still more sorry for him. "there's nothing the matter, thank you," he said; "i'm only rather cold--and wet. i'm strange to it all, i suppose. i wanted to know what i should do next. should i feed the pigs?" "have you met the master?" said the farmer's wife. "he's gone down the fields with matthew and the others. didn't you meet 'em?" geoff shook his head. "no; i went straight to the stable when i came back from the station." "you'd better take off your wet jacket," she said. "there--hang it before the fire. and," she went on, "there's a cup of coffee still hot, you can have for your breakfast this morning as you're so cold--it'll warm you better nor stir-about; and there's a scrap o' master's bacon you can eat with your bread." she poured out the coffee, steaming hot, and forked out the bacon from the frying-pan as she spoke, and set all on the corner of the dresser nearest to the fire. "thank you, thank you awfully," said geoff. oh, how good the coffee smelt! he had never enjoyed a meal so much, and yet, had it been at home, _how_ he would have grumbled! coffee in a bowl, with brown sugar--bread cut as thick as your fist, and no butter! truly geoff was already beginning to taste some of the sweet uses of adversity. breakfast over, came the pigs. the farmer had left word that the sty was to be cleaned out, and fresh straw fetched for the pigs' beds; and as betsy was much more good-natured than matthew in showing the new boy what was expected of him, he got on pretty well, even feeling a certain pride in the improved aspect of the pig-sty when he had finished. he would have dearly liked to try a scrubbing of the piggies themselves, if he had not been afraid of matthew's mocking him. but besides this there was not time. at eleven the second lot of milk had to be carted to the station, and with the remembrance of the cross porter geoff dared not be late. and in the still falling rain he set off again, though, thanks to mrs. eames, with a dry jacket, and, thanks to her too, with a horse-rug buckled round him, in which guise surely no one would have recognized master geoffrey tudor. after dinner the farmer set him to cleaning out the stables, which it appeared was to be a part of his regular work; then there were the pigs to feed again, and at four o'clock the milk-cans to fetch. oh, how tired geoff was getting of the lane to the station! and the day did not come to an end without his getting into terrible disgrace for not having rinsed out the cans with boiling water the night before, though nobody had told him to do it. for a message had come from london that the cans were dirty and the milk in danger of turning sour, and that if it happened again farmer eames would have to send his milk elsewhere. it was natural perhaps that he should be angry, and yet, as no one had explained about it to geoff, it seemed rather hard for him to have to take the scolding. _very_ hard indeed it seemed to him--to proud geoff, who had never yet taken in good part his mother's mildest reprimands. and big boy though he was, he sobbed himself to sleep this second night of his new life, for it did seem too much, that when he had been trying his very best to please, and was aching in every limb from his unwonted hard work, he should get nothing but scolding. and yet he knew that he was lucky to have fallen into such hands as farmer eames's, for, strict as he was, he was a fair and reasonable master. "i suppose," thought geoff, "i have never really known what hardships were, though i did think i had plenty to bear at home." what would elsa have said had she heard him? [illustration] chapter xi. "hoot-toot" behind the hedge. that first day at the farm was a pretty fair specimen of those that followed. the days grew into weeks and the weeks into one month, and then into two, and geoff went on with his self-chosen hard and lonely life. the loneliness soon came to be the worst of it. he got used to the hardships so far, and after all they were not very terrible ones. he was better taken care of than he knew, and he was a strong and healthy lad. had he felt that he was working for others, had he been cheered by loving and encouraging letters, he could have borne it all contentedly. but no letters came, no answer to his note to vicky begging her to write; and geoff's proud heart grew prouder and, he tried to think, harder. "they would let me know, somehow, i suppose, if there was anything much the matter--if--mamma had not got much better yet." for even to himself he would not allow the possibility of anything worse than her not being "much better." and yet she had looked very ill that last evening. he thought of it sometimes in the middle of the night, and started up in a sort of agony of fright, feeling as if at all costs he must set off there and then to see her--to know how she was. often he did not fall asleep again for hours, and then he would keep sobbing and crying out from time to time, "oh, mamma, mamma!" but there was no one to hear. and with the morning all the proud, bitter feelings would come back again. "they don't care for me. they are thankful to be rid of me;" and he would picture his future life to himself, friendless and homeless, as if he never had had either friends or home. sometimes he planned that when he grew older he would emigrate, and in a few years, after having made a great fortune, he would come home again, a millionaire, and shower down coals of fire in the shape of every sort of luxury upon the heads of his unnatural family. but these plans did not cheer him as they would have done some months ago. his experiences had already made him more practical--he knew that fortunes were not made nowadays in the dick whittington way--he was learning to understand that not only are there but twenty shillings in a pound, but, which concerned him more closely, that there are but twelve pence in a shilling, and only thirty in half-a-crown! he saw with dismay the increasing holes in his boots, and bargained hard with the village cobbler to make him cheap a rough, strong pair, which he would never have dreamt of looking at in the old days; he thanked mrs. eames more humbly for the well-worn corduroy jacket she made down for him than he had ever thanked his mother for the nice clothes which it had _not_ always been easy for her to procure for him. yes, geoff was certainly learning some lessons. [illustration: sobbing and crying.] sundays were in one way the worst, for though he had less to do, he had more time for thinking. he went twice to church, where he managed to sit in a corner out of sight, so that if the tears did sometimes come into his eyes at some familiar hymn or verse, no one could see. and no more was said about the sunday school, greatly to his relief, for he knew the clergyman would have cross-questioned him. on sunday afternoons he used to saunter about the park and grounds of crickwood bolders. he liked it, and yet it made him melancholy. the house was shut up, but it was easy to see it was a dear old place--just the sort of "home" of geoff's wildest dreams. "if we were all living there together, now," he used to say to himself--"mamma quite well and not worried about money--elsa and frances would be so happy, we'd never squabble, and vicky----" but at the idea of _vicky's_ happiness, words failed him. it was, it must be allowed, a come-down from such beautiful fancies, to have to hurry back to the farm to harness old dapple and jog off to the station with the milk. for even on sundays people can't do without eating and drinking. [illustration: geoff stood still in amazement.] one sunday a queer thing happened. he was just turning home, and passing the lodge at the principal entrance to the hall, as it was called, when behind the thick evergreen hedge at one side of the little garden he heard voices. they were speaking too low for him to distinguish the words; but one voice sounded to him very like eames's. it might be so, for the farmer and the lodge-keeper were friends. and geoff would have walked on without thinking anything of it, had not a sudden exclamation caught his ear--"hoot-toot, hoot-toot! i tell you----" but instantly the voice dropped. it sounded as if some one had held up a warning finger. geoff stood still in amazement. _could_ great-uncle hoot-toot be there? it seemed too impossible. but the boy's heart beat fast with a vague feeling of expectation and apprehension mixed together. "if he has come here accidentally, he must not see me," he said to himself; and he hurried down the road as fast as he could, determined to hasten to the station and back before the old gentleman, if it were he, could get there. but to his surprise, on entering the farm-yard, the first person to meet him was mr. eames himself. "what's the matter, my lad?" he said good humouredly. "thou'st staring as if i were a ghost." "i thought--i thought," stammered geoff, "that i saw--no, heard your voice just now at the lodge." eames laughed. "but i couldn't be in two places at once, could i? well, get off with you to the station." all was as usual of a sunday there. no one about, no passengers by the up-train--only the milk-cans; and geoff, as he drove slowly home again, almost persuaded himself that the familiar "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" must have been altogether his own fancy. but had he been at the little railway-station again an hour or two later, he would have had reason to change his opinion. a passenger did start from shalecray by the last train for town; and when this same passenger got out at victoria, he hailed a hansom, and was driven quickly westward. and when he arrived at his destination, and rang the bell, almost before the servant had had time to open the door, a little figure pressed eagerly forward, and a soft, clear voice exclaimed-- "oh, dear uncle, is that you at last? i've been watching for you such a long time. oh, do--do tell me about geoff! did you see him? and oh, dear uncle, is he very unhappy?" "come upstairs, my pet," said the old man, "and you shall hear all i can tell." the three awaiting him in the drawing-room were nearly as eager as the child. the mother's face grew pale with anxiety, the sisters' eyes sparkled with eagerness. "did you find him easily, uncle? was it where you thought?" asked vicky. "yes, yes; i had no difficulty. i saw him, vicky, but without his seeing me. he has grown, and perhaps he is a little thinner, but he is quite well. and i had an excellent account of him from the farmer. he is working steadily, and bearing manfully what, to a boy like him, cannot but be privations and hardships. but i am afraid he is very unhappy--his face had a set sad look in it that i do not like to see on one so young. i fear he never got your letters, vicky. there must have been some mistake about the address. i didn't want to push the thing too far. you must write again, my little girl--say all you can to soften him. what i want is that it should come from _his_ side. he will respect himself all his life for overcoming his pride, and asking to be forgiven, only we must try to make it easy for him, poor fellow! now go to bed, vicky, child, and think over what you will write to him to-morrow. i want to talk it all over with your mother. don't be unhappy about poor old geoff, my dear." obedient vicky jumped up at once to go to bed. she tried to whisper "good night" as she went the round of the others to kiss them, but the words would not come, and her pretty blue eyes were full of tears. still, vicky's thoughts and dreams were far happier that night than for a long time past. as soon as she had closed the door after her, the old gentleman turned to the others. "she doesn't know any more than we agreed upon?" he asked. "no," said elsa; "she only knows that you got his exact address from the same person who has told you about him from time to time. she has no idea that the whole thing was planned and arranged by you from the first, when you found he was set upon leaving home." great-uncle hoot-toot nodded his head. "that is all right. years hence, when he has grown up into a good and sensible man, we may, or if i am no longer here, _you_ may tell him all about it, my dears. but just now it would mortify him, and prevent the lesson from doing him the good we hope for. i should not at all like him to know i had employed detectives. he would be angry at having been taken in. that jowett is a very decent fellow, and did his part well; but he has mismanaged the letters somehow. i must see him about that. what was the address geoff gave in his note to vicky? are you sure she put it right?" "oh yes," said frances; "i saw it both times. it was-- 'to mr. james, care of mr. adam smith, murray place mews.'" "hoot-toot!" said mr. byrne. he could not make it out. but we, who know in what a hurry geoff wrote his note at the railway-station while jowett was waiting to take it, can quite well understand why vicky's letters had never reached him. for the address he _should_ have given was-- "abel smith, _mowbray_ place mews." "this time," mr. byrne went on, "i'll see that the letter is sent to him direct. jowett must manage it. let vicky address as before, and i'll see that it reaches him." "what do you think she should write?" said mrs. tudor, anxiously. "what she feels. it does not much matter. but let her make him understand that his home is open to him as ever--that he is neither forgotten nor thought of harshly. if i mistake not, from what i saw and what eames told me, he will be so happy to find it is so, that all the better side of his character will come out. and he will say more to himself than any of us would ever wish to say to him." "but, uncle dear," said elsa, "if it turns out as you hope, and poor geoff comes home again and is all you and mamma wish--and--if _all_ your delightful plans are realized, won't geoff find out everything you don't want him to know at present? indeed, aren't you afraid he may have heard already that you are the new squire there?" "no," said mr. byrne. "eames is a very cautious fellow; and from having known me long ago, or rather from his father having known me (it was i that got my cousin to give him the farm some years ago, as i told you), i found it easy to make him understand all i wished. crickwood bolders has stood empty so long, that the people about don't take much interest in it. they only know vaguely that it has changed hands lately, and eames says i am spoken of as the new mr. bolders, and not by my own name." "i see," said elsa. "and," continued mr. byrne, "of course geoff will take it for granted that it was by the coincidence of his getting taken on at my place that we found him out. it _was_ a coincidence that he should have taken it into his head to go down to that part of the country, through its being on the way to colethorne's." "and you say that he is really working hard, and--and making the best of things?" asked mrs. tudor. she smiled a little as she said it. geoff's "making the best of things" was such a _very_ new idea. "yes," replied great-uncle hoot-toot. "eames gives him the best of characters. he says the boy is thoroughly to be depended upon, and that his work is well done, even to cleaning the pigs; and, best of all, he is never heard to grumble." "fancy geoff cleaning the pigs!" exclaimed elsa. "i don't know that i find _that_ so difficult to fancy," said frances. "i think geoff has a real love for animals of all kinds, and for all country things. we would have sympathized with him about it if it hadn't been for his grumbling, which made all his likes and dislikes seem unreal. i think what i pity him the most for is the having to get up so dreadfully early these cold winter mornings. what time did you say he had to get up, uncle?" [illustration: vicky writing the letter.] "he has to be at the station with the milk before five every morning," said the old gentleman, grimly. "eames says his good woman is inclined to 'coddle him a bit'--she can't forget who he really is, it appears. i was glad to hear it; i don't want the poor boy actually to suffer--and i don't want it to go on much longer. i confess i don't see that there can be much 'coddling' if he has to be up and out before five o'clock in the morning at this time of the year." "no, indeed," said the girls. "and he must be _so_ lonely." "yes, poor fellow!" said the old gentleman, with a sigh, "i saw that in his face. and i was _glad_ to see it. it shows the lesson is not a merely surface one. you've had your wish for him to some extent, elsa, my dear. he has at last known some hardships." elsa's eyes filled with tears, though great-uncle hoot-toot had had no thought of hurting her. "don't say that, please," she entreated. "i think--i am sure--i only wanted him to learn how foolish he was, for his own sake more than for any one's else even." "i know, i know," the old gentleman agreed. "but i think he has had about enough of it. see that vicky writes that letter first thing to-morrow." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xii. a letter at last. christmas had come and gone. it brought geoff's home-sick loneliness to a point that was almost unbearable. he had looked forward vaguely to the twenty-fifth of december with the sort of hope that it would bring him some message, some remembrance, if it were but a christmas card. and for two or three days he managed to waylay the postman every morning as he passed the farm, and to inquire timidly if there were no letter--was he _sure_ there was no letter for james jeffreys? but the postman only shook his head. he had "never had no letter for that name, neither with nor without 'care of mr. eames,'" as geoff went on to suggest that if the farmer's name had been omitted the letter might have been overlooked. and when not only christmas, but new year's day too was past and gone, the boy lost hope. "it is too bad," he sobbed to himself, late at night, alone in his bare little room. "i think they might think a _little_ of me. they might be sorry for me, even--even if i did worry them all when i was at home. they might guess how lonely i am. it isn't the hard work. if it was for mother i was working, and if i knew they were all pleased with me, i wouldn't mind it. but i can't bear to go on like this." yet he could not make up his mind to write home again, for as things were it would be like begging for mr. byrne's charity. and every feeling of independence and manliness in geoff rose against accepting benefits from one whose advice he had scouted and set at defiance. still, he was sensible enough to see that he could not go on with his present life for long. "work on a farm" had turned out very different from his vague ideas of it. he could not, for years to come, hope to earn more than the barest pittance, and he felt that if he were always to remain the companion of the sort of people he was now among, he would not care to live. and gradually another idea took shape in his mind--he would emigrate! he saw some printed papers in the village post-office, telling of government grants of land to able-bodied young men, and giving the cost of the passage out, and various details, and he calculated that in a year, by scrupulous economy, he might earn about half the sum required, for the farmer had told him that if he continued to do well he would raise his wages at the end of the first six months. "and then," thought geoff, "i might write home and tell them it was all settled, and by selling all the things i have at home i might get the rest of the money. or--i would not even mind taking it as a _loan_ from great-uncle hoot-toot. that would seem different; and of course i do owe him a great deal now, in a way, for he must be doing everything for mother and the girls, and if only i were a man that would be my business." and for a while, after coming to this resolution, he felt happier. his old dreams of making a great fortune and being the good genius of his family returned, and he felt more interest in learning all he could of farm-work, that might be useful to him in his new life. but these more hopeful feelings did not last long or steadily; the pain of the home-sickness and loneliness increased so terribly, that at times he felt as if he _could_ not bear it any longer. and he would probably, strong as he was, have fallen ill, had not something happened. it was about six weeks after the sunday on which he had thought he had overheard great-uncle hoot-toot's voice through the hedge. it was a sunday again. geoff had been at church in the morning, and after dinner he was sitting in a corner of the kitchen, feeling as if he had no energy even to go for his favourite stroll in the grounds of the hall, when a sudden exclamation from mrs. eames made him look up. the farmer's wife had been putting away some of the plates and dishes that had been used at dinner, and in so doing happened to pull aside a large dish leaning on one of the shelves of the high-backed dresser. [illustration: geoff reading vicky's letter.] as she did so, a letter fell forward. it was addressed in a clear, good hand to "james jeffreys, at mr. eames's, crickwood farm, shalecray." "bless me!" cried the good woman. "what's this a-doing here? jem, boy, 'tis thine. when can it have come? it may have been up there a good bit." geoff started up and dashed forward with outstretched hand. "give it me! oh, give it me, please!" he said, in an eager, trembling voice. a look of disappointment crossed his face for a moment when he saw the writing; but he tore the envelope open, and then his eyes brightened up again. for it contained another letter, round which a slip was folded with the words, "i forward enclosed, as agreed.--ned jowett." and the second envelope was addressed to "mr. james" in a round, childish hand, that geoff knew well. it was vicky's. he darted out of the kitchen, and into his own little room. he could not have read the letter before any one. already the tears were welling up into his eyes. and long before he had finished reading they were running down his face and dropping on to the paper. this was what vicky said, and the date was nearly six weeks old! "my darling geoff, "why haven't you written to us? i wrote you a letter the minute i got your little note with the address, and i have written to you again since then. great-uncle hoot-toot says you are sure to get this letter. i think you can't have got the others. but still you might have written. i have been so _very_ unhappy about you. of course i was glad to hear you were getting on well, but still i have been very unhappy. mamma got better very slowly. i don't think she would have got better if she hadn't heard that you were getting on well, though. she has been very unhappy, too, and so have elsa and frances, but poor vicky most of all. we do so want you at home again. geoff, i can't tell you how good old uncle hoot-toot is. there is something about money i can't explain, but if you understood it all, you would see we should not be proud about his helping us, for he has done more for us always than we knew; even mamma didn't. oh, geoff, darling, do come home. we do all love you so, and mamma and elsa were only troubled because you didn't seem happy, and you didn't believe that they loved you. i think it would be all different now if you came home again, and we do so want you. i keep your room so nice. i dust it myself every day. mamma makes me have tea in the drawing-room now, and then i have a little pudding from their dinner, because, you see, one can't eat so much at ladies' afternoon tea. but i was too miserable at tea alone in the school-room. i have wrapped up our teapot, after harvey had made it very bright, and i won't ever make tea out of it till you come home. oh, geoffy, darling, do come home! "your loving, unhappy little "vicky." the tears came faster and faster--so fast that it was with difficulty geoff could see to read the last few lines. he hid his face in his hands and sobbed. he was only fourteen, remember, and there was no one to see. and with these sobs and tears--good honest tears that he need not have been ashamed of--there melted away all the unkind, ungrateful feelings out of his poor sore heart. he saw himself as he had really been--selfish, unreasonable, and spoilt. "yes," he said to himself, "that was all i _really_ had to complain of. they considered me too much--they spoilt me. but, oh, i would be so different now! only--i can't go home and say to great-uncle hoot-toot, 'i've had enough of working for myself; you may pay for me now.' it would seem _too_ mean. no, i must keep to my plan--it's too late to change. but i think i might go home to see them all, and ask them to forgive me. in three weeks i shall have been here three months, and then i may ask for a holiday. i'll write to vicky now at once, and tell her so--i can post the letter when i go to the station. they must have thought me _so_ horrid for not having written before. i wonder how it was i never got the other letters? but it doesn't matter now i've got this one. oh, dear vicky, i think i shall nearly go out of my mind with joy to see your little face again!" he had provided himself, luckily, with some letter-paper and envelopes, so there was no delay on that score. and once he had begun, he found no difficulty in writing--indeed, he could have covered pages, for he seemed to have so much to say. this was his letter:-- "crickwood farm, february . "my dearest vicky, "i have only just got your letter, though you wrote it on the th of january. mrs. eames--that's the farmer's wife--found it behind a dish on the dresser, where it has been all the time. i never got your other letters; i can't think what became of them. i've asked the postman nearly every day if there was no letter for me. vicky, i can't tell you all i'd like to say. i thought i'd write to mamma, but i feel as if i couldn't. will you tell her that i just _beg_ her to forgive me? not only for leaving home without leave, like i did, but for all the way i went on and all the worry i gave her. i see it all quite plain. i've been getting to see it for a good while, and when i read your dear letter it all came out quite plain like a flash. i don't mind the hard work here, or even the messy sort of ways compared to home--i wouldn't mind anything if i thought i was doing right. but it's the loneliness. vicky, i have thought sometimes i'd go out of my mind. will you ask great-uncle hoot-toot to forgive me, too? i'd like to understand about all he has done for us, and i think i am much sensibler about money than i was, so perhaps he'll tell me. i can ask for a holiday in three weeks, and then i'll come home for one day. i shall have to tell you my plans, and i think mamma will think i'm right. i must work hard, and perhaps in a few years i shall earn enough to come home and have a cottage like we planned. for i've made up my mind to emigrate. i don't think i'd ever get on so well in anything as in a country life; for, though it's very hard work here, i don't mind it, and i love animals, and in the summer it won't be so bad. please, vicky, make everybody understand that i hope never to be a trouble and worry any more.--your very loving "geoff. "p.s.--you may write here now. i don't mind you all knowing where i am." by the time geoff had finished this, for him, long epistle, it was nearly dark. he had to hurry off to the station to be in time with the milk. he was well known now by the men about the railway, and by one or two of the guards, and he was glad to see one he knew this evening, as he begged him to post his letter in town, for it was too late for the shalecray mail. the man was very good-natured, and promised to do as he asked. "by tuesday," thought geoff, "i may have a letter if vicky writes at once. and i might write again next sunday. so that we'd hear of each other every week." and this thought made his face look very bright and cheery as he went whistling into the kitchen, where, as usual of a sunday evening, eames was sitting smoking beside the fire. "the missis has told me about your letter, jim," said the farmer. "i'm right-down sorry about it, but i don't rightly know who to blame. it's just got slipped out o' sight." "thank you," geoff replied. "i'm awfully glad to have it now." "he's never looked so bright since he came," said mr. eames to his wife when geoff had left the room. "he's about getting tired of it, i fancy; and the squire's only too ready to forgive and forget, i take it. but he's a deal o' good stuff in him, has the boy, and so i told the squire. he's a fine spirit of his own, too." "and as civil a lad as ever i seed," added mrs. eames. "no nonsense and no airs. one can tell as he's a real gentleman. all the same, i'll be uncommon glad when he's with his own folk again; no one'd believe the weight it's been on my mind to see as he didn't fall ill with us. and you always a-telling me as squire said he wasn't to be coddled and cosseted. yet you'd have been none so pleased if he'd got a chill and the rheumatics or worse, as might have been if i hadn't myself seen to his bed and his sheets and his blankets, till the weight of them on my mind's been almost more nor i could bear." "well, well," said the farmer, soothingly, "all's well as ends well. and you said yourself it'd never 'a' done for us to refuse the squire any mortal service he could have asked of us." [illustration] [illustration] chapter xiii. the new squire and his family. tuesday brought no letter for geoff--nor wednesday, nor even thursday. his spirits went down again, and he felt bitterly disappointed. could his friend, the guard, have forgotten to post the letter, after all? he asked himself. this thought kept him up till thursday evening, when, happening to see the same man at the station, the guard's first words were, "got any answer to your love-letter yet, eh, jim? i posted it straight away," and then geoff did not know what to think. he did not like to write again. he began to fear that vicky had been mistaken in feeling so sure that his mother and great-uncle hoot-toot and elsa and frances were all ready to forgive him, and longing for his return. perhaps they were all still too indignant with him to allow vicky to write, and he sighed deeply at the thought. "i will wait till i can ask for a holiday," he said to himself, "and then i will write and say i am coming, and if they won't see me i must just bear it. at least, i am sure mother will see me when the time comes for me to go to america, though it will be dreadful to have to wait till then." when he got back to the house that evening, the farmer called to him. _he_ had had a letter that morning, though geoff had not; and had it not been getting dusk, the boy would have seen a slight twinkle in the good man's eyes as he spoke to him. "jim, my boy," he said, "i shall want you to do an odd job or so of work the next day or two. the new squire's coming down on monday to look round a bit. they've been tidying up at the house; did you know?" geoff shook his head; he had no time for strolling about the hall grounds except on sundays, and on the last sunday he had been too heavy-hearted to notice any change. "do you know anything of gardening?" the farmer went on. "they're very short of hands, and i've promised to help what i could. the rooms on the south side of the house are being got ready, and there's the terrace-walk round that way wants doing up sadly. with this mild weather the snowdrops and crocuses and all them spring flowers is springing up finely; there's lots of them round that south side, and branch can't spare a man to sort them out and rake over the beds." "i could do that," said geoff, his eyes sparkling. "i don't know much about gardening, but i know enough for that." it was a pleasant prospect for him; a day or two's quiet work in the beautiful old garden; he would feel almost like a gentleman again, he thought to himself. "when shall i go, sir?" he went on eagerly. "why, the sooner the better," said mr. eames. "to-morrow morning. that'll give you two good days. branch wants it to look nice, for the squire's ladies is coming with him. the south parlour is all ready. there'll be a deal to do to the house--new furniture and all the rest of it. he--the new squire's an old friend of mine and of my father's--and a good friend he's been to me," he added in a lower voice. "are they going to live here?" asked geoff. he liked the idea of working there, but he rather shrank from being seen as a gardener's boy by the new squire and "the ladies." "though it is very silly of me," he reflected; "they wouldn't look at me; it would never strike them that i was different from any other." "going to live here," repeated the farmer; "yes, of course. the new squire would be off his head not to live at crickwood bolders, when it belongs to him. a beautiful place as it is too." "yes," agreed geoff, heartily, "it would be hard to imagine a more beautiful place. the squire should be a happy man." he thought so more and more during the next two days. there was a great charm about the old house and the quaintly laid out grounds in which it stood--especially on the south side, where geoff's work lay. the weather, too, was delightfully mild just then; it seemed a sort of foretaste of summer, and the boy felt all his old love for the country revive and grow stronger than ever as he raked and weeded and did his best along the terrace walk. "i wish the squire would make me his gardener," he said to himself once. "but even to be a good gardener i suppose one should learn a lot of things i know nothing about." good-will goes a long way, however. geoff felt really proud of his work by saturday evening, and on sunday the farmer took a look at the flower-beds himself, and said he had done well. "those beds over yonder look rough still," he went on, pointing to some little distance. "they don't show from the house," said geoff, "and branch says it's too early to do much. there will be frosts again." "no matter," said mr. eames; "i'd like it all to look as tidy as can be for monday, seeing as i'd promised to help. i'll give you another day off the home-work, jim. robins's boy's very pleased to do the station work." [illustration: the farmer took a look at the flowerbeds himself.] geoff looked up uneasily. it would be very awkward for him, very awkward indeed, if "robins's boy" were to do so well as to replace him altogether. but there was a pleasant smile on the farmer's face, which reassured him. "very well, sir," he said. "i'll do as you like, of course; but i don't want any one else to do my own work for long." "all right," said eames. for a moment geoff thought he was going to say something more, but if so he changed his mind, and walked quietly away. monday saw geoff again at his post. it was a real early spring day, and he could not help feeling the exhilarating influence of the fresh, sweet air, though his heart was sad and heavy, for his hopes of a reply from vicky were every day growing fainter and fainter. there was nothing to do but to wait till the time came for a holiday, and then to go up to london and try to see them. "and if they won't see me or forgive me," thought the boy with a sigh, "i must just work on till i can emigrate." he glanced up at the terrace as he thought this. he was working this morning at some little distance from the house, but he liked to throw a look every now and then to the beds which he had raked and tidied already; they seemed so neat, and the crocuses were coming out so nicely. the morning was getting on; geoff looked at his watch--he had kept it carefully, but he never looked at it now without a feeling that before very long he might have to sell it--it was nearly twelve. "i must go home to dinner, i suppose," he thought; and he began gathering his tools together. as he did so, some slight sounds reached him from the terrace, and, glancing in that direction, he saw that one of the long windows opening on to it was ajar, and in another moment the figures of two ladies could be seen standing just in the aperture, and seemingly looking out as if uncertain what they were going to do. "they have come," thought geoff. "they'll be out here in another instant. i can't help it if it _is_ silly; i should _hate_ ladies and gentlemen to see me working here like a common boy;" and his face grew crimson with the thought. he hurried his things together, and was looking round to see if he could not make his way out of the grounds without passing near the house, when a quick pattering sound along the gravel startled him. a little girl was running towards him, flying down the sloping path that led from the terrace she came, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, her fair hair streaming behind. "oh!" was geoff's first thought, "how like vicky!" but it was his first thought only, for almost before he had time to complete it the little girl was beside him--_upon_ him, one might almost say, for her arms were round him, her sweet face, wet with tears of joy, was pressed against his, her dear voice was speaking to him, "oh, geoffey, geoffey! my own geoffey! it's i--it's your vicky." geoff staggered, and almost fell. for a moment or two he felt so giddy and confused he could not speak. but the feeling soon went away, and the words came only too eagerly. "how is it? where have you come from? do you know the new squire? where is mamma? why didn't you write?" and, laughing and crying, vicky tried to explain. did she know the new squire? could geoff not guess? where were they all? mamma, elsa, frances, great-uncle hoot-toot--where should they be, but in the new squire's own house? up there on the terrace--yes, they were all up there; they had sent her to fetch him. and she dragged geoff up with her, geoff feeling as if he were in a dream, till he felt his mother's and sisters' kisses, and heard "the new squire's" voice sounding rather choky, as he said, "hoot-toot, hoot-toot! this will never do--never do, geoff, my boy." they let vicky explain it all in her own way. how great-uncle hoot-toot had come home from india, meaning to take them all to live with him in the old house which had come to be his. how disappointed he had been by geoff's selfish, discontented temper, and grumbling, worrying ways, and had been casting about how best to give him a lesson which should last, when geoff solved the puzzle for him by going off of his own accord. "and," vicky went on innocently, "was it not _wonderful_ that you should have come to uncle's own place, and got work with mr. eames, whom he has known so long?" in which geoff fully agreed; and it was not till many years later that he knew how it had really been--how mr. byrne had planned all for his safety and good, with the help of one of the cleverest young detectives in the london police, "ned jowett," the innocent countryman whom geoff had patronized! the boy told all he had been thinking of doing, his idea of emigrating, his wish to be "independent," and gain his own livelihood. and his mother explained to him what she herself had not thoroughly known till lately--that for many years, ever since her husband's death, they had owed far more to great-uncle hoot-toot than they had had any idea of. "your father was the son of his dearest friend," she said. "mr. byrne has no relations of his own. we were left very poor, but he never let me know it. the lawyers by mistake wrote to _me_ about the loss of money, which uncle had for long known was as good as lost, so that in reality it made little difference. so you see, geoff, what we owe him--_everything_--and you must be guided by his wishes entirely." they were kind and good wishes. he did not want geoff to emigrate, but he sympathized in his love for the country. for two or three years geoff was sent to a first-rate school, where he got on well, and then to an agricultural college, where he also did so well that before he was twenty he was able to be the squire's right hand in the management of his large property, and in this way was able to feel that, without sacrificing his independence, he could practically show his gratitude. they say that some part of the estate will certainly be left to geoff at mr. byrne's death; but that, it is to be hoped, will not come to pass for many years yet, for the old gentleman is still very vigorous, and the hall would certainly not seem itself at all if one did not hear his "hoot-toot, hoot-toot!" sounding here, there, and everywhere, as he trots busily about. [illustration] printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. daddy-long-legs by jean webster copyright by the century company to you blue wednesday the first wednesday in every month was a perfectly awful day--a day to be awaited with dread, endured with courage and forgotten with haste. every floor must be spotless, every chair dustless, and every bed without a wrinkle. ninety-seven squirming little orphans must be scrubbed and combed and buttoned into freshly starched ginghams; and all ninety-seven reminded of their manners, and told to say, 'yes, sir,' 'no, sir,' whenever a trustee spoke. it was a distressing time; and poor jerusha abbott, being the oldest orphan, had to bear the brunt of it. but this particular first wednesday, like its predecessors, finally dragged itself to a close. jerusha escaped from the pantry where she had been making sandwiches for the asylum's guests, and turned upstairs to accomplish her regular work. her special care was room f, where eleven little tots, from four to seven, occupied eleven little cots set in a row. jerusha assembled her charges, straightened their rumpled frocks, wiped their noses, and started them in an orderly and willing line towards the dining-room to engage themselves for a blessed half hour with bread and milk and prune pudding. then she dropped down on the window seat and leaned throbbing temples against the cool glass. she had been on her feet since five that morning, doing everybody's bidding, scolded and hurried by a nervous matron. mrs. lippett, behind the scenes, did not always maintain that calm and pompous dignity with which she faced an audience of trustees and lady visitors. jerusha gazed out across a broad stretch of frozen lawn, beyond the tall iron paling that marked the confines of the asylum, down undulating ridges sprinkled with country estates, to the spires of the village rising from the midst of bare trees. the day was ended--quite successfully, so far as she knew. the trustees and the visiting committee had made their rounds, and read their reports, and drunk their tea, and now were hurrying home to their own cheerful firesides, to forget their bothersome little charges for another month. jerusha leaned forward watching with curiosity--and a touch of wistfulness--the stream of carriages and automobiles that rolled out of the asylum gates. in imagination she followed first one equipage, then another, to the big houses dotted along the hillside. she pictured herself in a fur coat and a velvet hat trimmed with feathers leaning back in the seat and nonchalantly murmuring 'home' to the driver. but on the door-sill of her home the picture grew blurred. jerusha had an imagination--an imagination, mrs. lippett told her, that would get her into trouble if she didn't take care--but keen as it was, it could not carry her beyond the front porch of the houses she would enter. poor, eager, adventurous little jerusha, in all her seventeen years, had never stepped inside an ordinary house; she could not picture the daily routine of those other human beings who carried on their lives undiscommoded by orphans. je-ru-sha ab-bott you are wan-ted in the of-fice, and i think you'd better hurry up! tommy dillon, who had joined the choir, came singing up the stairs and down the corridor, his chant growing louder as he approached room f. jerusha wrenched herself from the window and refaced the troubles of life. 'who wants me?' she cut into tommy's chant with a note of sharp anxiety. mrs. lippett in the office, and i think she's mad. ah-a-men! tommy piously intoned, but his accent was not entirely malicious. even the most hardened little orphan felt sympathy for an erring sister who was summoned to the office to face an annoyed matron; and tommy liked jerusha even if she did sometimes jerk him by the arm and nearly scrub his nose off. jerusha went without comment, but with two parallel lines on her brow. what could have gone wrong, she wondered. were the sandwiches not thin enough? were there shells in the nut cakes? had a lady visitor seen the hole in susie hawthorn's stocking? had--o horrors!--one of the cherubic little babes in her own room f 'sauced' a trustee? the long lower hall had not been lighted, and as she came downstairs, a last trustee stood, on the point of departure, in the open door that led to the porte-cochere. jerusha caught only a fleeting impression of the man--and the impression consisted entirely of tallness. he was waving his arm towards an automobile waiting in the curved drive. as it sprang into motion and approached, head on for an instant, the glaring headlights threw his shadow sharply against the wall inside. the shadow pictured grotesquely elongated legs and arms that ran along the floor and up the wall of the corridor. it looked, for all the world, like a huge, wavering daddy-long-legs. jerusha's anxious frown gave place to quick laughter. she was by nature a sunny soul, and had always snatched the tiniest excuse to be amused. if one could derive any sort of entertainment out of the oppressive fact of a trustee, it was something unexpected to the good. she advanced to the office quite cheered by the tiny episode, and presented a smiling face to mrs. lippett. to her surprise the matron was also, if not exactly smiling, at least appreciably affable; she wore an expression almost as pleasant as the one she donned for visitors. 'sit down, jerusha, i have something to say to you.' jerusha dropped into the nearest chair and waited with a touch of breathlessness. an automobile flashed past the window; mrs. lippett glanced after it. 'did you notice the gentleman who has just gone?' 'i saw his back.' 'he is one of our most affluential trustees, and has given large sums of money towards the asylum's support. i am not at liberty to mention his name; he expressly stipulated that he was to remain unknown.' jerusha's eyes widened slightly; she was not accustomed to being summoned to the office to discuss the eccentricities of trustees with the matron. 'this gentleman has taken an interest in several of our boys. you remember charles benton and henry freize? they were both sent through college by mr.--er--this trustee, and both have repaid with hard work and success the money that was so generously expended. other payment the gentleman does not wish. heretofore his philanthropies have been directed solely towards the boys; i have never been able to interest him in the slightest degree in any of the girls in the institution, no matter how deserving. he does not, i may tell you, care for girls.' 'no, ma'am,' jerusha murmured, since some reply seemed to be expected at this point. 'to-day at the regular meeting, the question of your future was brought up.' mrs. lippett allowed a moment of silence to fall, then resumed in a slow, placid manner extremely trying to her hearer's suddenly tightened nerves. 'usually, as you know, the children are not kept after they are sixteen, but an exception was made in your case. you had finished our school at fourteen, and having done so well in your studies--not always, i must say, in your conduct--it was determined to let you go on in the village high school. now you are finishing that, and of course the asylum cannot be responsible any longer for your support. as it is, you have had two years more than most.' mrs. lippett overlooked the fact that jerusha had worked hard for her board during those two years, that the convenience of the asylum had come first and her education second; that on days like the present she was kept at home to scrub. 'as i say, the question of your future was brought up and your record was discussed--thoroughly discussed.' mrs. lippett brought accusing eyes to bear upon the prisoner in the dock, and the prisoner looked guilty because it seemed to be expected--not because she could remember any strikingly black pages in her record. 'of course the usual disposition of one in your place would be to put you in a position where you could begin to work, but you have done well in school in certain branches; it seems that your work in english has even been brilliant. miss pritchard, who is on our visiting committee, is also on the school board; she has been talking with your rhetoric teacher, and made a speech in your favour. she also read aloud an essay that you had written entitled, "blue wednesday".' jerusha's guilty expression this time was not assumed. 'it seemed to me that you showed little gratitude in holding up to ridicule the institution that has done so much for you. had you not managed to be funny i doubt if you would have been forgiven. but fortunately for you, mr.--, that is, the gentleman who has just gone--appears to have an immoderate sense of humour. on the strength of that impertinent paper, he has offered to send you to college.' 'to college?' jerusha's eyes grew big. mrs. lippett nodded. 'he waited to discuss the terms with me. they are unusual. the gentleman, i may say, is erratic. he believes that you have originality, and he is planning to educate you to become a writer.' 'a writer?' jerusha's mind was numbed. she could only repeat mrs. lippett's words. 'that is his wish. whether anything will come of it, the future will show. he is giving you a very liberal allowance, almost, for a girl who has never had any experience in taking care of money, too liberal. but he planned the matter in detail, and i did not feel free to make any suggestions. you are to remain here through the summer, and miss pritchard has kindly offered to superintend your outfit. your board and tuition will be paid directly to the college, and you will receive in addition during the four years you are there, an allowance of thirty-five dollars a month. this will enable you to enter on the same standing as the other students. the money will be sent to you by the gentleman's private secretary once a month, and in return, you will write a letter of acknowledgment once a month. that is--you are not to thank him for the money; he doesn't care to have that mentioned, but you are to write a letter telling of the progress in your studies and the details of your daily life. just such a letter as you would write to your parents if they were living. 'these letters will be addressed to mr. john smith and will be sent in care of the secretary. the gentleman's name is not john smith, but he prefers to remain unknown. to you he will never be anything but john smith. his reason in requiring the letters is that he thinks nothing so fosters facility in literary expression as letter-writing. since you have no family with whom to correspond, he desires you to write in this way; also, he wishes to keep track of your progress. he will never answer your letters, nor in the slightest particular take any notice of them. he detests letter-writing and does not wish you to become a burden. if any point should ever arise where an answer would seem to be imperative--such as in the event of your being expelled, which i trust will not occur--you may correspond with mr. griggs, his secretary. these monthly letters are absolutely obligatory on your part; they are the only payment that mr. smith requires, so you must be as punctilious in sending them as though it were a bill that you were paying. i hope that they will always be respectful in tone and will reflect credit on your training. you must remember that you are writing to a trustee of the john grier home.' jerusha's eyes longingly sought the door. her head was in a whirl of excitement, and she wished only to escape from mrs. lippett's platitudes and think. she rose and took a tentative step backwards. mrs. lippett detained her with a gesture; it was an oratorical opportunity not to be slighted. 'i trust that you are properly grateful for this very rare good fortune that has befallen you? not many girls in your position ever have such an opportunity to rise in the world. you must always remember--' 'i--yes, ma'am, thank you. i think, if that's all, i must go and sew a patch on freddie perkins's trousers.' the door closed behind her, and mrs. lippett watched it with dropped jaw, her peroration in mid-air. the letters of miss jerusha abbott to mr. daddy-long-legs smith fergussen hall th september dear kind-trustee-who-sends-orphans-to-college, here i am! i travelled yesterday for four hours in a train. it's a funny sensation, isn't it? i never rode in one before. college is the biggest, most bewildering place--i get lost whenever i leave my room. i will write you a description later when i'm feeling less muddled; also i will tell you about my lessons. classes don't begin until monday morning, and this is saturday night. but i wanted to write a letter first just to get acquainted. it seems queer to be writing letters to somebody you don't know. it seems queer for me to be writing letters at all--i've never written more than three or four in my life, so please overlook it if these are not a model kind. before leaving yesterday morning, mrs. lippett and i had a very serious talk. she told me how to behave all the rest of my life, and especially how to behave towards the kind gentleman who is doing so much for me. i must take care to be very respectful. but how can one be very respectful to a person who wishes to be called john smith? why couldn't you have picked out a name with a little personality? i might as well write letters to dear hitching-post or dear clothes-prop. i have been thinking about you a great deal this summer; having somebody take an interest in me after all these years makes me feel as though i had found a sort of family. it seems as though i belonged to somebody now, and it's a very comfortable sensation. i must say, however, that when i think about you, my imagination has very little to work upon. there are just three things that i know: i. you are tall. ii. you are rich. iii. you hate girls. i suppose i might call you dear mr. girl-hater. only that's rather insulting to me. or dear mr. rich-man, but that's insulting to you, as though money were the only important thing about you. besides, being rich is such a very external quality. maybe you won't stay rich all your life; lots of very clever men get smashed up in wall street. but at least you will stay tall all your life! so i've decided to call you dear daddy-long-legs. i hope you won't mind. it's just a private pet name we won't tell mrs. lippett. the ten o'clock bell is going to ring in two minutes. our day is divided into sections by bells. we eat and sleep and study by bells. it's very enlivening; i feel like a fire horse all of the time. there it goes! lights out. good night. observe with what precision i obey rules--due to my training in the john grier home. yours most respectfully, jerusha abbott to mr. daddy-long-legs smith st october dear daddy-long-legs, i love college and i love you for sending me--i'm very, very happy, and so excited every moment of the time that i can scarcely sleep. you can't imagine how different it is from the john grier home. i never dreamed there was such a place in the world. i'm feeling sorry for everybody who isn't a girl and who can't come here; i am sure the college you attended when you were a boy couldn't have been so nice. my room is up in a tower that used to be the contagious ward before they built the new infirmary. there are three other girls on the same floor of the tower--a senior who wears spectacles and is always asking us please to be a little more quiet, and two freshmen named sallie mcbride and julia rutledge pendleton. sallie has red hair and a turn-up nose and is quite friendly; julia comes from one of the first families in new york and hasn't noticed me yet. they room together and the senior and i have singles. usually freshmen can't get singles; they are very scarce, but i got one without even asking. i suppose the registrar didn't think it would be right to ask a properly brought-up girl to room with a foundling. you see there are advantages! my room is on the north-west corner with two windows and a view. after you've lived in a ward for eighteen years with twenty room-mates, it is restful to be alone. this is the first chance i've ever had to get acquainted with jerusha abbott. i think i'm going to like her. do you think you are? tuesday they are organizing the freshman basket-ball team and there's just a chance that i shall get in it. i'm little of course, but terribly quick and wiry and tough. while the others are hopping about in the air, i can dodge under their feet and grab the ball. it's loads of fun practising--out in the athletic field in the afternoon with the trees all red and yellow and the air full of the smell of burning leaves, and everybody laughing and shouting. these are the happiest girls i ever saw--and i am the happiest of all! i meant to write a long letter and tell you all the things i'm learning (mrs. lippett said you wanted to know), but th hour has just rung, and in ten minutes i'm due at the athletic field in gymnasium clothes. don't you hope i'll get in the team? yours always, jerusha abbott ps. ( o'clock.) sallie mcbride just poked her head in at my door. this is what she said: 'i'm so homesick that i simply can't stand it. do you feel that way?' i smiled a little and said no; i thought i could pull through. at least homesickness is one disease that i've escaped! i never heard of anybody being asylum-sick, did you? th october dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever hear of michael angelo? he was a famous artist who lived in italy in the middle ages. everybody in english literature seemed to know about him, and the whole class laughed because i thought he was an archangel. he sounds like an archangel, doesn't he? the trouble with college is that you are expected to know such a lot of things you've never learned. it's very embarrassing at times. but now, when the girls talk about things that i never heard of, i just keep still and look them up in the encyclopedia. i made an awful mistake the first day. somebody mentioned maurice maeterlinck, and i asked if she was a freshman. that joke has gone all over college. but anyway, i'm just as bright in class as any of the others--and brighter than some of them! do you care to know how i've furnished my room? it's a symphony in brown and yellow. the wall was tinted buff, and i've bought yellow denim curtains and cushions and a mahogany desk (second hand for three dollars) and a rattan chair and a brown rug with an ink spot in the middle. i stand the chair over the spot. the windows are up high; you can't look out from an ordinary seat. but i unscrewed the looking-glass from the back of the bureau, upholstered the top and moved it up against the window. it's just the right height for a window seat. you pull out the drawers like steps and walk up. very comfortable! sallie mcbride helped me choose the things at the senior auction. she has lived in a house all her life and knows about furnishing. you can't imagine what fun it is to shop and pay with a real five-dollar bill and get some change--when you've never had more than a few cents in your life. i assure you, daddy dear, i do appreciate that allowance. sallie is the most entertaining person in the world--and julia rutledge pendleton the least so. it's queer what a mixture the registrar can make in the matter of room-mates. sallie thinks everything is funny--even flunking--and julia is bored at everything. she never makes the slightest effort to be amiable. she believes that if you are a pendleton, that fact alone admits you to heaven without any further examination. julia and i were born to be enemies. and now i suppose you've been waiting very impatiently to hear what i am learning? i. latin: second punic war. hannibal and his forces pitched camp at lake trasimenus last night. they prepared an ambuscade for the romans, and a battle took place at the fourth watch this morning. romans in retreat. ii. french: pages of the three musketeers and third conjugation, irregular verbs. iii. geometry: finished cylinders; now doing cones. iv. english: studying exposition. my style improves daily in clearness and brevity. v. physiology: reached the digestive system. bile and the pancreas next time. yours, on the way to being educated, jerusha abbott ps. i hope you never touch alcohol, daddy? it does dreadful things to your liver. wednesday dear daddy-long-legs, i've changed my name. i'm still 'jerusha' in the catalogue, but i'm 'judy' everywhere else. it's really too bad, isn't it, to have to give yourself the only pet name you ever had? i didn't quite make up the judy though. that's what freddy perkins used to call me before he could talk plainly. i wish mrs. lippett would use a little more ingenuity about choosing babies' names. she gets the last names out of the telephone book--you'll find abbott on the first page--and she picks the christian names up anywhere; she got jerusha from a tombstone. i've always hated it; but i rather like judy. it's such a silly name. it belongs to the kind of girl i'm not--a sweet little blue-eyed thing, petted and spoiled by all the family, who romps her way through life without any cares. wouldn't it be nice to be like that? whatever faults i may have, no one can ever accuse me of having been spoiled by my family! but it's great fun to pretend i've been. in the future please always address me as judy. do you want to know something? i have three pairs of kid gloves. i've had kid mittens before from the christmas tree, but never real kid gloves with five fingers. i take them out and try them on every little while. it's all i can do not to wear them to classes. (dinner bell. goodbye.) friday what do you think, daddy? the english instructor said that my last paper shows an unusual amount of originality. she did, truly. those were her words. it doesn't seem possible, does it, considering the eighteen years of training that i've had? the aim of the john grier home (as you doubtless know and heartily approve of) is to turn the ninety-seven orphans into ninety-seven twins. the unusual artistic ability which i exhibit was developed at an early age through drawing chalk pictures of mrs. lippett on the woodshed door. i hope that i don't hurt your feelings when i criticize the home of my youth? but you have the upper hand, you know, for if i become too impertinent, you can always stop payment of your cheques. that isn't a very polite thing to say--but you can't expect me to have any manners; a foundling asylum isn't a young ladies' finishing school. you know, daddy, it isn't the work that is going to be hard in college. it's the play. half the time i don't know what the girls are talking about; their jokes seem to relate to a past that every one but me has shared. i'm a foreigner in the world and i don't understand the language. it's a miserable feeling. i've had it all my life. at the high school the girls would stand in groups and just look at me. i was queer and different and everybody knew it. i could feel 'john grier home' written on my face. and then a few charitable ones would make a point of coming up and saying something polite. i hated every one of them--the charitable ones most of all. nobody here knows that i was brought up in an asylum. i told sallie mcbride that my mother and father were dead, and that a kind old gentleman was sending me to college which is entirely true so far as it goes. i don't want you to think i am a coward, but i do want to be like the other girls, and that dreadful home looming over my childhood is the one great big difference. if i can turn my back on that and shut out the remembrance, i think, i might be just as desirable as any other girl. i don't believe there's any real, underneath difference, do you? anyway, sallie mcbride likes me! yours ever, judy abbott (nee jerusha.) saturday morning i've just been reading this letter over and it sounds pretty un-cheerful. but can't you guess that i have a special topic due monday morning and a review in geometry and a very sneezy cold? sunday i forgot to post this yesterday, so i will add an indignant postscript. we had a bishop this morning, and what do you think he said? 'the most beneficent promise made us in the bible is this, "the poor ye have always with you." they were put here in order to keep us charitable.' the poor, please observe, being a sort of useful domestic animal. if i hadn't grown into such a perfect lady, i should have gone up after service and told him what i thought. th october dear daddy-long-legs, i'm in the basket-ball team and you ought to see the bruise on my left shoulder. it's blue and mahogany with little streaks of orange. julia pendleton tried for the team, but she didn't get in. hooray! you see what a mean disposition i have. college gets nicer and nicer. i like the girls and the teachers and the classes and the campus and the things to eat. we have ice-cream twice a week and we never have corn-meal mush. you only wanted to hear from me once a month, didn't you? and i've been peppering you with letters every few days! but i've been so excited about all these new adventures that i must talk to somebody; and you're the only one i know. please excuse my exuberance; i'll settle pretty soon. if my letters bore you, you can always toss them into the wastebasket. i promise not to write another till the middle of november. yours most loquaciously, judy abbott th november dear daddy-long-legs, listen to what i've learned to-day. the area of the convex surface of the frustum of a regular pyramid is half the product of the sum of the perimeters of its bases by the altitude of either of its trapezoids. it doesn't sound true, but it is--i can prove it! you've never heard about my clothes, have you, daddy? six dresses, all new and beautiful and bought for me--not handed down from somebody bigger. perhaps you don't realize what a climax that marks in the career of an orphan? you gave them to me, and i am very, very, very much obliged. it's a fine thing to be educated--but nothing compared to the dizzying experience of owning six new dresses. miss pritchard, who is on the visiting committee, picked them out--not mrs. lippett, thank goodness. i have an evening dress, pink mull over silk (i'm perfectly beautiful in that), and a blue church dress, and a dinner dress of red veiling with oriental trimming (makes me look like a gipsy), and another of rose-coloured challis, and a grey street suit, and an every-day dress for classes. that wouldn't be an awfully big wardrobe for julia rutledge pendleton, perhaps, but for jerusha abbott--oh, my! i suppose you're thinking now what a frivolous, shallow little beast she is, and what a waste of money to educate a girl? but, daddy, if you'd been dressed in checked ginghams all your life, you'd appreciate how i feel. and when i started to the high school, i entered upon another period even worse than the checked ginghams. the poor box. you can't know how i dreaded appearing in school in those miserable poor-box dresses. i was perfectly sure to be put down in class next to the girl who first owned my dress, and she would whisper and giggle and point it out to the others. the bitterness of wearing your enemies' cast-off clothes eats into your soul. if i wore silk stockings for the rest of my life, i don't believe i could obliterate the scar. latest war bulletin! news from the scene of action. at the fourth watch on thursday the th of november, hannibal routed the advance guard of the romans and led the carthaginian forces over the mountains into the plains of casilinum. a cohort of light armed numidians engaged the infantry of quintus fabius maximus. two battles and light skirmishing. romans repulsed with heavy losses. i have the honour of being, your special correspondent from the front, j. abbott ps. i know i'm not to expect any letters in return, and i've been warned not to bother you with questions, but tell me, daddy, just this once--are you awfully old or just a little old? and are you perfectly bald or just a little bald? it is very difficult thinking about you in the abstract like a theorem in geometry. given a tall rich man who hates girls, but is very generous to one quite impertinent girl, what does he look like? r.s.v.p. th december dear daddy-long-legs, you never answered my question and it was very important. are you bald? i have it planned exactly what you look like--very satisfactorily--until i reach the top of your head, and then i am stuck. i can't decide whether you have white hair or black hair or sort of sprinkly grey hair or maybe none at all. here is your portrait: but the problem is, shall i add some hair? would you like to know what colour your eyes are? they're grey, and your eyebrows stick out like a porch roof (beetling, they're called in novels), and your mouth is a straight line with a tendency to turn down at the corners. oh, you see, i know! you're a snappy old thing with a temper. (chapel bell.) . p.m. i have a new unbreakable rule: never, never to study at night no matter how many written reviews are coming in the morning. instead, i read just plain books--i have to, you know, because there are eighteen blank years behind me. you wouldn't believe, daddy, what an abyss of ignorance my mind is; i am just realizing the depths myself. the things that most girls with a properly assorted family and a home and friends and a library know by absorption, i have never heard of. for example: i never read mother goose or david copperfield or ivanhoe or cinderella or blue beard or robinson crusoe or jane eyre or alice in wonderland or a word of rudyard kipling. i didn't know that henry the eighth was married more than once or that shelley was a poet. i didn't know that people used to be monkeys and that the garden of eden was a beautiful myth. i didn't know that r. l. s. stood for robert louis stevenson or that george eliot was a lady. i had never seen a picture of the 'mona lisa' and (it's true but you won't believe it) i had never heard of sherlock holmes. now, i know all of these things and a lot of others besides, but you can see how much i need to catch up. and oh, but it's fun! i look forward all day to evening, and then i put an 'engaged' on the door and get into my nice red bath robe and furry slippers and pile all the cushions behind me on the couch, and light the brass student lamp at my elbow, and read and read and read one book isn't enough. i have four going at once. just now, they're tennyson's poems and vanity fair and kipling's plain tales and--don't laugh--little women. i find that i am the only girl in college who wasn't brought up on little women. i haven't told anybody though (that would stamp me as queer). i just quietly went and bought it with $ . of my last month's allowance; and the next time somebody mentions pickled limes, i'll know what she is talking about! (ten o'clock bell. this is a very interrupted letter.) saturday sir, i have the honour to report fresh explorations in the field of geometry. on friday last we abandoned our former works in parallelopipeds and proceeded to truncated prisms. we are finding the road rough and very uphill. sunday the christmas holidays begin next week and the trunks are up. the corridors are so filled up that you can hardly get through, and everybody is so bubbling over with excitement that studying is getting left out. i'm going to have a beautiful time in vacation; there's another freshman who lives in texas staying behind, and we are planning to take long walks and if there's any ice--learn to skate. then there is still the whole library to be read--and three empty weeks to do it in! goodbye, daddy, i hope that you are feeling as happy as i am. yours ever, judy ps. don't forget to answer my question. if you don't want the trouble of writing, have your secretary telegraph. he can just say: mr. smith is quite bald, or mr. smith is not bald, or mr. smith has white hair. and you can deduct the twenty-five cents out of my allowance. goodbye till january--and a merry christmas! towards the end of the christmas vacation. exact date unknown dear daddy-long-legs, is it snowing where you are? all the world that i see from my tower is draped in white and the flakes are coming down as big as pop-corns. it's late afternoon--the sun is just setting (a cold yellow colour) behind some colder violet hills, and i am up in my window seat using the last light to write to you. your five gold pieces were a surprise! i'm not used to receiving christmas presents. you have already given me such lots of things--everything i have, you know--that i don't quite feel that i deserve extras. but i like them just the same. do you want to know what i bought with my money? i. a silver watch in a leather case to wear on my wrist and get me to recitations in time. ii. matthew arnold's poems. iii. a hot water bottle. iv. a steamer rug. (my tower is cold.) v. five hundred sheets of yellow manuscript paper. (i'm going to commence being an author pretty soon.) vi. a dictionary of synonyms. (to enlarge the author's vocabulary.) vii. (i don't much like to confess this last item, but i will.) a pair of silk stockings. and now, daddy, never say i don't tell all! it was a very low motive, if you must know it, that prompted the silk stockings. julia pendleton comes into my room to do geometry, and she sits cross-legged on the couch and wears silk stockings every night. but just wait--as soon as she gets back from vacation i shall go in and sit on her couch in my silk stockings. you see, daddy, the miserable creature that i am but at least i'm honest; and you knew already, from my asylum record, that i wasn't perfect, didn't you? to recapitulate (that's the way the english instructor begins every other sentence), i am very much obliged for my seven presents. i'm pretending to myself that they came in a box from my family in california. the watch is from father, the rug from mother, the hot water bottle from grandmother who is always worrying for fear i shall catch cold in this climate--and the yellow paper from my little brother harry. my sister isabel gave me the silk stockings, and aunt susan the matthew arnold poems; uncle harry (little harry is named after him) gave me the dictionary. he wanted to send chocolates, but i insisted on synonyms. you don't object, do you, to playing the part of a composite family? and now, shall i tell you about my vacation, or are you only interested in my education as such? i hope you appreciate the delicate shade of meaning in 'as such'. it is the latest addition to my vocabulary. the girl from texas is named leonora fenton. (almost as funny as jerusha, isn't it?) i like her, but not so much as sallie mcbride; i shall never like any one so much as sallie--except you. i must always like you the best of all, because you're my whole family rolled into one. leonora and i and two sophomores have walked 'cross country every pleasant day and explored the whole neighbourhood, dressed in short skirts and knit jackets and caps, and carrying shiny sticks to whack things with. once we walked into town--four miles--and stopped at a restaurant where the college girls go for dinner. broiled lobster ( cents), and for dessert, buckwheat cakes and maple syrup ( cents). nourishing and cheap. it was such a lark! especially for me, because it was so awfully different from the asylum--i feel like an escaped convict every time i leave the campus. before i thought, i started to tell the others what an experience i was having. the cat was almost out of the bag when i grabbed it by its tail and pulled it back. it's awfully hard for me not to tell everything i know. i'm a very confiding soul by nature; if i didn't have you to tell things to, i'd burst. we had a molasses candy pull last friday evening, given by the house matron of fergussen to the left-behinds in the other halls. there were twenty-two of us altogether, freshmen and sophomores and juniors and seniors all united in amicable accord. the kitchen is huge, with copper pots and kettles hanging in rows on the stone wall--the littlest casserole among them about the size of a wash boiler. four hundred girls live in fergussen. the chef, in a white cap and apron, fetched out twenty-two other white caps and aprons--i can't imagine where he got so many--and we all turned ourselves into cooks. it was great fun, though i have seen better candy. when it was finally finished, and ourselves and the kitchen and the door-knobs all thoroughly sticky, we organized a procession and still in our caps and aprons, each carrying a big fork or spoon or frying pan, we marched through the empty corridors to the officers' parlour, where half-a-dozen professors and instructors were passing a tranquil evening. we serenaded them with college songs and offered refreshments. they accepted politely but dubiously. we left them sucking chunks of molasses candy, sticky and speechless. so you see, daddy, my education progresses! don't you really think that i ought to be an artist instead of an author? vacation will be over in two days and i shall be glad to see the girls again. my tower is just a trifle lonely; when nine people occupy a house that was built for four hundred, they do rattle around a bit. eleven pages--poor daddy, you must be tired! i meant this to be just a short little thank-you note--but when i get started i seem to have a ready pen. goodbye, and thank you for thinking of me--i should be perfectly happy except for one little threatening cloud on the horizon. examinations come in february. yours with love, judy ps. maybe it isn't proper to send love? if it isn't, please excuse. but i must love somebody and there's only you and mrs. lippett to choose between, so you see--you'll have to put up with it, daddy dear, because i can't love her. on the eve dear daddy-long-legs, you should see the way this college is studying! we've forgotten we ever had a vacation. fifty-seven irregular verbs have i introduced to my brain in the past four days--i'm only hoping they'll stay till after examinations. some of the girls sell their text-books when they're through with them, but i intend to keep mine. then after i've graduated i shall have my whole education in a row in the bookcase, and when i need to use any detail, i can turn to it without the slightest hesitation. so much easier and more accurate than trying to keep it in your head. julia pendleton dropped in this evening to pay a social call, and stayed a solid hour. she got started on the subject of family, and i couldn't switch her off. she wanted to know what my mother's maiden name was--did you ever hear such an impertinent question to ask of a person from a foundling asylum? i didn't have the courage to say i didn't know, so i just miserably plumped on the first name i could think of, and that was montgomery. then she wanted to know whether i belonged to the massachusetts montgomerys or the virginia montgomerys. her mother was a rutherford. the family came over in the ark, and were connected by marriage with henry the viii. on her father's side they date back further than adam. on the topmost branches of her family tree there's a superior breed of monkeys with very fine silky hair and extra long tails. i meant to write you a nice, cheerful, entertaining letter tonight, but i'm too sleepy--and scared. the freshman's lot is not a happy one. yours, about to be examined, judy abbott sunday dearest daddy-long-legs, i have some awful, awful, awful news to tell you, but i won't begin with it; i'll try to get you in a good humour first. jerusha abbott has commenced to be an author. a poem entitled, 'from my tower', appears in the february monthly--on the first page, which is a very great honour for a freshman. my english instructor stopped me on the way out from chapel last night, and said it was a charming piece of work except for the sixth line, which had too many feet. i will send you a copy in case you care to read it. let me see if i can't think of something else pleasant-- oh, yes! i'm learning to skate, and can glide about quite respectably all by myself. also i've learned how to slide down a rope from the roof of the gymnasium, and i can vault a bar three feet and six inches high--i hope shortly to pull up to four feet. we had a very inspiring sermon this morning preached by the bishop of alabama. his text was: 'judge not that ye be not judged.' it was about the necessity of overlooking mistakes in others, and not discouraging people by harsh judgments. i wish you might have heard it. this is the sunniest, most blinding winter afternoon, with icicles dripping from the fir trees and all the world bending under a weight of snow--except me, and i'm bending under a weight of sorrow. now for the news--courage, judy!--you must tell. are you surely in a good humour? i failed in mathematics and latin prose. i am tutoring in them, and will take another examination next month. i'm sorry if you're disappointed, but otherwise i don't care a bit because i've learned such a lot of things not mentioned in the catalogue. i've read seventeen novels and bushels of poetry--really necessary novels like vanity fair and richard feverel and alice in wonderland. also emerson's essays and lockhart's life of scott and the first volume of gibbon's roman empire and half of benvenuto cellini's life--wasn't he entertaining? he used to saunter out and casually kill a man before breakfast. so you see, daddy, i'm much more intelligent than if i'd just stuck to latin. will you forgive me this once if i promise never to fail again? yours in sackcloth, judy dear daddy-long-legs, this is an extra letter in the middle of the month because i'm rather lonely tonight. it's awfully stormy. all the lights are out on the campus, but i drank black coffee and i can't go to sleep. i had a supper party this evening consisting of sallie and julia and leonora fenton--and sardines and toasted muffins and salad and fudge and coffee. julia said she'd had a good time, but sallie stayed to help wash the dishes. i might, very usefully, put some time on latin tonight but, there's no doubt about it, i'm a very languid latin scholar. we've finished livy and de senectute and are now engaged with de amicitia (pronounced damn icitia). should you mind, just for a little while, pretending you are my grandmother? sallie has one and julia and leonora each two, and they were all comparing them tonight. i can't think of anything i'd rather have; it's such a respectable relationship. so, if you really don't object--when i went into town yesterday, i saw the sweetest cap of cluny lace trimmed with lavender ribbon. i am going to make you a present of it on your eighty-third birthday. ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! that's the clock in the chapel tower striking twelve. i believe i am sleepy after all. good night, granny. i love you dearly. judy the ides of march dear d.-l.-l., i am studying latin prose composition. i have been studying it. i shall be studying it. i shall be about to have been studying it. my re-examination comes the th hour next tuesday, and i am going to pass or bust. so you may expect to hear from me next, whole and happy and free from conditions, or in fragments. i will write a respectable letter when it's over. tonight i have a pressing engagement with the ablative absolute. yours--in evident haste j. a. th march mr. d.-l.-l. smith, sir: you never answer any questions; you never show the slightest interest in anything i do. you are probably the horridest one of all those horrid trustees, and the reason you are educating me is, not because you care a bit about me, but from a sense of duty. i don't know a single thing about you. i don't even know your name. it is very uninspiring writing to a thing. i haven't a doubt but that you throw my letters into the waste-basket without reading them. hereafter i shall write only about work. my re-examinations in latin and geometry came last week. i passed them both and am now free from conditions. yours truly, jerusha abbott nd april dear daddy-long-legs, i am a beast. please forget about that dreadful letter i sent you last week--i was feeling terribly lonely and miserable and sore-throaty the night i wrote. i didn't know it, but i was just sickening for tonsillitis and grippe and lots of things mixed. i'm in the infirmary now, and have been here for six days; this is the first time they would let me sit up and have a pen and paper. the head nurse is very bossy. but i've been thinking about it all the time and i shan't get well until you forgive me. here is a picture of the way i look, with a bandage tied around my head in rabbit's ears. doesn't that arouse your sympathy? i am having sublingual gland swelling. and i've been studying physiology all the year without ever hearing of sublingual glands. how futile a thing is education! i can't write any more; i get rather shaky when i sit up too long. please forgive me for being impertinent and ungrateful. i was badly brought up. yours with love, judy abbott the infirmary th april dearest daddy-long-legs, yesterday evening just towards dark, when i was sitting up in bed looking out at the rain and feeling awfully bored with life in a great institution, the nurse appeared with a long white box addressed to me, and filled with the loveliest pink rosebuds. and much nicer still, it contained a card with a very polite message written in a funny little uphill back hand (but one which shows a great deal of character). thank you, daddy, a thousand times. your flowers make the first real, true present i ever received in my life. if you want to know what a baby i am i lay down and cried because i was so happy. now that i am sure you read my letters, i'll make them much more interesting, so they'll be worth keeping in a safe with red tape around them--only please take out that dreadful one and burn it up. i'd hate to think that you ever read it over. thank you for making a very sick, cross, miserable freshman cheerful. probably you have lots of loving family and friends, and you don't know what it feels like to be alone. but i do. goodbye--i'll promise never to be horrid again, because now i know you're a real person; also i'll promise never to bother you with any more questions. do you still hate girls? yours for ever, judy th hour, monday dear daddy-long-legs, i hope you aren't the trustee who sat on the toad? it went off--i was told--with quite a pop, so probably he was a fatter trustee. do you remember the little dugout places with gratings over them by the laundry windows in the john grier home? every spring when the hoptoad season opened we used to form a collection of toads and keep them in those window holes; and occasionally they would spill over into the laundry, causing a very pleasurable commotion on wash days. we were severely punished for our activities in this direction, but in spite of all discouragement the toads would collect. and one day--well, i won't bore you with particulars--but somehow, one of the fattest, biggest, juciest toads got into one of those big leather arm chairs in the trustees' room, and that afternoon at the trustees' meeting--but i dare say you were there and recall the rest? looking back dispassionately after a period of time, i will say that punishment was merited, and--if i remember rightly--adequate. i don't know why i am in such a reminiscent mood except that spring and the reappearance of toads always awakens the old acquisitive instinct. the only thing that keeps me from starting a collection is the fact that no rule exists against it. after chapel, thursday what do you think is my favourite book? just now, i mean; i change every three days. wuthering heights. emily bronte was quite young when she wrote it, and had never been outside of haworth churchyard. she had never known any men in her life; how could she imagine a man like heathcliffe? i couldn't do it, and i'm quite young and never outside the john grier asylum--i've had every chance in the world. sometimes a dreadful fear comes over me that i'm not a genius. will you be awfully disappointed, daddy, if i don't turn out to be a great author? in the spring when everything is so beautiful and green and budding, i feel like turning my back on lessons, and running away to play with the weather. there are such lots of adventures out in the fields! it's much more entertaining to live books than to write them. ow ! ! ! ! ! ! that was a shriek which brought sallie and julia and (for a disgusted moment) the senior from across the hall. it was caused by a centipede like this: only worse. just as i had finished the last sentence and was thinking what to say next--plump!--it fell off the ceiling and landed at my side. i tipped two cups off the tea table in trying to get away. sallie whacked it with the back of my hair brush--which i shall never be able to use again--and killed the front end, but the rear fifty feet ran under the bureau and escaped. this dormitory, owing to its age and ivy-covered walls, is full of centipedes. they are dreadful creatures. i'd rather find a tiger under the bed. friday, . p.m. such a lot of troubles! i didn't hear the rising bell this morning, then i broke my shoestring while i was hurrying to dress and dropped my collar button down my neck. i was late for breakfast and also for first-hour recitation. i forgot to take any blotting paper and my fountain pen leaked. in trigonometry the professor and i had a disagreement touching a little matter of logarithms. on looking it up, i find that she was right. we had mutton stew and pie-plant for lunch--hate 'em both; they taste like the asylum. the post brought me nothing but bills (though i must say that i never do get anything else; my family are not the kind that write). in english class this afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson. this was it: i asked no other thing, no other was denied. i offered being for it; the mighty merchant smiled. brazil? he twirled a button without a glance my way: but, madam, is there nothing else that we can show today? that is a poem. i don't know who wrote it or what it means. it was simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered to comment upon it. when i read the first verse i thought i had an idea--the mighty merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in return for virtuous deeds--but when i got to the second verse and found him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and i hastily changed my mind. the rest of the class was in the same predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour with blank paper and equally blank minds. getting an education is an awfully wearing process! but this didn't end the day. there's worse to come. it rained so we couldn't play golf, but had to go to gymnasium instead. the girl next to me banged my elbow with an indian club. i got home to find that the box with my new blue spring dress had come, and the skirt was so tight that i couldn't sit down. friday is sweeping day, and the maid had mixed all the papers on my desk. we had tombstone for dessert (milk and gelatin flavoured with vanilla). we were kept in chapel twenty minutes later than usual to listen to a speech about womanly women. and then--just as i was settling down with a sigh of well-earned relief to the portrait of a lady, a girl named ackerly, a dough-faced, deadly, unintermittently stupid girl, who sits next to me in latin because her name begins with a (i wish mrs. lippett had named me zabriski), came to ask if monday's lesson commenced at paragraph or , and stayed one hour. she has just gone. did you ever hear of such a discouraging series of events? it isn't the big troubles in life that require character. anybody can rise to a crisis and face a crushing tragedy with courage, but to meet the petty hazards of the day with a laugh--i really think that requires spirit. it's the kind of character that i am going to develop. i am going to pretend that all life is just a game which i must play as skilfully and fairly as i can. if i lose, i am going to shrug my shoulders and laugh--also if i win. anyway, i am going to be a sport. you will never hear me complain again, daddy dear, because julia wears silk stockings and centipedes drop off the wall. yours ever, judy answer soon. th may daddy-long-legs, esq. dear sir: i am in receipt of a letter from mrs. lippett. she hopes that i am doing well in deportment and studies. since i probably have no place to go this summer, she will let me come back to the asylum and work for my board until college opens. i hate the john grier home. i'd rather die than go back. yours most truthfully, jerusha abbott cher daddy-jambes-longes, vous etes un brick! je suis tres heureuse about the farm, parceque je n'ai jamais been on a farm dans ma vie and i'd hate to retourner chez john grier, et wash dishes tout l'ete. there would be danger of quelque chose affreuse happening, parceque j'ai perdue ma humilite d'autre fois et j'ai peur that i would just break out quelque jour et smash every cup and saucer dans la maison. pardon brievete et paper. je ne peux pas send des mes nouvelles parceque je suis dans french class et j'ai peur que monsieur le professeur is going to call on me tout de suite. he did! au revoir, je vous aime beaucoup. judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever see this campus? (that is merely a rhetorical question. don't let it annoy you.) it is a heavenly spot in may. all the shrubs are in blossom and the trees are the loveliest young green--even the old pines look fresh and new. the grass is dotted with yellow dandelions and hundreds of girls in blue and white and pink dresses. everybody is joyous and carefree, for vacation's coming, and with that to look forward to, examinations don't count. isn't that a happy frame of mind to be in? and oh, daddy! i'm the happiest of all! because i'm not in the asylum any more; and i'm not anybody's nursemaid or typewriter or bookkeeper (i should have been, you know, except for you). i'm sorry now for all my past badnesses. i'm sorry i was ever impertinent to mrs. lippett. i'm sorry i ever slapped freddie perkins. i'm sorry i ever filled the sugar bowl with salt. i'm sorry i ever made faces behind the trustees' backs. i'm going to be good and sweet and kind to everybody because i'm so happy. and this summer i'm going to write and write and write and begin to be a great author. isn't that an exalted stand to take? oh, i'm developing a beautiful character! it droops a bit under cold and frost, but it does grow fast when the sun shines. that's the way with everybody. i don't agree with the theory that adversity and sorrow and disappointment develop moral strength. the happy people are the ones who are bubbling over with kindliness. i have no faith in misanthropes. (fine word! just learned it.) you are not a misanthrope are you, daddy? i started to tell you about the campus. i wish you'd come for a little visit and let me walk you about and say: 'that is the library. this is the gas plant, daddy dear. the gothic building on your left is the gymnasium, and the tudor romanesque beside it is the new infirmary.' oh, i'm fine at showing people about. i've done it all my life at the asylum, and i've been doing it all day here. i have honestly. and a man, too! that's a great experience. i never talked to a man before (except occasional trustees, and they don't count). pardon, daddy, i don't mean to hurt your feelings when i abuse trustees. i don't consider that you really belong among them. you just tumbled on to the board by chance. the trustee, as such, is fat and pompous and benevolent. he pats one on the head and wears a gold watch chain. that looks like a june bug, but is meant to be a portrait of any trustee except you. however--to resume: i have been walking and talking and having tea with a man. and with a very superior man--with mr. jervis pendleton of the house of julia; her uncle, in short (in long, perhaps i ought to say; he's as tall as you.) being in town on business, he decided to run out to the college and call on his niece. he's her father's youngest brother, but she doesn't know him very intimately. it seems he glanced at her when she was a baby, decided he didn't like her, and has never noticed her since. anyway, there he was, sitting in the reception room very proper with his hat and stick and gloves beside him; and julia and sallie with seventh-hour recitations that they couldn't cut. so julia dashed into my room and begged me to walk him about the campus and then deliver him to her when the seventh hour was over. i said i would, obligingly but unenthusiastically, because i don't care much for pendletons. but he turned out to be a sweet lamb. he's a real human being--not a pendleton at all. we had a beautiful time; i've longed for an uncle ever since. do you mind pretending you're my uncle? i believe they're superior to grandmothers. mr. pendleton reminded me a little of you, daddy, as you were twenty years ago. you see i know you intimately, even if we haven't ever met! he's tall and thinnish with a dark face all over lines, and the funniest underneath smile that never quite comes through but just wrinkles up the corners of his mouth. and he has a way of making you feel right off as though you'd known him a long time. he's very companionable. we walked all over the campus from the quadrangle to the athletic grounds; then he said he felt weak and must have some tea. he proposed that we go to college inn--it's just off the campus by the pine walk. i said we ought to go back for julia and sallie, but he said he didn't like to have his nieces drink too much tea; it made them nervous. so we just ran away and had tea and muffins and marmalade and ice-cream and cake at a nice little table out on the balcony. the inn was quite conveniently empty, this being the end of the month and allowances low. we had the jolliest time! but he had to run for his train the minute he got back and he barely saw julia at all. she was furious with me for taking him off; it seems he's an unusually rich and desirable uncle. it relieved my mind to find he was rich, for the tea and things cost sixty cents apiece. this morning (it's monday now) three boxes of chocolates came by express for julia and sallie and me. what do you think of that? to be getting candy from a man! i begin to feel like a girl instead of a foundling. i wish you'd come and have tea some day and let me see if i like you. but wouldn't it be dreadful if i didn't? however, i know i should. bien! i make you my compliments. 'jamais je ne t'oublierai.' judy ps. i looked in the glass this morning and found a perfectly new dimple that i'd never seen before. it's very curious. where do you suppose it came from? th june dear daddy-long-legs, happy day! i've just finished my last examination physiology. and now: three months on a farm! i don't know what kind of a thing a farm is. i've never been on one in my life. i've never even looked at one (except from the car window), but i know i'm going to love it, and i'm going to love being free. i am not used even yet to being outside the john grier home. whenever i think of it excited little thrills chase up and down my back. i feel as though i must run faster and faster and keep looking over my shoulder to make sure that mrs. lippett isn't after me with her arm stretched out to grab me back. i don't have to mind any one this summer, do i? your nominal authority doesn't annoy me in the least; you are too far away to do any harm. mrs. lippett is dead for ever, so far as i am concerned, and the semples aren't expected to overlook my moral welfare, are they? no, i am sure not. i am entirely grown up. hooray! i leave you now to pack a trunk, and three boxes of teakettles and dishes and sofa cushions and books. yours ever, judy ps. here is my physiology exam. do you think you could have passed? lock willow farm, saturday night dearest daddy-long-legs, i've only just come and i'm not unpacked, but i can't wait to tell you how much i like farms. this is a heavenly, heavenly, heavenly spot! the house is square like this: and old. a hundred years or so. it has a veranda on the side which i can't draw and a sweet porch in front. the picture really doesn't do it justice--those things that look like feather dusters are maple trees, and the prickly ones that border the drive are murmuring pines and hemlocks. it stands on the top of a hill and looks way off over miles of green meadows to another line of hills. that is the way connecticut goes, in a series of marcelle waves; and lock willow farm is just on the crest of one wave. the barns used to be across the road where they obstructed the view, but a kind flash of lightning came from heaven and burnt them down. the people are mr. and mrs. semple and a hired girl and two hired men. the hired people eat in the kitchen, and the semples and judy in the dining-room. we had ham and eggs and biscuits and honey and jelly-cake and pie and pickles and cheese and tea for supper--and a great deal of conversation. i have never been so entertaining in my life; everything i say appears to be funny. i suppose it is, because i've never been in the country before, and my questions are backed by an all-inclusive ignorance. the room marked with a cross is not where the murder was committed, but the one that i occupy. it's big and square and empty, with adorable old-fashioned furniture and windows that have to be propped up on sticks and green shades trimmed with gold that fall down if you touch them. and a big square mahogany table--i'm going to spend the summer with my elbows spread out on it, writing a novel. oh, daddy, i'm so excited! i can't wait till daylight to explore. it's . now, and i am about to blow out my candle and try to go to sleep. we rise at five. did you ever know such fun? i can't believe this is really judy. you and the good lord give me more than i deserve. i must be a very, very, very good person to pay. i'm going to be. you'll see. good night, judy ps. you should hear the frogs sing and the little pigs squeal and you should see the new moon! i saw it over my right shoulder. lock willow, th july dear daddy-long-legs, how did your secretary come to know about lock willow? (that isn't a rhetorical question. i am awfully curious to know.) for listen to this: mr. jervis pendleton used to own this farm, but now he has given it to mrs. semple who was his old nurse. did you ever hear of such a funny coincidence? she still calls him 'master jervie' and talks about what a sweet little boy he used to be. she has one of his baby curls put away in a box, and it is red--or at least reddish! since she discovered that i know him, i have risen very much in her opinion. knowing a member of the pendleton family is the best introduction one can have at lock willow. and the cream of the whole family is master jervis--i am pleased to say that julia belongs to an inferior branch. the farm gets more and more entertaining. i rode on a hay wagon yesterday. we have three big pigs and nine little piglets, and you should see them eat. they are pigs! we've oceans of little baby chickens and ducks and turkeys and guinea fowls. you must be mad to live in a city when you might live on a farm. it is my daily business to hunt the eggs. i fell off a beam in the barn loft yesterday, while i was trying to crawl over to a nest that the black hen has stolen. and when i came in with a scratched knee, mrs. semple bound it up with witch-hazel, murmuring all the time, 'dear! dear! it seems only yesterday that master jervie fell off that very same beam and scratched this very same knee.' the scenery around here is perfectly beautiful. there's a valley and a river and a lot of wooded hills, and way in the distance a tall blue mountain that simply melts in your mouth. we churn twice a week; and we keep the cream in the spring house which is made of stone with the brook running underneath. some of the farmers around here have a separator, but we don't care for these new-fashioned ideas. it may be a little harder to separate the cream in pans, but it's sufficiently better to pay. we have six calves; and i've chosen the names for all of them. . sylvia, because she was born in the woods. . lesbia, after the lesbia in catullus. . sallie. . julia--a spotted, nondescript animal. . judy, after me. . daddy-long-legs. you don't mind, do you, daddy? he's pure jersey and has a sweet disposition. he looks like this--you can see how appropriate the name is. i haven't had time yet to begin my immortal novel; the farm keeps me too busy. yours always, judy ps. i've learned to make doughnuts. ps. ( ) if you are thinking of raising chickens, let me recommend buff orpingtons. they haven't any pin feathers. ps. ( ) i wish i could send you a pat of the nice, fresh butter i churned yesterday. i'm a fine dairy-maid! ps. ( ) this is a picture of miss jerusha abbott, the future great author, driving home the cows. sunday dear daddy-long-legs, isn't it funny? i started to write to you yesterday afternoon, but as far as i got was the heading, 'dear daddy-long-legs', and then i remembered i'd promised to pick some blackberries for supper, so i went off and left the sheet lying on the table, and when i came back today, what do you think i found sitting in the middle of the page? a real true daddy-long-legs! i picked him up very gently by one leg, and dropped him out of the window. i wouldn't hurt one of them for the world. they always remind me of you. we hitched up the spring wagon this morning and drove to the centre to church. it's a sweet little white frame church with a spire and three doric columns in front (or maybe ionic--i always get them mixed). a nice sleepy sermon with everybody drowsily waving palm-leaf fans, and the only sound, aside from the minister, the buzzing of locusts in the trees outside. i didn't wake up till i found myself on my feet singing the hymn, and then i was awfully sorry i hadn't listened to the sermon; i should like to know more of the psychology of a man who would pick out such a hymn. this was it: come, leave your sports and earthly toys and join me in celestial joys. or else, dear friend, a long farewell. i leave you now to sink to hell. i find that it isn't safe to discuss religion with the semples. their god (whom they have inherited intact from their remote puritan ancestors) is a narrow, irrational, unjust, mean, revengeful, bigoted person. thank heaven i don't inherit god from anybody! i am free to make mine up as i wish him. he's kind and sympathetic and imaginative and forgiving and understanding--and he has a sense of humour. i like the semples immensely; their practice is so superior to their theory. they are better than their own god. i told them so--and they are horribly troubled. they think i am blasphemous--and i think they are! we've dropped theology from our conversation. this is sunday afternoon. amasai (hired man) in a purple tie and some bright yellow buckskin gloves, very red and shaved, has just driven off with carrie (hired girl) in a big hat trimmed with red roses and a blue muslin dress and her hair curled as tight as it will curl. amasai spent all the morning washing the buggy; and carrie stayed home from church ostensibly to cook the dinner, but really to iron the muslin dress. in two minutes more when this letter is finished i am going to settle down to a book which i found in the attic. it's entitled, on the trail, and sprawled across the front page in a funny little-boy hand: jervis pendleton if this book should ever roam, box its ears and send it home. he spent the summer here once after he had been ill, when he was about eleven years old; and he left on the trail behind. it looks well read--the marks of his grimy little hands are frequent! also in a corner of the attic there is a water wheel and a windmill and some bows and arrows. mrs. semple talks so constantly about him that i begin to believe he really lives--not a grown man with a silk hat and walking stick, but a nice, dirty, tousle-headed boy who clatters up the stairs with an awful racket, and leaves the screen doors open, and is always asking for cookies. (and getting them, too, if i know mrs. semple!) he seems to have been an adventurous little soul--and brave and truthful. i'm sorry to think he is a pendleton; he was meant for something better. we're going to begin threshing oats tomorrow; a steam engine is coming and three extra men. it grieves me to tell you that buttercup (the spotted cow with one horn, mother of lesbia) has done a disgraceful thing. she got into the orchard friday evening and ate apples under the trees, and ate and ate until they went to her head. for two days she has been perfectly dead drunk! that is the truth i am telling. did you ever hear anything so scandalous? sir, i remain, your affectionate orphan, judy abbott ps. indians in the first chapter and highwaymen in the second. i hold my breath. what can the third contain? 'red hawk leapt twenty feet in the air and bit the dust.' that is the subject of the frontispiece. aren't judy and jervie having fun? th september dear daddy, i was weighed yesterday on the flour scales in the general store at the comers. i've gained nine pounds! let me recommend lock willow as a health resort. yours ever, judy dear daddy-long-legs, behold me--a sophomore! i came up last friday, sorry to leave lock willow, but glad to see the campus again. it is a pleasant sensation to come back to something familiar. i am beginning to feel at home in college, and in command of the situation; i am beginning, in fact, to feel at home in the world--as though i really belonged to it and had not just crept in on sufferance. i don't suppose you understand in the least what i am trying to say. a person important enough to be a trustee can't appreciate the feelings of a person unimportant enough to be a foundling. and now, daddy, listen to this. whom do you think i am rooming with? sallie mcbride and julia rutledge pendleton. it's the truth. we have a study and three little bedrooms--voila! sallie and i decided last spring that we should like to room together, and julia made up her mind to stay with sallie--why, i can't imagine, for they are not a bit alike; but the pendletons are naturally conservative and inimical (fine word!) to change. anyway, here we are. think of jerusha abbott, late of the john grier home for orphans, rooming with a pendleton. this is a democratic country. sallie is running for class president, and unless all signs fail, she is going to be elected. such an atmosphere of intrigue you should see what politicians we are! oh, i tell you, daddy, when we women get our rights, you men will have to look alive in order to keep yours. election comes next saturday, and we're going to have a torchlight procession in the evening, no matter who wins. i am beginning chemistry, a most unusual study. i've never seen anything like it before. molecules and atoms are the material employed, but i'll be in a position to discuss them more definitely next month. i am also taking argumentation and logic. also history of the whole world. also plays of william shakespeare. also french. if this keeps up many years longer, i shall become quite intelligent. i should rather have elected economics than french, but i didn't dare, because i was afraid that unless i re-elected french, the professor would not let me pass--as it was, i just managed to squeeze through the june examination. but i will say that my high-school preparation was not very adequate. there's one girl in the class who chatters away in french as fast as she does in english. she went abroad with her parents when she was a child, and spent three years in a convent school. you can imagine how bright she is compared with the rest of us--irregular verbs are mere playthings. i wish my parents had chucked me into a french convent when i was little instead of a foundling asylum. oh no, i don't either! because then maybe i should never have known you. i'd rather know you than french. goodbye, daddy. i must call on harriet martin now, and, having discussed the chemical situation, casually drop a few thoughts on the subject of our next president. yours in politics, j. abbott th october dear daddy-long-legs, supposing the swimming tank in the gymnasium were filled full of lemon jelly, could a person trying to swim manage to keep on top or would he sink? we were having lemon jelly for dessert when the question came up. we discussed it heatedly for half an hour and it's still unsettled. sallie thinks that she could swim in it, but i am perfectly sure that the best swimmer in the world would sink. wouldn't it be funny to be drowned in lemon jelly? two other problems are engaging the attention of our table. st. what shape are the rooms in an octagon house? some of the girls insist that they're square; but i think they'd have to be shaped like a piece of pie. don't you? nd. suppose there were a great big hollow sphere made of looking-glass and you were sitting inside. where would it stop reflecting your face and begin reflecting your back? the more one thinks about this problem, the more puzzling it becomes. you can see with what deep philosophical reflection we engage our leisure! did i ever tell you about the election? it happened three weeks ago, but so fast do we live, that three weeks is ancient history. sallie was elected, and we had a torchlight parade with transparencies saying, 'mcbride for ever,' and a band consisting of fourteen pieces (three mouth organs and eleven combs). we're very important persons now in ' .' julia and i come in for a great deal of reflected glory. it's quite a social strain to be living in the same house with a president. bonne nuit, cher daddy. acceptez mez compliments, tres respectueux, je suis, votre judy th november dear daddy-long-legs, we beat the freshmen at basket ball yesterday. of course we're pleased--but oh, if we could only beat the juniors! i'd be willing to be black and blue all over and stay in bed a week in a witch-hazel compress. sallie has invited me to spend the christmas vacation with her. she lives in worcester, massachusetts. wasn't it nice of her? i shall love to go. i've never been in a private family in my life, except at lock willow, and the semples were grown-up and old and don't count. but the mcbrides have a houseful of children (anyway two or three) and a mother and father and grandmother, and an angora cat. it's a perfectly complete family! packing your trunk and going away is more fun than staying behind. i am terribly excited at the prospect. seventh hour--i must run to rehearsal. i'm to be in the thanksgiving theatricals. a prince in a tower with a velvet tunic and yellow curls. isn't that a lark? yours, j. a. saturday do you want to know what i look like? here's a photograph of all three that leonora fenton took. the light one who is laughing is sallie, and the tall one with her nose in the air is julia, and the little one with the hair blowing across her face is judy--she is really more beautiful than that, but the sun was in her eyes. 'stone gate', worcester, mass., st december dear daddy-long-legs, i meant to write to you before and thank you for your christmas cheque, but life in the mcbride household is very absorbing, and i don't seem able to find two consecutive minutes to spend at a desk. i bought a new gown--one that i didn't need, but just wanted. my christmas present this year is from daddy-long-legs; my family just sent love. i've been having the most beautiful vacation visiting sallie. she lives in a big old-fashioned brick house with white trimmings set back from the street--exactly the kind of house that i used to look at so curiously when i was in the john grier home, and wonder what it could be like inside. i never expected to see with my own eyes--but here i am! everything is so comfortable and restful and homelike; i walk from room to room and drink in the furnishings. it is the most perfect house for children to be brought up in; with shadowy nooks for hide and seek, and open fire places for pop-corn, and an attic to romp in on rainy days and slippery banisters with a comfortable flat knob at the bottom, and a great big sunny kitchen, and a nice, fat, sunny cook who has lived in the family thirteen years and always saves out a piece of dough for the children to bake. just the sight of such a house makes you want to be a child all over again. and as for families! i never dreamed they could be so nice. sallie has a father and mother and grandmother, and the sweetest three-year-old baby sister all over curls, and a medium-sized brother who always forgets to wipe his feet, and a big, good-looking brother named jimmie, who is a junior at princeton. we have the jolliest times at the table--everybody laughs and jokes and talks at once, and we don't have to say grace beforehand. it's a relief not having to thank somebody for every mouthful you eat. (i dare say i'm blasphemous; but you'd be, too, if you'd offered as much obligatory thanks as i have.) such a lot of things we've done--i can't begin to tell you about them. mr. mcbride owns a factory and christmas eve he had a tree for the employees' children. it was in the long packing-room which was decorated with evergreens and holly. jimmie mcbride was dressed as santa claus and sallie and i helped him distribute the presents. dear me, daddy, but it was a funny sensation! i felt as benevolent as a trustee of the john grier home. i kissed one sweet, sticky little boy--but i don't think i patted any of them on the head! and two days after christmas, they gave a dance at their own house for me. it was the first really true ball i ever attended--college doesn't count where we dance with girls. i had a new white evening gown (your christmas present--many thanks) and long white gloves and white satin slippers. the only drawback to my perfect, utter, absolute happiness was the fact that mrs. lippett couldn't see me leading the cotillion with jimmie mcbride. tell her about it, please, the next time you visit the j. g. h. yours ever, judy abbott ps. would you be terribly displeased, daddy, if i didn't turn out to be a great author after all, but just a plain girl? . , saturday dear daddy, we started to walk to town today, but mercy! how it poured. i like winter to be winter with snow instead of rain. julia's desirable uncle called again this afternoon--and brought a five-pound box of chocolates. there are advantages, you see, about rooming with julia. our innocent prattle appeared to amuse him and he waited for a later train in order to take tea in the study. we had an awful lot of trouble getting permission. it's hard enough entertaining fathers and grandfathers, but uncles are a step worse; and as for brothers and cousins, they are next to impossible. julia had to swear that he was her uncle before a notary public and then have the county clerk's certificate attached. (don't i know a lot of law?) and even then i doubt if we could have had our tea if the dean had chanced to see how youngish and good-looking uncle jervis is. anyway, we had it, with brown bread swiss cheese sandwiches. he helped make them and then ate four. i told him that i had spent last summer at lock willow, and we had a beautiful gossipy time about the semples, and the horses and cows and chickens. all the horses that he used to know are dead, except grover, who was a baby colt at the time of his last visit--and poor grove now is so old he can just limp about the pasture. he asked if they still kept doughnuts in a yellow crock with a blue plate over it on the bottom shelf of the pantry--and they do! he wanted to know if there was still a woodchuck's hole under the pile of rocks in the night pasture--and there is! amasai caught a big, fat, grey one there this summer, the twenty-fifth great-grandson of the one master jervis caught when he was a little boy. i called him 'master jervie' to his face, but he didn't appear to be insulted. julia says she has never seen him so amiable; he's usually pretty unapproachable. but julia hasn't a bit of tact; and men, i find, require a great deal. they purr if you rub them the right way and spit if you don't. (that isn't a very elegant metaphor. i mean it figuratively.) we're reading marie bashkirtseff's journal. isn't it amazing? listen to this: 'last night i was seized by a fit of despair that found utterance in moans, and that finally drove me to throw the dining-room clock into the sea.' it makes me almost hope i'm not a genius; they must be very wearing to have about--and awfully destructive to the furniture. mercy! how it keeps pouring. we shall have to swim to chapel tonight. yours ever, judy th jan. dear daddy-long-legs, did you ever have a sweet baby girl who was stolen from the cradle in infancy? maybe i am she! if we were in a novel, that would be the denouement, wouldn't it? it's really awfully queer not to know what one is--sort of exciting and romantic. there are such a lot of possibilities. maybe i'm not american; lots of people aren't. i may be straight descended from the ancient romans, or i may be a viking's daughter, or i may be the child of a russian exile and belong by rights in a siberian prison, or maybe i'm a gipsy--i think perhaps i am. i have a very wandering spirit, though i haven't as yet had much chance to develop it. do you know about that one scandalous blot in my career the time i ran away from the asylum because they punished me for stealing cookies? it's down in the books free for any trustee to read. but really, daddy, what could you expect? when you put a hungry little nine-year girl in the pantry scouring knives, with the cookie jar at her elbow, and go off and leave her alone; and then suddenly pop in again, wouldn't you expect to find her a bit crumby? and then when you jerk her by the elbow and box her ears, and make her leave the table when the pudding comes, and tell all the other children that it's because she's a thief, wouldn't you expect her to run away? i only ran four miles. they caught me and brought me back; and every day for a week i was tied, like a naughty puppy, to a stake in the back yard while the other children were out at recess. oh, dear! there's the chapel bell, and after chapel i have a committee meeting. i'm sorry because i meant to write you a very entertaining letter this time. auf wiedersehen cher daddy, pax tibi! judy ps. there's one thing i'm perfectly sure of i'm not a chinaman. th february dear daddy-long-legs, jimmie mcbride has sent me a princeton banner as big as one end of the room; i am very grateful to him for remembering me, but i don't know what on earth to do with it. sallie and julia won't let me hang it up; our room this year is furnished in red, and you can imagine what an effect we'd have if i added orange and black. but it's such nice, warm, thick felt, i hate to waste it. would it be very improper to have it made into a bath robe? my old one shrank when it was washed. i've entirely omitted of late telling you what i am learning, but though you might not imagine it from my letters, my time is exclusively occupied with study. it's a very bewildering matter to get educated in five branches at once. 'the test of true scholarship,' says chemistry professor, 'is a painstaking passion for detail.' 'be careful not to keep your eyes glued to detail,' says history professor. 'stand far enough away to get a perspective of the whole.' you can see with what nicety we have to trim our sails between chemistry and history. i like the historical method best. if i say that william the conqueror came over in , and columbus discovered america in or or whenever it was, that's a mere detail that the professor overlooks. it gives a feeling of security and restfulness to the history recitation, that is entirely lacking in chemistry. sixth-hour bell--i must go to the laboratory and look into a little matter of acids and salts and alkalis. i've burned a hole as big as a plate in the front of my chemistry apron, with hydrochloric acid. if the theory worked, i ought to be able to neutralize that hole with good strong ammonia, oughtn't i? examinations next week, but who's afraid? yours ever, judy th march dear daddy-long-legs, there is a march wind blowing, and the sky is filled with heavy, black moving clouds. the crows in the pine trees are making such a clamour! it's an intoxicating, exhilarating, calling noise. you want to close your books and be off over the hills to race with the wind. we had a paper chase last saturday over five miles of squashy 'cross country. the fox (composed of three girls and a bushel or so of confetti) started half an hour before the twenty-seven hunters. i was one of the twenty-seven; eight dropped by the wayside; we ended nineteen. the trail led over a hill, through a cornfield, and into a swamp where we had to leap lightly from hummock to hummock. of course half of us went in ankle deep. we kept losing the trail, and we wasted twenty-five minutes over that swamp. then up a hill through some woods and in at a barn window! the barn doors were all locked and the window was up high and pretty small. i don't call that fair, do you? but we didn't go through; we circumnavigated the barn and picked up the trail where it issued by way of a low shed roof on to the top of a fence. the fox thought he had us there, but we fooled him. then straight away over two miles of rolling meadow, and awfully hard to follow, for the confetti was getting sparse. the rule is that it must be at the most six feet apart, but they were the longest six feet i ever saw. finally, after two hours of steady trotting, we tracked monsieur fox into the kitchen of crystal spring (that's a farm where the girls go in bob sleighs and hay wagons for chicken and waffle suppers) and we found the three foxes placidly eating milk and honey and biscuits. they hadn't thought we would get that far; they were expecting us to stick in the barn window. both sides insist that they won. i think we did, don't you? because we caught them before they got back to the campus. anyway, all nineteen of us settled like locusts over the furniture and clamoured for honey. there wasn't enough to go round, but mrs. crystal spring (that's our pet name for her; she's by rights a johnson) brought up a jar of strawberry jam and a can of maple syrup--just made last week--and three loaves of brown bread. we didn't get back to college till half-past six--half an hour late for dinner--and we went straight in without dressing, and with perfectly unimpaired appetites! then we all cut evening chapel, the state of our boots being enough of an excuse. i never told you about examinations. i passed everything with the utmost ease--i know the secret now, and am never going to fail again. i shan't be able to graduate with honours though, because of that beastly latin prose and geometry freshman year. but i don't care. wot's the hodds so long as you're 'appy? (that's a quotation. i've been reading the english classics.) speaking of classics, have you ever read hamlet? if you haven't, do it right off. it's perfectly corking. i've been hearing about shakespeare all my life, but i had no idea he really wrote so well; i always suspected him of going largely on his reputation. i have a beautiful play that i invented a long time ago when i first learned to read. i put myself to sleep every night by pretending i'm the person (the most important person) in the book i'm reading at the moment. at present i'm ophelia--and such a sensible ophelia! i keep hamlet amused all the time, and pet him and scold him and make him wrap up his throat when he has a cold. i've entirely cured him of being melancholy. the king and queen are both dead--an accident at sea; no funeral necessary--so hamlet and i are ruling in denmark without any bother. we have the kingdom working beautifully. he takes care of the governing, and i look after the charities. i have just founded some first-class orphan asylums. if you or any of the other trustees would like to visit them, i shall be pleased to show you through. i think you might find a great many helpful suggestions. i remain, sir, yours most graciously, ophelia, queen of denmark. th march, maybe the th dear daddy-long-legs, i don't believe i can be going to heaven--i am getting such a lot of good things here; it wouldn't be fair to get them hereafter too. listen to what has happened. jerusha abbott has won the short-story contest (a twenty-five dollar prize) that the monthly holds every year. and she's a sophomore! the contestants are mostly seniors. when i saw my name posted, i couldn't quite believe it was true. maybe i am going to be an author after all. i wish mrs. lippett hadn't given me such a silly name--it sounds like an author-ess, doesn't it? also i have been chosen for the spring dramatics--as you like it out of doors. i am going to be celia, own cousin to rosalind. and lastly: julia and sallie and i are going to new york next friday to do some spring shopping and stay all night and go to the theatre the next day with 'master jervie.' he invited us. julia is going to stay at home with her family, but sallie and i are going to stop at the martha washington hotel. did you ever hear of anything so exciting? i've never been in a hotel in my life, nor in a theatre; except once when the catholic church had a festival and invited the orphans, but that wasn't a real play and it doesn't count. and what do you think we're going to see? hamlet. think of that! we studied it for four weeks in shakespeare class and i know it by heart. i am so excited over all these prospects that i can scarcely sleep. goodbye, daddy. this is a very entertaining world. yours ever, judy ps. i've just looked at the calendar. it's the th. another postscript. i saw a street car conductor today with one brown eye and one blue. wouldn't he make a nice villain for a detective story? th april dear daddy-long-legs, mercy! isn't new york big? worcester is nothing to it. do you mean to tell me that you actually live in all that confusion? i don't believe that i shall recover for months from the bewildering effect of two days of it. i can't begin to tell you all the amazing things i've seen; i suppose you know, though, since you live there yourself. but aren't the streets entertaining? and the people? and the shops? i never saw such lovely things as there are in the windows. it makes you want to devote your life to wearing clothes. sallie and julia and i went shopping together saturday morning. julia went into the very most gorgeous place i ever saw, white and gold walls and blue carpets and blue silk curtains and gilt chairs. a perfectly beautiful lady with yellow hair and a long black silk trailing gown came to meet us with a welcoming smile. i thought we were paying a social call, and started to shake hands, but it seems we were only buying hats--at least julia was. she sat down in front of a mirror and tried on a dozen, each lovelier than the last, and bought the two loveliest of all. i can't imagine any joy in life greater than sitting down in front of a mirror and buying any hat you choose without having first to consider the price! there's no doubt about it, daddy; new york would rapidly undermine this fine stoical character which the john grier home so patiently built up. and after we'd finished our shopping, we met master jervie at sherry's. i suppose you've been in sherry's? picture that, then picture the dining-room of the john grier home with its oilcloth-covered tables, and white crockery that you can't break, and wooden-handled knives and forks; and fancy the way i felt! i ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed. and after luncheon we went to the theatre--it was dazzling, marvellous, unbelievable--i dream about it every night. isn't shakespeare wonderful? hamlet is so much better on the stage than when we analyze it in class; i appreciated it before, but now, dear me! i think, if you don't mind, that i'd rather be an actress than a writer. wouldn't you like me to leave college and go into a dramatic school? and then i'll send you a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights. only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so i'll surely smile at the right man. it would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if i picked out the wrong one. we came back saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps and negro waiters. i never heard of meals being served in trains before, and i inadvertently said so. 'where on earth were you brought up?' said julia to me. 'in a village,' said i meekly, to julia. 'but didn't you ever travel?' said she to me. 'not till i came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn't eat,' said i to her. she's getting quite interested in me, because i say such funny things. i try hard not to, but they do pop out when i'm surprised--and i'm surprised most of the time. it's a dizzying experience, daddy, to pass eighteen years in the john grier home, and then suddenly to be plunged into the world. but i'm getting acclimated. i don't make such awful mistakes as i did; and i don't feel uncomfortable any more with the other girls. i used to squirm whenever people looked at me. i felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams underneath. but i'm not letting the ginghams bother me any more. sufficient unto yesterday is the evil thereof. i forgot to tell you about our flowers. master jervie gave us each a big bunch of violets and lilies-of-the-valley. wasn't that sweet of him? i never used to care much for men--judging by trustees--but i'm changing my mind. eleven pages--this is a letter! have courage. i'm going to stop. yours always, judy th april dear mr. rich-man, here's your cheque for fifty dollars. thank you very much, but i do not feel that i can keep it. my allowance is sufficient to afford all of the hats that i need. i am sorry that i wrote all that silly stuff about the millinery shop; it's just that i had never seen anything like it before. however, i wasn't begging! and i would rather not accept any more charity than i have to. sincerely yours, jerusha abbott th april dearest daddy, will you please forgive me for the letter i wrote you yesterday? after i posted it i was sorry, and tried to get it back, but that beastly mail clerk wouldn't give it back to me. it's the middle of the night now; i've been awake for hours thinking what a worm i am--what a thousand-legged worm--and that's the worst i can say! i've closed the door very softly into the study so as not to wake julia and sallie, and am sitting up in bed writing to you on paper torn out of my history note-book. i just wanted to tell you that i am sorry i was so impolite about your cheque. i know you meant it kindly, and i think you're an old dear to take so much trouble for such a silly thing as a hat. i ought to have returned it very much more graciously. but in any case, i had to return it. it's different with me than with other girls. they can take things naturally from people. they have fathers and brothers and aunts and uncles; but i can't be on any such relations with any one. i like to pretend that you belong to me, just to play with the idea, but of course i know you don't. i'm alone, really--with my back to the wall fighting the world--and i get sort of gaspy when i think about it. i put it out of my mind, and keep on pretending; but don't you see, daddy? i can't accept any more money than i have to, because some day i shall be wanting to pay it back, and even as great an author as i intend to be won't be able to face a perfectly tremendous debt. i'd love pretty hats and things, but i mustn't mortgage the future to pay for them. you'll forgive me, won't you, for being so rude? i have an awful habit of writing impulsively when i first think things, and then posting the letter beyond recall. but if i sometimes seem thoughtless and ungrateful, i never mean it. in my heart i thank you always for the life and freedom and independence that you have given me. my childhood was just a long, sullen stretch of revolt, and now i am so happy every moment of the day that i can't believe it's true. i feel like a made-up heroine in a story-book. it's a quarter past two. i'm going to tiptoe out to post this off now. you'll receive it in the next mail after the other; so you won't have a very long time to think bad of me. good night, daddy, i love you always, judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, field day last saturday. it was a very spectacular occasion. first we had a parade of all the classes, with everybody dressed in white linen, the seniors carrying blue and gold japanese umbrellas, and the juniors white and yellow banners. our class had crimson balloons--very fetching, especially as they were always getting loose and floating off--and the freshmen wore green tissue-paper hats with long streamers. also we had a band in blue uniforms hired from town. also about a dozen funny people, like clowns in a circus, to keep the spectators entertained between events. julia was dressed as a fat country man with a linen duster and whiskers and baggy umbrella. patsy moriarty (patrici really. did you ever hear such a name? mrs. lippett couldn't have done better) who is tall and thin was julia's wife in a absurd green bonnet over one ear. waves of laughter followed them the whole length of the course. julia played the part extremely well. i never dreamed that a pendleton could display so much comedy spirit--begging master jervie's pardon; i don't consider him a true pendleton though, any more than i consider you a true trustee. sallie and i weren't in the parade because we were entered for the events. and what do you think? we both won! at least in something. we tried for the running broad jump and lost; but sallie won the pole-vaulting (seven feet three inches) and i won the fifty-yard sprint (eight seconds). i was pretty panting at the end, but it was great fun, with the whole class waving balloons and cheering and yelling: what's the matter with judy abbott? she's all right. who's all right? judy ab-bott! that, daddy, is true fame. then trotting back to the dressing tent and being rubbed down with alcohol and having a lemon to suck. you see we're very professional. it's a fine thing to win an event for your class, because the class that wins the most gets the athletic cup for the year. the seniors won it this year, with seven events to their credit. the athletic association gave a dinner in the gymnasium to all of the winners. we had fried soft-shell crabs, and chocolate ice-cream moulded in the shape of basket balls. i sat up half of last night reading jane eyre. are you old enough, daddy, to remember sixty years ago? and, if so, did people talk that way? the haughty lady blanche says to the footman, 'stop your chattering, knave, and do my bidding.' mr. rochester talks about the metal welkin when he means the sky; and as for the mad woman who laughs like a hyena and sets fire to bed curtains and tears up wedding veils and bites--it's melodrama of the purest, but just the same, you read and read and read. i can't see how any girl could have written such a book, especially any girl who was brought up in a churchyard. there's something about those brontes that fascinates me. their books, their lives, their spirit. where did they get it? when i was reading about little jane's troubles in the charity school, i got so angry that i had to go out and take a walk. i understood exactly how she felt. having known mrs. lippett, i could see mr. brocklehurst. don't be outraged, daddy. i am not intimating that the john grier home was like the lowood institute. we had plenty to eat and plenty to wear, sufficient water to wash in, and a furnace in the cellar. but there was one deadly likeness. our lives were absolutely monotonous and uneventful. nothing nice ever happened, except ice-cream on sundays, and even that was regular. in all the eighteen years i was there i only had one adventure--when the woodshed burned. we had to get up in the night and dress so as to be ready in case the house should catch. but it didn't catch and we went back to bed. everybody likes a few surprises; it's a perfectly natural human craving. but i never had one until mrs. lippett called me to the office to tell me that mr. john smith was going to send me to college. and then she broke the news so gradually that it just barely shocked me. you know, daddy, i think that the most necessary quality for any person to have is imagination. it makes people able to put themselves in other people's places. it makes them kind and sympathetic and understanding. it ought to be cultivated in children. but the john grier home instantly stamped out the slightest flicker that appeared. duty was the one quality that was encouraged. i don't think children ought to know the meaning of the word; it's odious, detestable. they ought to do everything from love. wait until you see the orphan asylum that i am going to be the head of! it's my favourite play at night before i go to sleep. i plan it out to the littlest detail--the meals and clothes and study and amusements and punishments; for even my superior orphans are sometimes bad. but anyway, they are going to be happy. i think that every one, no matter how many troubles he may have when he grows up, ought to have a happy childhood to look back upon. and if i ever have any children of my own, no matter how unhappy i may be, i am not going to let them have any cares until they grow up. (there goes the chapel bell--i'll finish this letter sometime). thursday when i came in from laboratory this afternoon, i found a squirrel sitting on the tea table helping himself to almonds. these are the kind of callers we entertain now that warm weather has come and the windows stay open-- saturday morning perhaps you think, last night being friday, with no classes today, that i passed a nice quiet, readable evening with the set of stevenson that i bought with my prize money? but if so, you've never attended a girls' college, daddy dear. six friends dropped in to make fudge, and one of them dropped the fudge--while it was still liquid--right in the middle of our best rug. we shall never be able to clean up the mess. i haven't mentioned any lessons of late; but we are still having them every day. it's sort of a relief though, to get away from them and discuss life in the large--rather one-sided discussions that you and i hold, but that's your own fault. you are welcome to answer back any time you choose. i've been writing this letter off and on for three days, and i fear by now vous etes bien bored! goodbye, nice mr. man, judy mr. daddy-long-legs smith, sir: having completed the study of argumentation and the science of dividing a thesis into heads, i have decided to adopt the following form for letter-writing. it contains all necessary facts, but no unnecessary verbiage. i. we had written examinations this week in: a. chemistry. b. history. ii. a new dormitory is being built. a. its material is: (a) red brick. (b) grey stone. b. its capacity will be: (a) one dean, five instructors. (b) two hundred girls. (c) one housekeeper, three cooks, twenty waitresses, twenty chambermaids. iii. we had junket for dessert tonight. iv. i am writing a special topic upon the sources of shakespeare's plays. v. lou mcmahon slipped and fell this afternoon at basket ball, and she: a. dislocated her shoulder. b. bruised her knee. vi. i have a new hat trimmed with: a. blue velvet ribbon. b. two blue quills. c. three red pompoms. vii. it is half past nine. viii. good night. judy nd june dear daddy-long-legs, you will never guess the nice thing that has happened. the mcbrides have asked me to spend the summer at their camp in the adirondacks! they belong to a sort of club on a lovely little lake in the middle of the woods. the different members have houses made of logs dotted about among the trees, and they go canoeing on the lake, and take long walks through trails to other camps, and have dances once a week in the club house--jimmie mcbride is going to have a college friend visiting him part of the summer, so you see we shall have plenty of men to dance with. wasn't it sweet of mrs. mcbride to ask me? it appears that she liked me when i was there for christmas. please excuse this being short. it isn't a real letter; it's just to let you know that i'm disposed of for the summer. yours, in a very contented frame of mind, judy th june dear daddy-long-legs, your secretary man has just written to me saying that mr. smith prefers that i should not accept mrs. mcbride's invitation, but should return to lock willow the same as last summer. why, why, why, daddy? you don't understand about it. mrs. mcbride does want me, really and truly. i'm not the least bit of trouble in the house. i'm a help. they don't take up many servants, and sallie an i can do lots of useful things. it's a fine chance for me to learn housekeeping. every woman ought to understand it, and i only know asylum-keeping. there aren't any girls our age at the camp, and mrs. mcbride wants me for a companion for sallie. we are planning to do a lot of reading together. we are going to read all of the books for next year's english and sociology. the professor said it would be a great help if we would get our reading finished in the summer; and it's so much easier to remember it if we read together and talk it over. just to live in the same house with sallie's mother is an education. she's the most interesting, entertaining, companionable, charming woman in the world; she knows everything. think how many summers i've spent with mrs. lippett and how i'll appreciate the contrast. you needn't be afraid that i'll be crowding them, for their house is made of rubber. when they have a lot of company, they just sprinkle tents about in the woods and turn the boys outside. it's going to be such a nice, healthy summer exercising out of doors every minute. jimmie mcbride is going to teach me how to ride horseback and paddle a canoe, and how to shoot and--oh, lots of things i ought to know. it's the kind of nice, jolly, care-free time that i've never had; and i think every girl deserves it once in her life. of course i'll do exactly as you say, but please, please let me go, daddy. i've never wanted anything so much. this isn't jerusha abbott, the future great author, writing to you. it's just judy--a girl. th june mr. john smith, sir: yours of the th inst. at hand. in compliance with the instructions received through your secretary, i leave on friday next to spend the summer at lock willow farm. i hope always to remain, (miss) jerusha abbott lock willow farm, rd august dear daddy-long-legs, it has been nearly two months since i wrote, which wasn't nice of me, i know, but i haven't loved you much this summer--you see i'm being frank! you can't imagine how disappointed i was at having to give up the mcbrides' camp. of course i know that you're my guardian, and that i have to regard your wishes in all matters, but i couldn't see any reason. it was so distinctly the best thing that could have happened to me. if i had been daddy, and you had been judy, i should have said, 'bless you my child, run along and have a good time; see lots of new people and learn lots of new things; live out of doors, and get strong and well and rested for a year of hard work.' but not at all! just a curt line from your secretary ordering me to lock willow. it's the impersonality of your commands that hurts my feelings. it seems as though, if you felt the tiniest little bit for me the way i feel for you, you'd sometimes send me a message that you'd written with your own hand, instead of those beastly typewritten secretary's notes. if there were the slightest hint that you cared, i'd do anything on earth to please you. i know that i was to write nice, long, detailed letters without ever expecting any answer. you're living up to your side of the bargain--i'm being educated--and i suppose you're thinking i'm not living up to mine! but, daddy, it is a hard bargain. it is, really. i'm so awfully lonely. you are the only person i have to care for, and you are so shadowy. you're just an imaginary man that i've made up--and probably the real you isn't a bit like my imaginary you. but you did once, when i was ill in the infirmary, send me a message, and now, when i am feeling awfully forgotten, i get out your card and read it over. i don't think i am telling you at all what i started to say, which was this: although my feelings are still hurt, for it is very humiliating to be picked up and moved about by an arbitrary, peremptory, unreasonable, omnipotent, invisible providence, still, when a man has been as kind and generous and thoughtful as you have heretofore been towards me, i suppose he has a right to be an arbitrary, peremptory, unreasonable, invisible providence if he chooses, and so--i'll forgive you and be cheerful again. but i still don't enjoy getting sallie's letters about the good times they are having in camp! however--we will draw a veil over that and begin again. i've been writing and writing this summer; four short stories finished and sent to four different magazines. so you see i'm trying to be an author. i have a workroom fixed in a corner of the attic where master jervie used to have his rainy-day playroom. it's in a cool, breezy corner with two dormer windows, and shaded by a maple tree with a family of red squirrels living in a hole. i'll write a nicer letter in a few days and tell you all the farm news. we need rain. yours as ever, judy th august mr. daddy-long-legs, sir: i address you from the second crotch in the willow tree by the pool in the pasture. there's a frog croaking underneath, a locust singing overhead and two little 'devil downheads' darting up and down the trunk. i've been here for an hour; it's a very comfortable crotch, especially after being upholstered with two sofa cushions. i came up with a pen and tablet hoping to write an immortal short story, but i've been having a dreadful time with my heroine--i can't make her behave as i want her to behave; so i've abandoned her for the moment, and am writing to you. (not much relief though, for i can't make you behave as i want you to, either.) if you are in that dreadful new york, i wish i could send you some of this lovely, breezy, sunshiny outlook. the country is heaven after a week of rain. speaking of heaven--do you remember mr. kellogg that i told you about last summer?--the minister of the little white church at the corners. well, the poor old soul is dead--last winter of pneumonia. i went half a dozen times to hear him preach and got very well acquainted with his theology. he believed to the end exactly the same things he started with. it seems to me that a man who can think straight along for forty-seven years without changing a single idea ought to be kept in a cabinet as a curiosity. i hope he is enjoying his harp and golden crown; he was so perfectly sure of finding them! there's a new young man, very consequential, in his place. the congregation is pretty dubious, especially the faction led by deacon cummings. it looks as though there was going to be an awful split in the church. we don't care for innovations in religion in this neighbourhood. during our week of rain i sat up in the attic and had an orgy of reading--stevenson, mostly. he himself is more entertaining than any of the characters in his books; i dare say he made himself into the kind of hero that would look well in print. don't you think it was perfect of him to spend all the ten thousand dollars his father left, for a yacht, and go sailing off to the south seas? he lived up to his adventurous creed. if my father had left me ten thousand dollars, i'd do it, too. the thought of vailima makes me wild. i want to see the tropics. i want to see the whole world. i am going to be a great author, or artist, or actress, or playwright--or whatever sort of a great person i turn out to be. i have a terrible wanderthirst; the very sight of a map makes me want to put on my hat and take an umbrella and start. 'i shall see before i die the palms and temples of the south.' thursday evening at twilight, sitting on the doorstep. very hard to get any news into this letter! judy is becoming so philosophical of late, that she wishes to discourse largely of the world in general, instead of descending to the trivial details of daily life. but if you must have news, here it is: our nine young pigs waded across the brook and ran away last tuesday, and only eight came back. we don't want to accuse anyone unjustly, but we suspect that widow dowd has one more than she ought to have. mr. weaver has painted his barn and his two silos a bright pumpkin yellow--a very ugly colour, but he says it will wear. the brewers have company this week; mrs. brewer's sister and two nieces from ohio. one of our rhode island reds only brought off three chicks out of fifteen eggs. we can't imagine what was the trouble. rhode island reds, in my opinion, are a very inferior breed. i prefer buff orpingtons. the new clerk in the post office at bonnyrigg four corners drank every drop of jamaica ginger they had in stock--seven dollars' worth--before he was discovered. old ira hatch has rheumatism and can't work any more; he never saved his money when he was earning good wages, so now he has to live on the town. there's to be an ice-cream social at the schoolhouse next saturday evening. come and bring your families. i have a new hat that i bought for twenty-five cents at the post office. this is my latest portrait, on my way to rake the hay. it's getting too dark to see; anyway, the news is all used up. good night, judy friday good morning! here is some news! what do you think? you'd never, never, never guess who's coming to lock willow. a letter to mrs. semple from mr. pendleton. he's motoring through the berkshires, and is tired and wants to rest on a nice quiet farm--if he climbs out at her doorstep some night will she have a room ready for him? maybe he'll stay one week, or maybe two, or maybe three; he'll see how restful it is when he gets here. such a flutter as we are in! the whole house is being cleaned and all the curtains washed. i am driving to the corners this morning to get some new oilcloth for the entry, and two cans of brown floor paint for the hall and back stairs. mrs. dowd is engaged to come tomorrow to wash the windows (in the exigency of the moment, we waive our suspicions in regard to the piglet). you might think, from this account of our activities, that the house was not already immaculate; but i assure you it was! whatever mrs. semple's limitations, she is a housekeeper. but isn't it just like a man, daddy? he doesn't give the remotest hint as to whether he will land on the doorstep today, or two weeks from today. we shall live in a perpetual breathlessness until he comes--and if he doesn't hurry, the cleaning may all have to be done over again. there's amasai waiting below with the buckboard and grover. i drive alone--but if you could see old grove, you wouldn't be worried as to my safety. with my hand on my heart--farewell. judy ps. isn't that a nice ending? i got it out of stevenson's letters. saturday good morning again! i didn't get this enveloped yesterday before the postman came, so i'll add some more. we have one mail a day at twelve o'clock. rural delivery is a blessing to the farmers! our postman not only delivers letters, but he runs errands for us in town, at five cents an errand. yesterday he brought me some shoe-strings and a jar of cold cream (i sunburned all the skin off my nose before i got my new hat) and a blue windsor tie and a bottle of blacking all for ten cents. that was an unusual bargain, owing to the largeness of my order. also he tells us what is happening in the great world. several people on the route take daily papers, and he reads them as he jogs along, and repeats the news to the ones who don't subscribe. so in case a war breaks out between the united states and japan, or the president is assassinated, or mr. rockefeller leaves a million dollars to the john grier home, you needn't bother to write; i'll hear it anyway. no sign yet of master jervie. but you should see how clean our house is--and with what anxiety we wipe our feet before we step in! i hope he'll come soon; i am longing for someone to talk to. mrs. semple, to tell you the truth, gets rather monotonous. she never lets ideas interrupt the easy flow of her conversation. it's a funny thing about the people here. their world is just this single hilltop. they are not a bit universal, if you know what i mean. it's exactly the same as at the john grier home. our ideas there were bounded by the four sides of the iron fence, only i didn't mind it so much because i was younger, and was so awfully busy. by the time i'd got all my beds made and my babies' faces washed and had gone to school and come home and had washed their faces again and darned their stockings and mended freddie perkins's trousers (he tore them every day of his life) and learned my lessons in between--i was ready to go to bed, and i didn't notice any lack of social intercourse. but after two years in a conversational college, i do miss it; and i shall be glad to see somebody who speaks my language. i really believe i've finished, daddy. nothing else occurs to me at the moment--i'll try to write a longer letter next time. yours always, judy ps. the lettuce hasn't done at all well this year. it was so dry early in the season. th august well, daddy, master jervie's here. and such a nice time as we're having! at least i am, and i think he is, too--he has been here ten days and he doesn't show any signs of going. the way mrs. semple pampers that man is scandalous. if she indulged him as much when he was a baby, i don't know how he ever turned out so well. he and i eat at a little table set on the side porch, or sometimes under the trees, or--when it rains or is cold--in the best parlour. he just picks out the spot he wants to eat in and carrie trots after him with the table. then if it has been an awful nuisance, and she has had to carry the dishes very far, she finds a dollar under the sugar bowl. he is an awfully companionable sort of man, though you would never believe it to see him casually; he looks at first glance like a true pendleton, but he isn't in the least. he is just as simple and unaffected and sweet as he can be--that seems a funny way to describe a man, but it's true. he's extremely nice with the farmers around here; he meets them in a sort of man-to-man fashion that disarms them immediately. they were very suspicious at first. they didn't care for his clothes! and i will say that his clothes are rather amazing. he wears knickerbockers and pleated jackets and white flannels and riding clothes with puffed trousers. whenever he comes down in anything new, mrs. semple, beaming with pride, walks around and views him from every angle, and urges him to be careful where he sits down; she is so afraid he will pick up some dust. it bores him dreadfully. he's always saying to her: 'run along, lizzie, and tend to your work. you can't boss me any longer. i've grown up.' it's awfully funny to think of that great big, long-legged man (he's nearly as long-legged as you, daddy) ever sitting in mrs. semple's lap and having his face washed. particularly funny when you see her lap! she has two laps now, and three chins. but he says that once she was thin and wiry and spry and could run faster than he. such a lot of adventures we're having! we've explored the country for miles, and i've learned to fish with funny little flies made of feathers. also to shoot with a rifle and a revolver. also to ride horseback--there's an astonishing amount of life in old grove. we fed him on oats for three days, and he shied at a calf and almost ran away with me. wednesday we climbed sky hill monday afternoon. that's a mountain near here; not an awfully high mountain, perhaps--no snow on the summit--but at least you are pretty breathless when you reach the top. the lower slopes are covered with woods, but the top is just piled rocks and open moor. we stayed up for the sunset and built a fire and cooked our supper. master jervie did the cooking; he said he knew how better than me and he did, too, because he's used to camping. then we came down by moonlight, and, when we reached the wood trail where it was dark, by the light of an electric bulb that he had in his pocket. it was such fun! he laughed and joked all the way and talked about interesting things. he's read all the books i've ever read, and a lot of others besides. it's astonishing how many different things he knows. we went for a long tramp this morning and got caught in a storm. our clothes were drenched before we reached home but our spirits not even damp. you should have seen mrs. semple's face when we dripped into her kitchen. 'oh, master jervie--miss judy! you are soaked through. dear! dear! what shall i do? that nice new coat is perfectly ruined.' she was awfully funny; you would have thought that we were ten years old, and she a distracted mother. i was afraid for a while that we weren't going to get any jam for tea. saturday i started this letter ages ago, but i haven't had a second to finish it. isn't this a nice thought from stevenson? the world is so full of a number of things, i am sure we should all be as happy as kings. it's true, you know. the world is full of happiness, and plenty to go round, if you are only willing to take the kind that comes your way. the whole secret is in being pliable. in the country, especially, there are such a lot of entertaining things. i can walk over everybody's land, and look at everybody's view, and dabble in everybody's brook; and enjoy it just as much as though i owned the land--and with no taxes to pay! it's sunday night now, about eleven o'clock, and i am supposed to be getting some beauty sleep, but i had black coffee for dinner, so--no beauty sleep for me! this morning, said mrs. semple to mr. pendleton, with a very determined accent: 'we have to leave here at a quarter past ten in order to get to church by eleven.' 'very well, lizzie,' said master jervie, 'you have the buggy ready, and if i'm not dressed, just go on without waiting.' 'we'll wait,' said she. 'as you please,' said he, 'only don't keep the horses standing too long.' then while she was dressing, he told carrie to pack up a lunch, and he told me to scramble into my walking clothes; and we slipped out the back way and went fishing. it discommoded the household dreadfully, because lock willow of a sunday dines at two. but he ordered dinner at seven--he orders meals whenever he chooses; you would think the place were a restaurant--and that kept carrie and amasai from going driving. but he said it was all the better because it wasn't proper for them to go driving without a chaperon; and anyway, he wanted the horses himself to take me driving. did you ever hear anything so funny? and poor mrs. semple believes that people who go fishing on sundays go afterwards to a sizzling hot hell! she is awfully troubled to think that she didn't train him better when he was small and helpless and she had the chance. besides--she wished to show him off in church. anyway, we had our fishing (he caught four little ones) and we cooked them on a camp-fire for lunch. they kept falling off our spiked sticks into the fire, so they tasted a little ashy, but we ate them. we got home at four and went driving at five and had dinner at seven, and at ten i was sent to bed and here i am, writing to you. i am getting a little sleepy, though. good night. here is a picture of the one fish i caught. ship ahoy, cap'n long-legs! avast! belay! yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum. guess what i'm reading? our conversation these past two days has been nautical and piratical. isn't treasure island fun? did you ever read it, or wasn't it written when you were a boy? stevenson only got thirty pounds for the serial rights--i don't believe it pays to be a great author. maybe i'll be a school-teacher. excuse me for filling my letters so full of stevenson; my mind is very much engaged with him at present. he comprises lock willow's library. i've been writing this letter for two weeks, and i think it's about long enough. never say, daddy, that i don't give details. i wish you were here, too; we'd all have such a jolly time together. i like my different friends to know each other. i wanted to ask mr. pendleton if he knew you in new york--i should think he might; you must move in about the same exalted social circles, and you are both interested in reforms and things--but i couldn't, for i don't know your real name. it's the silliest thing i ever heard of, not to know your name. mrs. lippett warned me that you were eccentric. i should think so! affectionately, judy ps. on reading this over, i find that it isn't all stevenson. there are one or two glancing references to master jervie. th september dear daddy, he has gone, and we are missing him! when you get accustomed to people or places or ways of living, and then have them snatched away, it does leave an awfully empty, gnawing sort of sensation. i'm finding mrs. semple's conversation pretty unseasoned food. college opens in two weeks and i shall be glad to begin work again. i have worked quite a lot this summer though--six short stories and seven poems. those i sent to the magazines all came back with the most courteous promptitude. but i don't mind. it's good practice. master jervie read them--he brought in the post, so i couldn't help his knowing--and he said they were dreadful. they showed that i didn't have the slightest idea of what i was talking about. (master jervie doesn't let politeness interfere with truth.) but the last one i did--just a little sketch laid in college--he said wasn't bad; and he had it typewritten, and i sent it to a magazine. they've had it two weeks; maybe they're thinking it over. you should see the sky! there's the queerest orange-coloured light over everything. we're going to have a storm. it commenced just that moment with tremendously big drops and all the shutters banging. i had to run to close the windows, while carrie flew to the attic with an armful of milk pans to put under the places where the roof leaks and then, just as i was resuming my pen, i remembered that i'd left a cushion and rug and hat and matthew arnold's poems under a tree in the orchard, so i dashed out to get them, all quite soaked. the red cover of the poems had run into the inside; dover beach in the future will be washed by pink waves. a storm is awfully disturbing in the country. you are always having to think of so many things that are out of doors and getting spoiled. thursday daddy! daddy! what do you think? the postman has just come with two letters. st. my story is accepted. $ . alors! i'm an author. nd. a letter from the college secretary. i'm to have a scholarship for two years that will cover board and tuition. it was founded for 'marked proficiency in english with general excellency in other lines.' and i've won it! i applied for it before i left, but i didn't have an idea i'd get it, on account of my freshman bad work in maths and latin. but it seems i've made it up. i am awfully glad, daddy, because now i won't be such a burden to you. the monthly allowance will be all i'll need, and maybe i can earn that with writing or tutoring or something. i'm longing to go back and begin work. yours ever, jerusha abbott, author of when the sophomores won the game. for sale at all news stands, price ten cents. th september dear daddy-long-legs, back at college again and an upper classman. our study is better than ever this year--faces the south with two huge windows and oh! so furnished. julia, with an unlimited allowance, arrived two days early and was attacked with a fever for settling. we have new wall paper and oriental rugs and mahogany chairs--not painted mahogany which made us sufficiently happy last year, but real. it's very gorgeous, but i don't feel as though i belonged in it; i'm nervous all the time for fear i'll get an ink spot in the wrong place. and, daddy, i found your letter waiting for me--pardon--i mean your secretary's. will you kindly convey to me a comprehensible reason why i should not accept that scholarship? i don't understand your objection in the least. but anyway, it won't do the slightest good for you to object, for i've already accepted it and i am not going to change! that sounds a little impertinent, but i don't mean it so. i suppose you feel that when you set out to educate me, you'd like to finish the work, and put a neat period, in the shape of a diploma, at the end. but look at it just a second from my point of view. i shall owe my education to you just as much as though i let you pay for the whole of it, but i won't be quite so much indebted. i know that you don't want me to return the money, but nevertheless, i am going to want to do it, if i possibly can; and winning this scholarship makes it so much easier. i was expecting to spend the rest of my life in paying my debts, but now i shall only have to spend one-half of the rest of it. i hope you understand my position and won't be cross. the allowance i shall still most gratefully accept. it requires an allowance to live up to julia and her furniture! i wish that she had been reared to simpler tastes, or else that she were not my room-mate. this isn't much of a letter; i meant to have written a lot--but i've been hemming four window curtains and three portieres (i'm glad you can't see the length of the stitches), and polishing a brass desk set with tooth powder (very uphill work), and sawing off picture wire with manicure scissors, and unpacking four boxes of books, and putting away two trunkfuls of clothes (it doesn't seem believable that jerusha abbott owns two trunks full of clothes, but she does!) and welcoming back fifty dear friends in between. opening day is a joyous occasion! good night, daddy dear, and don't be annoyed because your chick is wanting to scratch for herself. she's growing up into an awfully energetic little hen--with a very determined cluck and lots of beautiful feathers (all due to you). affectionately, judy th september dear daddy, are you still harping on that scholarship? i never knew a man so obstinate, and stubborn and unreasonable, and tenacious, and bull-doggish, and unable-to-see-other-people's-point-of-view, as you. you prefer that i should not be accepting favours from strangers. strangers!--and what are you, pray? is there anyone in the world that i know less? i shouldn't recognize you if i met you in the street. now, you see, if you had been a sane, sensible person and had written nice, cheering fatherly letters to your little judy, and had come occasionally and patted her on the head, and had said you were glad she was such a good girl--then, perhaps, she wouldn't have flouted you in your old age, but would have obeyed your slightest wish like the dutiful daughter she was meant to be. strangers indeed! you live in a glass house, mr. smith. and besides, this isn't a favour; it's like a prize--i earned it by hard work. if nobody had been good enough in english, the committee wouldn't have awarded the scholarship; some years they don't. also-- but what's the use of arguing with a man? you belong, mr. smith, to a sex devoid of a sense of logic. to bring a man into line, there are just two methods: one must either coax or be disagreeable. i scorn to coax men for what i wish. therefore, i must be disagreeable. i refuse, sir, to give up the scholarship; and if you make any more fuss, i won't accept the monthly allowance either, but will wear myself into a nervous wreck tutoring stupid freshmen. that is my ultimatum! and listen--i have a further thought. since you are so afraid that by taking this scholarship i am depriving someone else of an education, i know a way out. you can apply the money that you would have spent for me towards educating some other little girl from the john grier home. don't you think that's a nice idea? only, daddy, educate the new girl as much as you choose, but please don't like her any better than me. i trust that your secretary won't be hurt because i pay so little attention to the suggestions offered in his letter, but i can't help it if he is. he's a spoiled child, daddy. i've meekly given in to his whims heretofore, but this time i intend to be firm. yours, with a mind, completely and irrevocably and world-without-end made-up, jerusha abbott th november dear daddy-long-legs, i started down town today to buy a bottle of shoe blacking and some collars and the material for a new blouse and a jar of violet cream and a cake of castile soap--all very necessary; i couldn't be happy another day without them--and when i tried to pay the car fare, i found that i had left my purse in the pocket of my other coat. so i had to get out and take the next car, and was late for gymnasium. it's a dreadful thing to have no memory and two coats! julia pendleton has invited me to visit her for the christmas holidays. how does that strike you, mr. smith? fancy jerusha abbott, of the john grier home, sitting at the tables of the rich. i don't know why julia wants me--she seems to be getting quite attached to me of late. i should, to tell the truth, very much prefer going to sallie's, but julia asked me first, so if i go anywhere it must be to new york instead of to worcester. i'm rather awed at the prospect of meeting pendletons en masse, and also i'd have to get a lot of new clothes--so, daddy dear, if you write that you would prefer having me remain quietly at college, i will bow to your wishes with my usual sweet docility. i'm engaged at odd moments with the life and letters of thomas huxley--it makes nice, light reading to pick up between times. do you know what an archaeopteryx is? it's a bird. and a stereognathus? i'm not sure myself, but i think it's a missing link, like a bird with teeth or a lizard with wings. no, it isn't either; i've just looked in the book. it's a mesozoic mammal. i've elected economics this year--very illuminating subject. when i finish that i'm going to take charity and reform; then, mr. trustee, i'll know just how an orphan asylum ought to be run. don't you think i'd make an admirable voter if i had my rights? i was twenty-one last week. this is an awfully wasteful country to throw away such an honest, educated, conscientious, intelligent citizen as i would be. yours always, judy th december dear daddy-long-legs, thank you for permission to visit julia--i take it that silence means consent. such a social whirl as we've been having! the founder's dance came last week--this was the first year that any of us could attend; only upper classmen being allowed. i invited jimmie mcbride, and sallie invited his room-mate at princeton, who visited them last summer at their camp--an awfully nice man with red hair--and julia invited a man from new york, not very exciting, but socially irreproachable. he is connected with the de la mater chichesters. perhaps that means something to you? it doesn't illuminate me to any extent. however--our guests came friday afternoon in time for tea in the senior corridor, and then dashed down to the hotel for dinner. the hotel was so full that they slept in rows on the billiard tables, they say. jimmie mcbride says that the next time he is bidden to a social event in this college, he is going to bring one of their adirondack tents and pitch it on the campus. at seven-thirty they came back for the president's reception and dance. our functions commence early! we had the men's cards all made out ahead of time, and after every dance, we'd leave them in groups, under the letter that stood for their names, so that they could be readily found by their next partners. jimmie mcbride, for example, would stand patiently under 'm' until he was claimed. (at least, he ought to have stood patiently, but he kept wandering off and getting mixed with 'r's' and 's's' and all sorts of letters.) i found him a very difficult guest; he was sulky because he had only three dances with me. he said he was bashful about dancing with girls he didn't know! the next morning we had a glee club concert--and who do you think wrote the funny new song composed for the occasion? it's the truth. she did. oh, i tell you, daddy, your little foundling is getting to be quite a prominent person! anyway, our gay two days were great fun, and i think the men enjoyed it. some of them were awfully perturbed at first at the prospect of facing one thousand girls; but they got acclimated very quickly. our two princeton men had a beautiful time--at least they politely said they had, and they've invited us to their dance next spring. we've accepted, so please don't object, daddy dear. julia and sallie and i all had new dresses. do you want to hear about them? julia's was cream satin and gold embroidery and she wore purple orchids. it was a dream and came from paris, and cost a million dollars. sallie's was pale blue trimmed with persian embroidery, and went beautifully with red hair. it didn't cost quite a million, but was just as effective as julia's. mine was pale pink crepe de chine trimmed with ecru lace and rose satin. and i carried crimson roses which j. mcb. sent (sallie having told him what colour to get). and we all had satin slippers and silk stockings and chiffon scarfs to match. you must be deeply impressed by these millinery details. one can't help thinking, daddy, what a colourless life a man is forced to lead, when one reflects that chiffon and venetian point and hand embroidery and irish crochet are to him mere empty words. whereas a woman--whether she is interested in babies or microbes or husbands or poetry or servants or parallelograms or gardens or plato or bridge--is fundamentally and always interested in clothes. it's the one touch of nature that makes the whole world kin. (that isn't original. i got it out of one of shakespeare's plays). however, to resume. do you want me to tell you a secret that i've lately discovered? and will you promise not to think me vain? then listen: i'm pretty. i am, really. i'd be an awful idiot not to know it with three looking-glasses in the room. a friend ps. this is one of those wicked anonymous letters you read about in novels. th december dear daddy-long-legs, i've just a moment, because i must attend two classes, pack a trunk and a suit-case, and catch the four-o'clock train--but i couldn't go without sending a word to let you know how much i appreciate my christmas box. i love the furs and the necklace and the liberty scarf and the gloves and handkerchiefs and books and purse--and most of all i love you! but daddy, you have no business to spoil me this way. i'm only human--and a girl at that. how can i keep my mind sternly fixed on a studious career, when you deflect me with such worldly frivolities? i have strong suspicions now as to which one of the john grier trustees used to give the christmas tree and the sunday ice-cream. he was nameless, but by his works i know him! you deserve to be happy for all the good things you do. goodbye, and a very merry christmas. yours always, judy ps. i am sending a slight token, too. do you think you would like her if you knew her? th january i meant to write to you from the city, daddy, but new york is an engrossing place. i had an interesting--and illuminating--time, but i'm glad i don't belong to such a family! i should truly rather have the john grier home for a background. whatever the drawbacks of my bringing up, there was at least no pretence about it. i know now what people mean when they say they are weighed down by things. the material atmosphere of that house was crushing; i didn't draw a deep breath until i was on an express train coming back. all the furniture was carved and upholstered and gorgeous; the people i met were beautifully dressed and low-voiced and well-bred, but it's the truth, daddy, i never heard one word of real talk from the time we arrived until we left. i don't think an idea ever entered the front door. mrs. pendleton never thinks of anything but jewels and dressmakers and social engagements. she did seem a different kind of mother from mrs. mcbride! if i ever marry and have a family, i'm going to make them as exactly like the mcbrides as i can. not for all the money in the world would i ever let any children of mine develop into pendletons. maybe it isn't polite to criticize people you've been visiting? if it isn't, please excuse. this is very confidential, between you and me. i only saw master jervie once when he called at tea time, and then i didn't have a chance to speak to him alone. it was really disappointing after our nice time last summer. i don't think he cares much for his relatives--and i am sure they don't care much for him! julia's mother says he's unbalanced. he's a socialist--except, thank heaven, he doesn't let his hair grow and wear red ties. she can't imagine where he picked up his queer ideas; the family have been church of england for generations. he throws away his money on every sort of crazy reform, instead of spending it on such sensible things as yachts and automobiles and polo ponies. he does buy candy with it though! he sent julia and me each a box for christmas. you know, i think i'll be a socialist, too. you wouldn't mind, would you, daddy? they're quite different from anarchists; they don't believe in blowing people up. probably i am one by rights; i belong to the proletariat. i haven't determined yet just which kind i am going to be. i will look into the subject over sunday, and declare my principles in my next. i've seen loads of theatres and hotels and beautiful houses. my mind is a confused jumble of onyx and gilding and mosaic floors and palms. i'm still pretty breathless but i am glad to get back to college and my books--i believe that i really am a student; this atmosphere of academic calm i find more bracing than new york. college is a very satisfying sort of life; the books and study and regular classes keep you alive mentally, and then when your mind gets tired, you have the gymnasium and outdoor athletics, and always plenty of congenial friends who are thinking about the same things you are. we spend a whole evening in nothing but talk--talk--talk--and go to bed with a very uplifted feeling, as though we had settled permanently some pressing world problems. and filling in every crevice, there is always such a lot of nonsense--just silly jokes about the little things that come up but very satisfying. we do appreciate our own witticisms! it isn't the great big pleasures that count the most; it's making a great deal out of the little ones--i've discovered the true secret of happiness, daddy, and that is to live in the now. not to be for ever regretting the past, or anticipating the future; but to get the most that you can out of this very instant. it's like farming. you can have extensive farming and intensive farming; well, i am going to have intensive living after this. i'm going to enjoy every second, and i'm going to know i'm enjoying it while i'm enjoying it. most people don't live; they just race. they are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose all sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not. i've decided to sit down by the way and pile up a lot of little happinesses, even if i never become a great author. did you ever know such a philosopheress as i am developing into? yours ever, judy ps. it's raining cats and dogs tonight. two puppies and a kitten have just landed on the window-sill. dear comrade, hooray! i'm a fabian. that's a socialist who's willing to wait. we don't want the social revolution to come tomorrow morning; it would be too upsetting. we want it to come very gradually in the distant future, when we shall all be prepared and able to sustain the shock. in the meantime, we must be getting ready, by instituting industrial, educational and orphan asylum reforms. yours, with fraternal love, judy monday, rd hour th february dear d.-l.-l., don't be insulted because this is so short. it isn't a letter; it's just a line to say that i'm going to write a letter pretty soon when examinations are over. it is not only necessary that i pass, but pass well. i have a scholarship to live up to. yours, studying hard, j. a. th march dear daddy-long-legs, president cuyler made a speech this evening about the modern generation being flippant and superficial. he says that we are losing the old ideals of earnest endeavour and true scholarship; and particularly is this falling-off noticeable in our disrespectful attitude towards organized authority. we no longer pay a seemly deference to our superiors. i came away from chapel very sober. am i too familiar, daddy? ought i to treat you with more dignity and aloofness?--yes, i'm sure i ought. i'll begin again. my dear mr. smith, you will be pleased to hear that i passed successfully my mid-year examinations, and am now commencing work in the new semester. i am leaving chemistry--having completed the course in qualitative analysis--and am entering upon the study of biology. i approach this subject with some hesitation, as i understand that we dissect angleworms and frogs. an extremely interesting and valuable lecture was given in the chapel last week upon roman remains in southern france. i have never listened to a more illuminating exposition of the subject. we are reading wordsworth's tintern abbey in connection with our course in english literature. what an exquisite work it is, and how adequately it embodies his conceptions of pantheism! the romantic movement of the early part of the last century, exemplified in the works of such poets as shelley, byron, keats, and wordsworth, appeals to me very much more than the classical period that preceded it. speaking of poetry, have you ever read that charming little thing of tennyson's called locksley hall? i am attending gymnasium very regularly of late. a proctor system has been devised, and failure to comply with the rules causes a great deal of inconvenience. the gymnasium is equipped with a very beautiful swimming tank of cement and marble, the gift of a former graduate. my room-mate, miss mcbride, has given me her bathing-suit (it shrank so that she can no longer wear it) and i am about to begin swimming lessons. we had delicious pink ice-cream for dessert last night. only vegetable dyes are used in colouring the food. the college is very much opposed, both from aesthetic and hygienic motives, to the use of aniline dyes. the weather of late has been ideal--bright sunshine and clouds interspersed with a few welcome snow-storms. i and my companions have enjoyed our walks to and from classes--particularly from. trusting, my dear mr. smith, that this will find you in your usual good health, i remain, most cordially yours, jerusha abbott th april dear daddy, spring has come again! you should see how lovely the campus is. i think you might come and look at it for yourself. master jervie dropped in again last friday--but he chose a most unpropitious time, for sallie and julia and i were just running to catch a train. and where do you think we were going? to princeton, to attend a dance and a ball game, if you please! i didn't ask you if i might go, because i had a feeling that your secretary would say no. but it was entirely regular; we had leave-of-absence from college, and mrs. mcbride chaperoned us. we had a charming time--but i shall have to omit details; they are too many and complicated. saturday up before dawn! the night watchman called us--six of us--and we made coffee in a chafing dish (you never saw so many grounds!) and walked two miles to the top of one tree hill to see the sun rise. we had to scramble up the last slope! the sun almost beat us! and perhaps you think we didn't bring back appetites to breakfast! dear me, daddy, i seem to have a very ejaculatory style today; this page is peppered with exclamations. i meant to have written a lot about the budding trees and the new cinder path in the athletic field, and the awful lesson we have in biology for tomorrow, and the new canoes on the lake, and catherine prentiss who has pneumonia, and prexy's angora kitten that strayed from home and has been boarding in fergussen hall for two weeks until a chambermaid reported it, and about my three new dresses--white and pink and blue polka dots with a hat to match--but i am too sleepy. i am always making this an excuse, am i not? but a girls' college is a busy place and we do get tired by the end of the day! particularly when the day begins at dawn. affectionately, judy th may dear daddy-long-legs, is it good manners when you get into a car just to stare straight ahead and not see anybody else? a very beautiful lady in a very beautiful velvet dress got into the car today, and without the slightest expression sat for fifteen minutes and looked at a sign advertising suspenders. it doesn't seem polite to ignore everybody else as though you were the only important person present. anyway, you miss a lot. while she was absorbing that silly sign, i was studying a whole car full of interesting human beings. the accompanying illustration is hereby reproduced for the first time. it looks like a spider on the end of a string, but it isn't at all; it's a picture of me learning to swim in the tank in the gymnasium. the instructor hooks a rope into a ring in the back of my belt, and runs it through a pulley in the ceiling. it would be a beautiful system if one had perfect confidence in the probity of one's instructor. i'm always afraid, though, that she will let the rope get slack, so i keep one anxious eye on her and swim with the other, and with this divided interest i do not make the progress that i otherwise might. very miscellaneous weather we're having of late. it was raining when i commenced and now the sun is shining. sallie and i are going out to play tennis--thereby gaining exemption from gym. a week later i should have finished this letter long ago, but i didn't. you don't mind, do you, daddy, if i'm not very regular? i really do love to write to you; it gives me such a respectable feeling of having some family. would you like me to tell you something? you are not the only man to whom i write letters. there are two others! i have been receiving beautiful long letters this winter from master jervie (with typewritten envelopes so julia won't recognize the writing). did you ever hear anything so shocking? and every week or so a very scrawly epistle, usually on yellow tablet paper, arrives from princeton. all of which i answer with business-like promptness. so you see--i am not so different from other girls--i get letters, too. did i tell you that i have been elected a member of the senior dramatic club? very recherche organization. only seventy-five members out of one thousand. do you think as a consistent socialist that i ought to belong? what do you suppose is at present engaging my attention in sociology? i am writing (figurez vous!) a paper on the care of dependent children. the professor shuffled up his subjects and dealt them out promiscuously, and that fell to me. c'est drole ca n'est pas? there goes the gong for dinner. i'll post this as i pass the box. affectionately, j. th june dear daddy, very busy time--commencement in ten days, examinations tomorrow; lots of studying, lots of packing, and the outdoor world so lovely that it hurts you to stay inside. but never mind, vacation's coming. julia is going abroad this summer--it makes the fourth time. no doubt about it, daddy, goods are not distributed evenly. sallie, as usual, goes to the adirondacks. and what do you think i am going to do? you may have three guesses. lock willow? wrong. the adirondacks with sallie? wrong. (i'll never attempt that again; i was discouraged last year.) can't you guess anything else? you're not very inventive. i'll tell you, daddy, if you'll promise not to make a lot of objections. i warn your secretary in advance that my mind is made up. i am going to spend the summer at the seaside with a mrs. charles paterson and tutor her daughter who is to enter college in the autumn. i met her through the mcbrides, and she is a very charming woman. i am to give lessons in english and latin to the younger daughter, too, but i shall have a little time to myself, and i shall be earning fifty dollars a month! doesn't that impress you as a perfectly exorbitant amount? she offered it; i should have blushed to ask for more than twenty-five. i finish at magnolia (that's where she lives) the first of september, and shall probably spend the remaining three weeks at lock willow--i should like to see the semples again and all the friendly animals. how does my programme strike you, daddy? i am getting quite independent, you see. you have put me on my feet and i think i can almost walk alone by now. princeton commencement and our examinations exactly coincide--which is an awful blow. sallie and i did so want to get away in time for it, but of course that is utterly impossible. goodbye, daddy. have a nice summer and come back in the autumn rested and ready for another year of work. (that's what you ought to be writing to me!) i haven't any idea what you do in the summer, or how you amuse yourself. i can't visualize your surroundings. do you play golf or hunt or ride horseback or just sit in the sun and meditate? anyway, whatever it is, have a good time and don't forget judy. th june dear daddy, this is the hardest letter i ever wrote, but i have decided what i must do, and there isn't going to be any turning back. it is very sweet and generous and dear of you to wish to send me to europe this summer--for the moment i was intoxicated by the idea; but sober second thoughts said no. it would be rather illogical of me to refuse to take your money for college, and then use it instead just for amusement! you mustn't get me used to too many luxuries. one doesn't miss what one has never had; but it's awfully hard going without things after one has commenced thinking they are his--hers (english language needs another pronoun) by natural right. living with sallie and julia is an awful strain on my stoical philosophy. they have both had things from the time they were babies; they accept happiness as a matter of course. the world, they think, owes them everything they want. maybe the world does--in any case, it seems to acknowledge the debt and pay up. but as for me, it owes me nothing, and distinctly told me so in the beginning. i have no right to borrow on credit, for there will come a time when the world will repudiate my claim. i seem to be floundering in a sea of metaphor--but i hope you grasp my meaning? anyway, i have a very strong feeling that the only honest thing for me to do is to teach this summer and begin to support myself. magnolia, four days later i'd got just that much written, when--what do you think happened? the maid arrived with master jervie's card. he is going abroad too this summer; not with julia and her family, but entirely by himself i told him that you had invited me to go with a lady who is chaperoning a party of girls. he knows about you, daddy. that is, he knows that my father and mother are dead, and that a kind gentleman is sending me to college; i simply didn't have the courage to tell him about the john grier home and all the rest. he thinks that you are my guardian and a perfectly legitimate old family friend. i have never told him that i didn't know you--that would seem too queer! anyway, he insisted on my going to europe. he said that it was a necessary part of my education and that i mustn't think of refusing. also, that he would be in paris at the same time, and that we would run away from the chaperon occasionally and have dinner together at nice, funny, foreign restaurants. well, daddy, it did appeal to me! i almost weakened; if he hadn't been so dictatorial, maybe i should have entirely weakened. i can be enticed step by step, but i won't be forced. he said i was a silly, foolish, irrational, quixotic, idiotic, stubborn child (those are a few of his abusive adjectives; the rest escape me), and that i didn't know what was good for me; i ought to let older people judge. we almost quarrelled--i am not sure but that we entirely did! in any case, i packed my trunk fast and came up here. i thought i'd better see my bridges in flames behind me before i finished writing to you. they are entirely reduced to ashes now. here i am at cliff top (the name of mrs. paterson's cottage) with my trunk unpacked and florence (the little one) already struggling with first declension nouns. and it bids fair to be a struggle! she is a most uncommonly spoiled child; i shall have to teach her first how to study--she has never in her life concentrated on anything more difficult than ice-cream soda water. we use a quiet corner of the cliffs for a schoolroom--mrs. paterson wishes me to keep them out of doors--and i will say that i find it difficult to concentrate with the blue sea before me and ships a-sailing by! and when i think i might be on one, sailing off to foreign lands--but i won't let myself think of anything but latin grammar. the prepositions a or ab, absque, coram, cum, de e or ex, prae, pro, sine, tenus, in, subter, sub and super govern the ablative. so you see, daddy, i am already plunged into work with my eyes persistently set against temptation. don't be cross with me, please, and don't think that i do not appreciate your kindness, for i do--always--always. the only way i can ever repay you is by turning out a very useful citizen (are women citizens? i don't suppose they are.) anyway, a very useful person. and when you look at me you can say, 'i gave that very useful person to the world.' that sounds well, doesn't it, daddy? but i don't wish to mislead you. the feeling often comes over me that i am not at all remarkable; it is fun to plan a career, but in all probability i shan't turn out a bit different from any other ordinary person. i may end by marrying an undertaker and being an inspiration to him in his work. yours ever, judy th august dear daddy-long-legs, my window looks out on the loveliest landscape--ocean-scape, rather--nothing but water and rocks. the summer goes. i spend the morning with latin and english and algebra and my two stupid girls. i don't know how marion is ever going to get into college, or stay in after she gets there. and as for florence, she is hopeless--but oh! such a little beauty. i don't suppose it matters in the least whether they are stupid or not so long as they are pretty? one can't help thinking, though, how their conversation will bore their husbands, unless they are fortunate enough to obtain stupid husbands. i suppose that's quite possible; the world seems to be filled with stupid men; i've met a number this summer. in the afternoon we take a walk on the cliffs, or swim, if the tide is right. i can swim in salt water with the utmost ease you see my education is already being put to use! a letter comes from mr. jervis pendleton in paris, rather a short concise letter; i'm not quite forgiven yet for refusing to follow his advice. however, if he gets back in time, he will see me for a few days at lock willow before college opens, and if i am very nice and sweet and docile, i shall (i am led to infer) be received into favour again. also a letter from sallie. she wants me to come to their camp for two weeks in september. must i ask your permission, or haven't i yet arrived at the place where i can do as i please? yes, i am sure i have--i'm a senior, you know. having worked all summer, i feel like taking a little healthful recreation; i want to see the adirondacks; i want to see sallie; i want to see sallie's brother--he's going to teach me to canoe--and (we come to my chief motive, which is mean) i want master jervie to arrive at lock willow and find me not there. i must show him that he can't dictate to me. no one can dictate to me but you, daddy--and you can't always! i'm off for the woods. judy camp mcbride, th september dear daddy, your letter didn't come in time (i am pleased to say). if you wish your instructions to be obeyed, you must have your secretary transmit them in less than two weeks. as you observe, i am here, and have been for five days. the woods are fine, and so is the camp, and so is the weather, and so are the mcbrides, and so is the whole world. i'm very happy! there's jimmie calling for me to come canoeing. goodbye--sorry to have disobeyed, but why are you so persistent about not wanting me to play a little? when i've worked all the summer i deserve two weeks. you are awfully dog-in-the-mangerish. however--i love you still, daddy, in spite of all your faults. judy rd october dear daddy-long-legs, back at college and a senior--also editor of the monthly. it doesn't seem possible, does it, that so sophisticated a person, just four years ago, was an inmate of the john grier home? we do arrive fast in america! what do you think of this? a note from master jervie directed to lock willow and forwarded here. he's sorry, but he finds that he can't get up there this autumn; he has accepted an invitation to go yachting with some friends. hopes i've had a nice summer and am enjoying the country. and he knew all the time that i was with the mcbrides, for julia told him so! you men ought to leave intrigue to women; you haven't a light enough touch. julia has a trunkful of the most ravishing new clothes--an evening gown of rainbow liberty crepe that would be fitting raiment for the angels in paradise. and i thought that my own clothes this year were unprecedentedly (is there such a word?) beautiful. i copied mrs. paterson's wardrobe with the aid of a cheap dressmaker, and though the gowns didn't turn out quite twins of the originals, i was entirely happy until julia unpacked. but now--i live to see paris! dear daddy, aren't you glad you're not a girl? i suppose you think that the fuss we make over clothes is too absolutely silly? it is. no doubt about it. but it's entirely your fault. did you ever hear about the learned herr professor who regarded unnecessary adornment with contempt and favoured sensible, utilitarian clothes for women? his wife, who was an obliging creature, adopted 'dress reform.' and what do you think he did? he eloped with a chorus girl. yours ever, judy ps. the chamber-maid in our corridor wears blue checked gingham aprons. i am going to get her some brown ones instead, and sink the blue ones in the bottom of the lake. i have a reminiscent chill every time i look at them. th november dear daddy-long-legs, such a blight has fallen over my literary career. i don't know whether to tell you or not, but i would like some sympathy--silent sympathy, please; don't re-open the wound by referring to it in your next letter. i've been writing a book, all last winter in the evenings, and all the summer when i wasn't teaching latin to my two stupid children. i just finished it before college opened and sent it to a publisher. he kept it two months, and i was certain he was going to take it; but yesterday morning an express parcel came (thirty cents due) and there it was back again with a letter from the publisher, a very nice, fatherly letter--but frank! he said he saw from the address that i was still at college, and if i would accept some advice, he would suggest that i put all of my energy into my lessons and wait until i graduated before beginning to write. he enclosed his reader's opinion. here it is: 'plot highly improbable. characterization exaggerated. conversation unnatural. a good deal of humour but not always in the best of taste. tell her to keep on trying, and in time she may produce a real book.' not on the whole flattering, is it, daddy? and i thought i was making a notable addition to american literature. i did truly. i was planning to surprise you by writing a great novel before i graduated. i collected the material for it while i was at julia's last christmas. but i dare say the editor is right. probably two weeks was not enough in which to observe the manners and customs of a great city. i took it walking with me yesterday afternoon, and when i came to the gas house, i went in and asked the engineer if i might borrow his furnace. he politely opened the door, and with my own hands i chucked it in. i felt as though i had cremated my only child! i went to bed last night utterly dejected; i thought i was never going to amount to anything, and that you had thrown away your money for nothing. but what do you think? i woke up this morning with a beautiful new plot in my head, and i've been going about all day planning my characters, just as happy as i could be. no one can ever accuse me of being a pessimist! if i had a husband and twelve children swallowed by an earthquake one day, i'd bob up smilingly the next morning and commence to look for another set. affectionately, judy th december dear daddy-long-legs, i dreamed the funniest dream last night. i thought i went into a book store and the clerk brought me a new book named the life and letters of judy abbott. i could see it perfectly plainly--red cloth binding with a picture of the john grier home on the cover, and my portrait for a frontispiece with, 'very truly yours, judy abbott,' written below. but just as i was turning to the end to read the inscription on my tombstone, i woke up. it was very annoying! i almost found out whom i'm going to marry and when i'm going to die. don't you think it would be interesting if you really could read the story of your life--written perfectly truthfully by an omniscient author? and suppose you could only read it on this condition: that you would never forget it, but would have to go through life knowing ahead of time exactly how everything you did would turn out, and foreseeing to the exact hour the time when you would die. how many people do you suppose would have the courage to read it then? or how many could suppress their curiosity sufficiently to escape from reading it, even at the price of having to live without hope and without surprises? life is monotonous enough at best; you have to eat and sleep about so often. but imagine how deadly monotonous it would be if nothing unexpected could happen between meals. mercy! daddy, there's a blot, but i'm on the third page and i can't begin a new sheet. i'm going on with biology again this year--very interesting subject; we're studying the alimentary system at present. you should see how sweet a cross-section of the duodenum of a cat is under the microscope. also we've arrived at philosophy--interesting but evanescent. i prefer biology where you can pin the subject under discussion to a board. there's another! and another! this pen is weeping copiously. please excuse its tears. do you believe in free will? i do--unreservedly. i don't agree at all with the philosophers who think that every action is the absolutely inevitable and automatic resultant of an aggregation of remote causes. that's the most immoral doctrine i ever heard--nobody would be to blame for anything. if a man believed in fatalism, he would naturally just sit down and say, 'the lord's will be done,' and continue to sit until he fell over dead. i believe absolutely in my own free will and my own power to accomplish--and that is the belief that moves mountains. you watch me become a great author! i have four chapters of my new book finished and five more drafted. this is a very abstruse letter--does your head ache, daddy? i think we'll stop now and make some fudge. i'm sorry i can't send you a piece; it will be unusually good, for we're going to make it with real cream and three butter balls. yours affectionately, judy ps. we're having fancy dancing in gymnasium class. you can see by the accompanying picture how much we look like a real ballet. the one at the end accomplishing a graceful pirouette is me--i mean i. th december my dear, dear, daddy, haven't you any sense? don't you know that you mustn't give one girl seventeen christmas presents? i'm a socialist, please remember; do you wish to turn me into a plutocrat? think how embarrassing it would be if we should ever quarrel! i should have to engage a moving-van to return your gifts. i am sorry that the necktie i sent was so wobbly; i knit it with my own hands (as you doubtless discovered from internal evidence). you will have to wear it on cold days and keep your coat buttoned up tight. thank you, daddy, a thousand times. i think you're the sweetest man that ever lived--and the foolishest! judy here's a four-leaf clover from camp mcbride to bring you good luck for the new year. th january do you wish to do something, daddy, that will ensure your eternal salvation? there is a family here who are in awfully desperate straits. a mother and father and four visible children--the two older boys have disappeared into the world to make their fortune and have not sent any of it back. the father worked in a glass factory and got consumption--it's awfully unhealthy work--and now has been sent away to a hospital. that took all their savings, and the support of the family falls upon the oldest daughter, who is twenty-four. she dressmakes for $ . a day (when she can get it) and embroiders centrepieces in the evening. the mother isn't very strong and is extremely ineffectual and pious. she sits with her hands folded, a picture of patient resignation, while the daughter kills herself with overwork and responsibility and worry; she doesn't see how they are going to get through the rest of the winter--and i don't either. one hundred dollars would buy some coal and some shoes for three children so that they could go to school, and give a little margin so that she needn't worry herself to death when a few days pass and she doesn't get work. you are the richest man i know. don't you suppose you could spare one hundred dollars? that girl deserves help a lot more than i ever did. i wouldn't ask it except for the girl; i don't care much what happens to the mother--she is such a jelly-fish. the way people are for ever rolling their eyes to heaven and saying, 'perhaps it's all for the best,' when they are perfectly dead sure it's not, makes me enraged. humility or resignation or whatever you choose to call it, is simply impotent inertia. i'm for a more militant religion! we are getting the most dreadful lessons in philosophy--all of schopenhauer for tomorrow. the professor doesn't seem to realize that we are taking any other subject. he's a queer old duck; he goes about with his head in the clouds and blinks dazedly when occasionally he strikes solid earth. he tries to lighten his lectures with an occasional witticism--and we do our best to smile, but i assure you his jokes are no laughing matter. he spends his entire time between classes in trying to figure out whether matter really exists or whether he only thinks it exists. i'm sure my sewing girl hasn't any doubt but that it exists! where do you think my new novel is? in the waste-basket. i can see myself that it's no good on earth, and when a loving author realizes that, what would be the judgment of a critical public? later i address you, daddy, from a bed of pain. for two days i've been laid up with swollen tonsils; i can just swallow hot milk, and that is all. 'what were your parents thinking of not to have those tonsils out when you were a baby?' the doctor wished to know. i'm sure i haven't an idea, but i doubt if they were thinking much about me. yours, j. a. next morning i just read this over before sealing it. i don't know why i cast such a misty atmosphere over life. i hasten to assure you that i am young and happy and exuberant; and i trust you are the same. youth has nothing to do with birthdays, only with alivedness of spirit, so even if your hair is grey, daddy, you can still be a boy. affectionately, judy th jan. dear mr. philanthropist, your cheque for my family came yesterday. thank you so much! i cut gymnasium and took it down to them right after luncheon, and you should have seen the girl's face! she was so surprised and happy and relieved that she looked almost young; and she's only twenty-four. isn't it pitiful? anyway, she feels now as though all the good things were coming together. she has steady work ahead for two months--someone's getting married, and there's a trousseau to make. 'thank the good lord!' cried the mother, when she grasped the fact that that small piece of paper was one hundred dollars. 'it wasn't the good lord at all,' said i, 'it was daddy-long-legs.' (mr. smith, i called you.) 'but it was the good lord who put it in his mind,' said she. 'not at all! i put it in his mind myself,' said i. but anyway, daddy, i trust the good lord will reward you suitably. you deserve ten thousand years out of purgatory. yours most gratefully, judy abbott th feb. may it please your most excellent majesty: this morning i did eat my breakfast upon a cold turkey pie and a goose, and i did send for a cup of tee (a china drink) of which i had never drank before. don't be nervous, daddy--i haven't lost my mind; i'm merely quoting sam'l pepys. we're reading him in connection with english history, original sources. sallie and julia and i converse now in the language of . listen to this: 'i went to charing cross to see major harrison hanged, drawn and quartered: he looking as cheerful as any man could do in that condition.' and this: 'dined with my lady who is in handsome mourning for her brother who died yesterday of spotted fever.' seems a little early to commence entertaining, doesn't it? a friend of pepys devised a very cunning manner whereby the king might pay his debts out of the sale to poor people of old decayed provisions. what do you, a reformer, think of that? i don't believe we're so bad today as the newspapers make out. samuel was as excited about his clothes as any girl; he spent five times as much on dress as his wife--that appears to have been the golden age of husbands. isn't this a touching entry? you see he really was honest. 'today came home my fine camlett cloak with gold buttons, which cost me much money, and i pray god to make me able to pay for it.' excuse me for being so full of pepys; i'm writing a special topic on him. what do you think, daddy? the self-government association has abolished the ten o'clock rule. we can keep our lights all night if we choose, the only requirement being that we do not disturb others--we are not supposed to entertain on a large scale. the result is a beautiful commentary on human nature. now that we may stay up as long as we choose, we no longer choose. our heads begin to nod at nine o'clock, and by nine-thirty the pen drops from our nerveless grasp. it's nine-thirty now. good night. sunday just back from church--preacher from georgia. we must take care, he says, not to develop our intellects at the expense of our emotional natures--but methought it was a poor, dry sermon (pepys again). it doesn't matter what part of the united states or canada they come from, or what denomination they are, we always get the same sermon. why on earth don't they go to men's colleges and urge the students not to allow their manly natures to be crushed out by too much mental application? it's a beautiful day--frozen and icy and clear. as soon as dinner is over, sallie and julia and marty keene and eleanor pratt (friends of mine, but you don't know them) and i are going to put on short skirts and walk 'cross country to crystal spring farm and have a fried chicken and waffle supper, and then have mr. crystal spring drive us home in his buckboard. we are supposed to be inside the campus at seven, but we are going to stretch a point tonight and make it eight. farewell, kind sir. i have the honour of subscribing myself, your most loyall, dutifull, faithfull and obedient servant, j. abbott march fifth dear mr. trustee, tomorrow is the first wednesday in the month--a weary day for the john grier home. how relieved they'll be when five o'clock comes and you pat them on the head and take yourselves off! did you (individually) ever pat me on the head, daddy? i don't believe so--my memory seems to be concerned only with fat trustees. give the home my love, please--my truly love. i have quite a feeling of tenderness for it as i look back through a haze of four years. when i first came to college i felt quite resentful because i'd been robbed of the normal kind of childhood that the other girls had had; but now, i don't feel that way in the least. i regard it as a very unusual adventure. it gives me a sort of vantage point from which to stand aside and look at life. emerging full grown, i get a perspective on the world, that other people who have been brought up in the thick of things entirely lack. i know lots of girls (julia, for instance) who never know that they are happy. they are so accustomed to the feeling that their senses are deadened to it; but as for me--i am perfectly sure every moment of my life that i am happy. and i'm going to keep on being, no matter what unpleasant things turn up. i'm going to regard them (even toothaches) as interesting experiences, and be glad to know what they feel like. 'whatever sky's above me, i've a heart for any fate.' however, daddy, don't take this new affection for the j.g.h. too literally. if i have five children, like rousseau, i shan't leave them on the steps of a foundling asylum in order to insure their being brought up simply. give my kindest regards to mrs. lippett (that, i think, is truthful; love would be a little strong) and don't forget to tell her what a beautiful nature i've developed. affectionately, judy lock willow, th april dear daddy, do you observe the postmark? sallie and i are embellishing lock willow with our presence during the easter vacation. we decided that the best thing we could do with our ten days was to come where it is quiet. our nerves had got to the point where they wouldn't stand another meal in fergussen. dining in a room with four hundred girls is an ordeal when you are tired. there is so much noise that you can't hear the girls across the table speak unless they make their hands into a megaphone and shout. that is the truth. we are tramping over the hills and reading and writing, and having a nice, restful time. we climbed to the top of 'sky hill' this morning where master jervie and i once cooked supper--it doesn't seem possible that it was nearly two years ago. i could still see the place where the smoke of our fire blackened the rock. it is funny how certain places get connected with certain people, and you never go back without thinking of them. i was quite lonely without him--for two minutes. what do you think is my latest activity, daddy? you will begin to believe that i am incorrigible--i am writing a book. i started it three weeks ago and am eating it up in chunks. i've caught the secret. master jervie and that editor man were right; you are most convincing when you write about the things you know. and this time it is about something that i do know--exhaustively. guess where it's laid? in the john grier home! and it's good, daddy, i actually believe it is--just about the tiny little things that happened every day. i'm a realist now. i've abandoned romanticism; i shall go back to it later though, when my own adventurous future begins. this new book is going to get itself finished--and published! you see if it doesn't. if you just want a thing hard enough and keep on trying, you do get it in the end. i've been trying for four years to get a letter from you--and i haven't given up hope yet. goodbye, daddy dear, (i like to call you daddy dear; it's so alliterative.) affectionately, judy ps. i forgot to tell you the farm news, but it's very distressing. skip this postscript if you don't want your sensibilities all wrought up. poor old grove is dead. he got so that he couldn't chew and they had to shoot him. nine chickens were killed by a weasel or a skunk or a rat last week. one of the cows is sick, and we had to have the veterinary surgeon out from bonnyrigg four corners. amasai stayed up all night to give her linseed oil and whisky. but we have an awful suspicion that the poor sick cow got nothing but linseed oil. sentimental tommy (the tortoise-shell cat) has disappeared; we are afraid he has been caught in a trap. there are lots of troubles in the world! th may dear daddy-long-legs, this is going to be extremely short because my shoulder aches at the sight of a pen. lecture notes all day, immortal novel all evening, make too much writing. commencement three weeks from next wednesday. i think you might come and make my acquaintance--i shall hate you if you don't! julia's inviting master jervie, he being her family, and sallie's inviting jimmie mcb., he being her family, but who is there for me to invite? just you and lippett, and i don't want her. please come. yours, with love and writer's cramp. judy lock willow, th june dear daddy-long-legs, i'm educated! my diploma is in the bottom bureau drawer with my two best dresses. commencement was as usual, with a few showers at vital moments. thank you for your rosebuds. they were lovely. master jervie and master jimmie both gave me roses, too, but i left theirs in the bath tub and carried yours in the class procession. here i am at lock willow for the summer--for ever maybe. the board is cheap; the surroundings quiet and conducive to a literary life. what more does a struggling author wish? i am mad about my book. i think of it every waking moment, and dream of it at night. all i want is peace and quiet and lots of time to work (interspersed with nourishing meals). master jervie is coming up for a week or so in august, and jimmie mcbride is going to drop in sometime through the summer. he's connected with a bond house now, and goes about the country selling bonds to banks. he's going to combine the 'farmers' national' at the corners and me on the same trip. you see that lock willow isn't entirely lacking in society. i'd be expecting to have you come motoring through--only i know now that that is hopeless. when you wouldn't come to my commencement, i tore you from my heart and buried you for ever. judy abbott, a.b. th july dearest daddy-long-legs, isn't it fun to work--or don't you ever do it? it's especially fun when your kind of work is the thing you'd rather do more than anything else in the world. i've been writing as fast as my pen would go every day this summer, and my only quarrel with life is that the days aren't long enough to write all the beautiful and valuable and entertaining thoughts i'm thinking. i've finished the second draft of my book and am going to begin the third tomorrow morning at half-past seven. it's the sweetest book you ever saw--it is, truly. i think of nothing else. i can barely wait in the morning to dress and eat before beginning; then i write and write and write till suddenly i'm so tired that i'm limp all over. then i go out with colin (the new sheep dog) and romp through the fields and get a fresh supply of ideas for the next day. it's the most beautiful book you ever saw--oh, pardon--i said that before. you don't think me conceited, do you, daddy dear? i'm not, really, only just now i'm in the enthusiastic stage. maybe later on i'll get cold and critical and sniffy. no, i'm sure i won't! this time i've written a real book. just wait till you see it. i'll try for a minute to talk about something else. i never told you, did i, that amasai and carrie got married last may? they are still working here, but so far as i can see it has spoiled them both. she used to laugh when he tramped in mud or dropped ashes on the floor, but now--you should hear her scold! and she doesn't curl her hair any longer. amasai, who used to be so obliging about beating rugs and carrying wood, grumbles if you suggest such a thing. also his neckties are quite dingy--black and brown, where they used to be scarlet and purple. i've determined never to marry. it's a deteriorating process, evidently. there isn't much of any farm news. the animals are all in the best of health. the pigs are unusually fat, the cows seem contented and the hens are laying well. are you interested in poultry? if so, let me recommend that invaluable little work, eggs per hen per year. i am thinking of starting an incubator next spring and raising broilers. you see i'm settled at lock willow permanently. i have decided to stay until i've written novels like anthony trollope's mother. then i shall have completed my life work and can retire and travel. mr. james mcbride spent last sunday with us. fried chicken and ice-cream for dinner, both of which he appeared to appreciate. i was awfully glad to see him; he brought a momentary reminder that the world at large exists. poor jimmie is having a hard time peddling his bonds. the 'farmers' national' at the corners wouldn't have anything to do with them in spite of the fact that they pay six per cent. interest and sometimes seven. i think he'll end up by going home to worcester and taking a job in his father's factory. he's too open and confiding and kind-hearted ever to make a successful financier. but to be the manager of a flourishing overall factory is a very desirable position, don't you think? just now he turns up his nose at overalls, but he'll come to them. i hope you appreciate the fact that this is a long letter from a person with writer's cramp. but i still love you, daddy dear, and i'm very happy. with beautiful scenery all about, and lots to eat and a comfortable four-post bed and a ream of blank paper and a pint of ink--what more does one want in the world? yours as always, judy ps. the postman arrives with some more news. we are to expect master jervie on friday next to spend a week. that's a very pleasant prospect--only i am afraid my poor book will suffer. master jervie is very demanding. th august dear daddy-long-legs, where are you, i wonder? i never know what part of the world you are in, but i hope you're not in new york during this awful weather. i hope you're on a mountain peak (but not in switzerland; somewhere nearer) looking at the snow and thinking about me. please be thinking about me. i'm quite lonely and i want to be thought about. oh, daddy, i wish i knew you! then when we were unhappy we could cheer each other up. i don't think i can stand much more of lock willow. i'm thinking of moving. sallie is going to do settlement work in boston next winter. don't you think it would be nice for me to go with her, then we could have a studio together? i would write while she settled and we could be together in the evenings. evenings are very long when there's no one but the semples and carrie and amasai to talk to. i know in advance that you won't like my studio idea. i can read your secretary's letter now: 'miss jerusha abbott. 'dear madam, 'mr. smith prefers that you remain at lock willow. 'yours truly, 'elmer h. griggs.' i hate your secretary. i am certain that a man named elmer h. griggs must be horrid. but truly, daddy, i think i shall have to go to boston. i can't stay here. if something doesn't happen soon, i shall throw myself into the silo pit out of sheer desperation. mercy! but it's hot. all the grass is burnt up and the brooks are dry and the roads are dusty. it hasn't rained for weeks and weeks. this letter sounds as though i had hydrophobia, but i haven't. i just want some family. goodbye, my dearest daddy. i wish i knew you. judy lock willow, th september dear daddy, something has happened and i need advice. i need it from you, and from nobody else in the world. wouldn't it be possible for me to see you? it's so much easier to talk than to write; and i'm afraid your secretary might open the letter. judy ps. i'm very unhappy. lock willow, rd october dear daddy-long-legs, your note written in your own hand--and a pretty wobbly hand!--came this morning. i am so sorry that you have been ill; i wouldn't have bothered you with my affairs if i had known. yes, i will tell you the trouble, but it's sort of complicated to write, and very private. please don't keep this letter, but burn it. before i begin--here's a cheque for one thousand dollars. it seems funny, doesn't it, for me to be sending a cheque to you? where do you think i got it? i've sold my story, daddy. it's going to be published serially in seven parts, and then in a book! you might think i'd be wild with joy, but i'm not. i'm entirely apathetic. of course i'm glad to begin paying you--i owe you over two thousand more. it's coming in instalments. now don't be horrid, please, about taking it, because it makes me happy to return it. i owe you a great deal more than the mere money, and the rest i will continue to pay all my life in gratitude and affection. and now, daddy, about the other thing; please give me your most worldly advice, whether you think i'll like it or not. you know that i've always had a very special feeling towards you; you sort of represented my whole family; but you won't mind, will you, if i tell you that i have a very much more special feeling for another man? you can probably guess without much trouble who he is. i suspect that my letters have been very full of master jervie for a very long time. i wish i could make you understand what he is like and how entirely companionable we are. we think the same about everything--i am afraid i have a tendency to make over my ideas to match his! but he is almost always right; he ought to be, you know, for he has fourteen years' start of me. in other ways, though, he's just an overgrown boy, and he does need looking after--he hasn't any sense about wearing rubbers when it rains. he and i always think the same things are funny, and that is such a lot; it's dreadful when two people's senses of humour are antagonistic. i don't believe there's any bridging that gulf! and he is--oh, well! he is just himself, and i miss him, and miss him, and miss him. the whole world seems empty and aching. i hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me. but maybe you've loved somebody, too, and you know? if you have, i don't need to explain; if you haven't, i can't explain. anyway, that's the way i feel--and i've refused to marry him. i didn't tell him why; i was just dumb and miserable. i couldn't think of anything to say. and now he has gone away imagining that i want to marry jimmie mcbride--i don't in the least, i wouldn't think of marrying jimmie; he isn't grown up enough. but master jervie and i got into a dreadful muddle of misunderstanding and we both hurt each other's feelings. the reason i sent him away was not because i didn't care for him, but because i cared for him so much. i was afraid he would regret it in the future--and i couldn't stand that! it didn't seem right for a person of my lack of antecedents to marry into any such family as his. i never told him about the orphan asylum, and i hated to explain that i didn't know who i was. i may be dreadful, you know. and his family are proud--and i'm proud, too! also, i felt sort of bound to you. after having been educated to be a writer, i must at least try to be one; it would scarcely be fair to accept your education and then go off and not use it. but now that i am going to be able to pay back the money, i feel that i have partially discharged that debt--besides, i suppose i could keep on being a writer even if i did marry. the two professions are not necessarily exclusive. i've been thinking very hard about it. of course he is a socialist, and he has unconventional ideas; maybe he wouldn't mind marrying into the proletariat so much as some men might. perhaps when two people are exactly in accord, and always happy when together and lonely when apart, they ought not to let anything in the world stand between them. of course i want to believe that! but i'd like to get your unemotional opinion. you probably belong to a family also, and will look at it from a worldly point of view and not just a sympathetic, human point of view--so you see how brave i am to lay it before you. suppose i go to him and explain that the trouble isn't jimmie, but is the john grier home--would that be a dreadful thing for me to do? it would take a great deal of courage. i'd almost rather be miserable for the rest of my life. this happened nearly two months ago; i haven't heard a word from him since he was here. i was just getting sort of acclimated to the feeling of a broken heart, when a letter came from julia that stirred me all up again. she said--very casually--that 'uncle jervis' had been caught out all night in a storm when he was hunting in canada, and had been ill ever since with pneumonia. and i never knew it. i was feeling hurt because he had just disappeared into blankness without a word. i think he's pretty unhappy, and i know i am! what seems to you the right thing for me to do? judy th october dearest daddy-long-legs, yes, certainly i'll come--at half-past four next wednesday afternoon. of course i can find the way. i've been in new york three times and am not quite a baby. i can't believe that i am really going to see you--i've been just thinking you so long that it hardly seems as though you are a tangible flesh-and-blood person. you are awfully good, daddy, to bother yourself with me, when you're not strong. take care and don't catch cold. these fall rains are very damp. affectionately, judy ps. i've just had an awful thought. have you a butler? i'm afraid of butlers, and if one opens the door i shall faint upon the step. what can i say to him? you didn't tell me your name. shall i ask for mr. smith? thursday morning my very dearest master-jervie-daddy-long-legs pendleton-smith, did you sleep last night? i didn't. not a single wink. i was too amazed and excited and bewildered and happy. i don't believe i ever shall sleep again--or eat either. but i hope you slept; you must, you know, because then you will get well faster and can come to me. dear man, i can't bear to think how ill you've been--and all the time i never knew it. when the doctor came down yesterday to put me in the cab, he told me that for three days they gave you up. oh, dearest, if that had happened, the light would have gone out of the world for me. i suppose that some day in the far future--one of us must leave the other; but at least we shall have had our happiness and there will be memories to live with. i meant to cheer you up--and instead i have to cheer myself. for in spite of being happier than i ever dreamed i could be, i'm also soberer. the fear that something may happen rests like a shadow on my heart. always before i could be frivolous and care-free and unconcerned, because i had nothing precious to lose. but now--i shall have a great big worry all the rest of my life. whenever you are away from me i shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run over you, or the sign-boards that can fall on your head, or the dreadful, squirmy germs that you may be swallowing. my peace of mind is gone for ever--but anyway, i never cared much for just plain peace. please get well--fast--fast--fast. i want to have you close by where i can touch you and make sure you are tangible. such a little half hour we had together! i'm afraid maybe i dreamed it. if i were only a member of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then i could come and visit you every day, and read aloud and plump up your pillow and smooth out those two little wrinkles in your forehead and make the corners of your mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile. but you are cheerful again, aren't you? you were yesterday before i left. the doctor said i must be a good nurse, that you looked ten years younger. i hope that being in love doesn't make every one ten years younger. will you still care for me, darling, if i turn out to be only eleven? yesterday was the most wonderful day that could ever happen. if i live to be ninety-nine i shall never forget the tiniest detail. the girl that left lock willow at dawn was a very different person from the one who came back at night. mrs. semple called me at half-past four. i started wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that popped into my head was, 'i am going to see daddy-long-legs!' i ate breakfast in the kitchen by candle-light, and then drove the five miles to the station through the most glorious october colouring. the sun came up on the way, and the swamp maples and dogwood glowed crimson and orange and the stone walls and cornfields sparkled with hoar frost; the air was keen and clear and full of promise. i knew something was going to happen. all the way in the train the rails kept singing, 'you're going to see daddy-long-legs.' it made me feel secure. i had such faith in daddy's ability to set things right. and i knew that somewhere another man--dearer than daddy--was wanting to see me, and somehow i had a feeling that before the journey ended i should meet him, too. and you see! when i came to the house on madison avenue it looked so big and brown and forbidding that i didn't dare go in, so i walked around the block to get up my courage. but i needn't have been a bit afraid; your butler is such a nice, fatherly old man that he made me feel at home at once. 'is this miss abbott?' he said to me, and i said, 'yes,' so i didn't have to ask for mr. smith after all. he told me to wait in the drawing-room. it was a very sombre, magnificent, man's sort of room. i sat down on the edge of a big upholstered chair and kept saying to myself: 'i'm going to see daddy-long-legs! i'm going to see daddy-long-legs!' then presently the man came back and asked me please to step up to the library. i was so excited that really and truly my feet would hardly take me up. outside the door he turned and whispered, 'he's been very ill, miss. this is the first day he's been allowed to sit up. you'll not stay long enough to excite him?' i knew from the way he said it that he loved you--and i think he's an old dear! then he knocked and said, 'miss abbott,' and i went in and the door closed behind me. it was so dim coming in from the brightly lighted hall that for a moment i could scarcely make out anything; then i saw a big easy chair before the fire and a shining tea table with a smaller chair beside it. and i realized that a man was sitting in the big chair propped up by pillows with a rug over his knees. before i could stop him he rose--rather shakily--and steadied himself by the back of the chair and just looked at me without a word. and then--and then--i saw it was you! but even with that i didn't understand. i thought daddy had had you come there to meet me or a surprise. then you laughed and held out your hand and said, 'dear little judy, couldn't you guess that i was daddy-long-legs?' in an instant it flashed over me. oh, but i have been stupid! a hundred little things might have told me, if i had had any wits. i wouldn't make a very good detective, would i, daddy? jervie? what must i call you? just plain jervie sounds disrespectful, and i can't be disrespectful to you! it was a very sweet half hour before your doctor came and sent me away. i was so dazed when i got to the station that i almost took a train for st louis. and you were pretty dazed, too. you forgot to give me any tea. but we're both very, very happy, aren't we? i drove back to lock willow in the dark but oh, how the stars were shining! and this morning i've been out with colin visiting all the places that you and i went to together, and remembering what you said and how you looked. the woods today are burnished bronze and the air is full of frost. it's climbing weather. i wish you were here to climb the hills with me. i am missing you dreadfully, jervie dear, but it's a happy kind of missing; we'll be together soon. we belong to each other now really and truly, no make-believe. doesn't it seem queer for me to belong to someone at last? it seems very, very sweet. and i shall never let you be sorry for a single instant. yours, for ever and ever, judy ps. this is the first love-letter i ever wrote. isn't it funny that i know how? bessie bradford's prize the third of a series of sequels to "the bessie books" by joanna h. mathews illustrated by w. st. john harper dedicated to my dear little friend and fellow author elizabeth leiper martin ("elsie") with the wish that the path of authorship may have for her as many flowers and as few thorns as it has had for her friend and well wisher j. h. m. contents. i. at the policeman's, ii. letters, iii. lena's secret, iv. percy, v. robbing the mail, vi. a confidence, vii. a box of bonbons, viii. "innocents abroad," ix. an unexpected meeting, x. frankie to the front again, xl a trust, xii. discovery, xiii. accusation, xiv. who wins? chapter i. at the policeman's. "here comes mrs. fleming," said jennie richards, in a tone indicative of anything but pleasure in the coming of mrs. fleming. mrs. granby responded with an exclamation which savored of a like sentiment, and rising, she tossed aside the little frock she was working on, as she added: "i don't see what she's comin' for! i didn't want her a comin' here, bringin' her mournin' an' frettin' an' lookin' out for troubles to pester you, mary richards, an' i told her i would be over to her place this evenin'. i did tell her, you know, i'd fit that dress for her mrs. bradford give her to christmas, but she just needn't a come here when i told her i'd go there; an' a kill-joy she is an' no comfort to nobody. you go into the kitchen, mary, an' stay there till she's gone, which i won't be long fittin' her, an' i'll get rid of her soon's i can," mrs. richards was about to comply with the suggestion, when jennie, who was still gazing out of the window, exclaimed with a total change of tone: "and here come the little miss bradfords, with jane, and miss belle powers and miss lily norris along with them." the little sister whom she was diverting by holding her up to the window, began to clap her hands, and mrs. richards settled herself back into her chair again, saying: "i ain't going into the kitchen to miss _them_, and i'll set the sunshine they'll bring against the clouds mrs. fleming drags." mrs. granby beamed upon her. "well, i declare, mary richards, you ain't no great hand to talk, but when you do, you just do it beautiful; now don't she, jennie? that's the po'tryest talkin' i've heard this long while, real live po'try, if there ain't no jingle about it. i allers did think you might a writ a book if you'd set about it, an' if you'd put such readin' as that kind of talk into it, i'll be boun' it would bring a lot of money, an' i'm right glad the little young ladies is comin', on'y i wish amandy flemin' hadn't hit the same time." it was plain to be seen that the visit of the young party who were on the way to the door was a source of gratification to the policeman's family, whatever that of mrs. fleming might be. their quicker footsteps brought them in before mrs. fleming, and they received a warm welcome. it is to be feared that the younger girl had an eye to the loaves and fishes with which they usually came laden on their visits to the richards' household, as she ran to them on their entrance, saying, "what did oo b'ing me?" "augh! shame!" said the scandalized mrs. granby, snatching her up; and, "you'll excuse her, young ladies," said mrs. richards, mortified also; "but she's only a little thing, and you spoil her, always bringing her something when you come." that they were not offended or hurt was soon evidenced by the fact that lily presently had the little one on her lap, while belle was showing her a linen scrap-book which had been brought for her. mrs. granby was a seamstress, and jane had brought some work which her mistress, mrs. bradford, had sent; and maggie and bessie, with belle and lily, who were spending the day with them, had chosen to accompany her, the first three because they were generally ready for a visit to the family of the policeman, who had befriended bessie when she was lost, the latter because she thought mrs. granby "such fun." to have mrs. fleming come in, as she presently did, was bliss indeed to lily, who delighted in pitting the cheery, lively little mrs. granby against the melancholy, depressing mrs. fleming. nor was the entertainment long in beginning. jane was to carry home some work which mrs. granby had finished, and as the latter was putting it up mrs. fleming came in and was bidden by her to take a seat till she was ready to attend to her. "and how's little miss neville, miss maggie?" asked mrs. richards. "i think that's the name of the young lady who was so brave in saving her little sister, and was so burned." "yes, that's her name," answered maggie. "she is a great deal better, mrs. richards. the doctor has said she is out of danger, and her mother has been able to leave her and to go back to the son who is ill." "i'm very glad to hear it," said mrs. richards, cordially. "my husband was telling me how wonderful and brave she was, and how she never thought of herself trying to save the other children; and how the gentleman miss staunton is to marry was burned very bad saving her." "yes; it was a terrible time," said maggie; "but mr. howard is much better now, too; so we are all very happy." all this time mrs. fleming had sat nodding her head mournfully, as if she would say, "don't be encouraged; there is no ground for hope." "look! look at her!" lily whispered to bessie. "she's like an insane chinese mandarin, rolling round her old head that way." "hush!" whispered bessie, "she'll hear you." "don't care if she does," answered lily. and now mrs. fleming broke forth in just such a lackadaisical, tearful tone as one would have expected to issue from her lips. "oh, miss maggie," she whined, "if the dear lady, your ma, 'ad but listened to me. i told her no good wouldn't come of 'avin' that number of children to her christmas tree--twice thirteen; an' i said if thirteen was hunlucky, twice thirteen was twice worse; an' your ma just laughed at me; an' the next day came the burnin'." bessie looked gravely at her. "my mother says that is wrong and foolish, too," she said, in an admonitory tone, "and that thirteen is no worse than any other number." "you nor your ma can't gainsay that there come the burnin', miss," persisted the woman. "i know that colonel rush's house was on fire, and that miss lena was burned, and mr. howard, too," answered bessie, equally determined to maintain her side of the case. "but they are both a great deal better, and it ought to show you that such things don't make any difference to god, and that he can take just as good care of one number as another." the other children were rather surprised to hear bessie speak so decidedly to one older than herself; but this was a subject on which she felt strongly; her own faith and trust and reliance on the goodness and power of god were very strong; and more than one occurrence in her little life had tended to foster these, and she always rather resented the want of them in others. and now mrs. fleming, in her turn, resented being chidden by this mite who appeared even younger than she really was. but it pleased her, as usual, to assume the injured role. "well, miss," she said, "'tain't for me to contradick you nor your ma. i can't help havin' my hown feelin's an' hopinions; but the lord made me to be down-trod, an' i'm willin' to habide 'is will an' stay down-trod." this was beyond bessie; she had no answer, no argument for folly such as this, if, indeed, she grasped the woman's meaning; but she did understand that she was still making her moan over matters and things in general, and that in some way she seemed to be blaming her own dear mother. she looked displeased and turned away; but here mrs. granby, who had her head in a wardrobe, looking for a large sheet of paper, withdrew it and came to the front. "well," she said, raising her voice so that it might be heard above the rattle of the stiff paper which she unfolded and wrapped about the completed work jane was to carry back, "well, if so be as you enjoy bein' 'down-trod,' as you do enjoy most things as other folks don't find pleasin', there ain't nobody goin' to hinder you; but you look here, mrs. flemin', you nor nobody else ain't goin' to cast no slurs onter mrs. bradford which there never was a better lady, nor one that was so far from down-treadin' folks but more like to be upliftin' 'em if only they'll let themselves be uplift, an' all her family the same an' the little ladies brought up accordin'; so, if you please, no slurs on any of 'em afore me an' mary richards which we would have feelin's on account of it an' wouldn't stan' it in _this_ house. i don't see why you can't live agreeable like other folks; an' it does fret me outer patience to hear a body mortifyin' the lord's mercies an' you such a heapin' lot sent to you this very winter, an' it's for your own good i speak, which the lord he does get out of patience with us sometimes i do believe when we're faithless an' mistrustin', an' takes back his blessin's when he finds we don't hold 'em in no appreciation." by this time mrs. fleming had dissolved into tears and buried her face in an already much bewept pocket-handkerchief. seeing this mrs. granby resumed in a soothing tone and with some self-reproach. "but just hear me now rattlin' on about my neighbors' short-comin's an' me plenty of my own, me that ain't a woman of many words neither. there, mrs. flemin', don't mind, an' if you've a min' to compose your feelin's in the kitchen just step in an' i'll fit your dress soon's jane's business is over." but mrs. fleming had no idea of retiring to privacy to compose her "feelin's;" she preferred to indulge them in public, and she sat still, sobbing only the louder. the situation was becoming embarrassing to the young party, and maggie, with her usual ready tact, seized upon an opening to change the subject. "why, mrs. granby," she said, "i did not know you made dresses. i thought you only did plain sewing such as you have done for our family." "i do a bit at it, miss maggie," answered the seamstress; "though, to be sure, i wouldn't undertake to dress-make for ladies like your ma and aunts an' the like, but for them as hasn't much ambition as to their figgers, i can make out, an' i did tell mrs. flemin' i'd fit hers, so she could make it herself an' she shouldn't have to do no expenses about it, for it's on'y right we should all lend a helpin' hand, an' where would me an' the richardses be if your folks hadn't thought the same an' acted accordin', which there's never a night on my bended knees i don't ask the almighty's blessin' on you, an' there's none more deserves it, an' i do b'lieve the dear lord's of the same way of thinkin', for there's none as i see happier nor more prosperin' an' does one's heart good to see it, an' never will i forget the night we was in such a peck of troubles an' seein' no way out of 'em me an' the richardses, an' your pa comin' in an' turnin' the tide, an' since then, yes, ever since, all goin' so comfortable an' pleasant with us. i did think when i saw mr. bradford's face that night i first opened the door to him that he was the agreeablest-lookin' gentleman i ever did see, but me no idea what a blessin' he was a bringin' us all an' help outer our troubles, which the richardses' troubles is always mine too. but i declare, just hear me runnin' on, as i always do if i get on them times; you'd think i was the greatest hand to talk ever was." lily was having her "fun," and she was quite loth to take leave when mrs. granby had the parcel ready and maggie made the move to go. "i'm sure, miss maggie," said mrs. richards, "that i am truly glad to hear that miss neville is likely to get well. i suppose she'll be leaving her uncle's now and going away with her mother. it isn't likely mrs. neville will want to be leaving her child again after such an escape as she's had. i'm sure i couldn't abide one of mine out of my sight after such a thing. and the bravery of her, too, the dear young thing. my husband says it was a risk a strong man, and one of the police themselves, might have shrunk from." this was an unusually long speech for mrs. richards, who was that which mrs. granby so mistakenly called herself, "a woman of few words," for she, as well as the rest of the family, had been greatly interested in the adventure of the heroic little girl who had braved and endured so much to rescue her young brother and sister. maggie hesitated one moment, then said: "no, mrs. richards. mrs. neville has gone back to her son, but miss lena has not gone with her. she is to stay with colonel and mrs. rush for a long time, perhaps a year, and we are all so glad about it." "and could the mother go and leave her, and she might any time take a turn for the worse, and be took off sudden?" interposed mrs. fleming, whose tears did not prevent her from hearing all that passed. "you never know when there's been burnin' if there ain't smothered fire, an' it shows up when you least hexpect it." no one took any notice of this cheerful prophecy, but mrs. granby asked: "and the young lady is like to be quite well again and about soon, miss maggie?" "oh, yes," answered maggie, confidently; "and we hope to have her back at school before long. she is quite well enough now to enjoy everything except walking; but her feet are still tender and she cannot yet walk about. but come, girls, it is time to go;" and the young party took their leave. when not far from their respective homes, which were all in the same neighborhood, they met gracie howard, and maggie stopped to speak to her, although gracie had shown no sign of wishing to do so; indeed, she seemed as if she would rather pass on. of course, the others lingered too. "gracie," said maggie, "i hope you will come to the meeting of our club the day after to-morrow. it is so long since you have been." gracie colored violently, looked down upon the ground, and in a nervous way dug the toe of her overshoe into the snow which had fallen that morning and still lay in some places on the street. "i don't know; no, i think not--i think--perhaps i may go out with mamma," she stammered, anxious for some excuse, and yet too honest to invent one that was altogether without foundation. perhaps she would go out with her mother; she would ask her to take her. "oh, come, gracie; do come," persisted maggie, determined to carry her point if possible. "it is so long since you have been, and you know there is a paper owing from you. your turn is long since passed; and we'll all be so glad to have you." grade's color deepened still more, and she cast a sidelong glance at lily, who stood at maggie's elbow; and lily saw that she was doubtful if that "all" included herself. lily was very outspoken, particularly so where she saw cause for disapproval, and above all if she thought others were assuming too much; and she had on certain occasions so plainly made known her opinion of some of grade's assumption, that a sort of chronic feud had become established between the two, not breaking out into open hostility, but showing itself in a half-slighting, half-teasing way with lily, and with gracie in a manner partly scornful, partly an affectation of indifference. some six weeks since, at a meeting of the club of the "cheeryble sisters," to which all three little girls belonged, gracie's overweening self-conceit and irrepressible desire to be first had led her into conflict with another of her classmates, lena neville, in which she had proved herself so arrogant, so jealous and ill-tempered that she had excited the indignation of all who were present. but if they had known what followed after gracie had been left alone in the room where she had so disgraced herself, how would they have felt then? how she had stood by and seen the source of contention, a composition, which she believed had been written by lena, torn to atoms by a mischievous little dog, withholding her hand from rescuing it, her voice from warning the dog off from it simply for the indulgence of that same blind, overpowering jealousy. the destruction was hardly wrought, when repentance and remorse too late had followed--repentance and remorse, intensified a thousandfold by after events on the very same day. but that guilty secret was still locked within her own heart, weighing heavily upon her conscience, but still unconfessed, still unsuspected by others. ever since that miserable afternoon she had shrunk from meeting her classmates, and although she had been obliged to do so at school, she had avoided all other opportunities of seeing them, and on one excuse and another had refused to attend the meetings of the club which came together every friday afternoon, the place of rendezvous being at mrs. bradford's, maggie being the president as she had been the originator of the club. it was true that gracie had later discovered that the ruined paper was one of her own, a composition on the very same subject as lena's, and which had, by the merest accident, and without her knowledge, been exchanged for that of the young classmate whom she chose to consider as her rival; and this had in some measure relieved the weight of sorrow and remorse she had felt when lena was severely burned and lay for days hovering between life and death. but she could not shut her eyes or blind her conscience to the fact that she had been guilty in intention, if not in actual deed, and she could not shake off the haunting sense of shame or the feeling that others must know of the contemptible action of which she had been guilty. knowing nothing of this, maggie and the other members of the club believed that her avoidance of them and her low spirits were caused by shame and distress for the bad temper and unkindness she had shown to lena on that memorable day; and now maggie, feeling sorry for her and also very loath to have any unpleasantness in the club, would fain have persuaded her to join them once more and to put things on their old footing. gracie was not doubtful of maggie, nor of bessie, nor yet of belle powers and fanny leroy; in fact, she knew she would be received kindly by the majority of the members, but about lily and two or three others she had her misgivings, and hence that doubtful, half-deprecating glance at the former, who stood at maggie's elbow. lily caught it, and, although she had intended to be very offish and high and mighty with gracie for the rest of her days, her heart smote her, and flinging her former resolution to the winds, she followed maggie's example, and laying her hand persuasively on gracie's muff, said, with her usual directness: "oh, come on, gracie! don't let's have any more madness and being offended among us. it's horrid; so let by-gones be by-gones, and come to the club meetings again." "if they only knew," thought gracie, "they would not ask me, would not say 'let by-gones be by-gones;'" but she said that she would come to the meeting, and then they parted and went their separate ways. when maggie and bessie reached home, they found colonel rush there awaiting them, and heard that he had come to take them to his own house. lena, his niece, was coming down to dinner for the first time since she had been so badly burned; that is, she was to be carried down, for her poor little feet were still too tender to suffer her to put them to the ground, or to take any steps upon them. but she had been so long a prisoner upstairs that it was quite an event for her to be allowed to join the family at dinner once more; and the colonel had seen fit to make it a little more of a celebration by coming for maggie and bessie to make merry with them on the occasion. indeed, he was apt to think that such occasions were not complete without the company of his two pets, and they had both been perfectly devoted to lena during the period of her confinement, so that he was more than ready to make this a little jubilee for all concerned. mamma's permission being readily obtained--indeed the colonel had secured it before the two little maidens had appeared upon the scene--the three friends set forth again, well pleased with one another and with the prospect before them. "lena has had quite an eventful day," said the colonel, as they were on their way to his house. "first and greatest, i suppose, was a letter from her brother russell--only a few lines, it is true, but the first she has had since he was taken ill, and it was full of loving praises for her presence of mind and her bravery, and for the patience with which she has borne her suffering; so it was very precious to her, for she adores him, you know; and there was another from her father, containing news which she would like to give you herself, i am sure; so i leave it for her to do so. and now comes her first dinner with the family, with you to dine with her. but she is such a cool, composed little woman, and takes things so quietly, that we are less afraid of over-excitement for her than we would be for some i could name." "now, uncle horace," said maggie, as he looked down at her with a twinkle in his kind eyes, "you know i would keep quiet if you told me to." "you would try, i am sure, midget," answered her friend, "but there are girls and girls, you know, and it is easier for one species to keep quiet under exciting causes than it is for another." "but you can't tell how _this_ species would be in such circumstances," said maggie, "because i have never been very ill or had any terrible injury, such as lena's burns." "i can tell that you are a very 'happy circumstance' yourself, and that i am quite satisfied with you as you are," answered the colonel, bending another loving look upon the rosy, glowing face upturned to his, and which broke into dimples at the allusion to an old-time joke. long ago, when maggie was a very little girl, she had been very fond of using long words--indeed, she had not yet outgrown this fancy; but in former days, whenever she heard what she called "a new word," she would presently contrive some occasion for using it, not always with the fullest understanding of its exact meaning; and the results, as may be supposed, were sometimes rather droll. one summer, when mr. bradford's family were at the sea-shore, and colonel and mrs. rush were their near neighbors, maggie had taken a violent dislike to the mistress of the house where she boarded. the woman was somewhat rough and unprepossessing, it is true, and hence maggie had conceived the prejudice against her; but she was kind-hearted and good, as the little girl learned later. having heard some one use the expression, "happy circumstance," maggie took a fancy to it; and, as she informed bessie, immediately resolved to adopt it as one of "my words." an opportunity soon presented itself. mrs. jones offended both children, maggie especially, and soon after, she asked mr. jones in confidence, if he thought mrs. jones "a very happy circumstance." fortunately, the man, a jolly, rollicking farmer with a very soft spot in his heart for all children, took it good-naturedly and thought it a tremendous joke, and his uproarious merriment called mrs. jones upon the scene to reprove him and inquire the cause, greatly to the confusion and distress of poor embarrassed, frightened maggie. and this was increased by the fact that she took occasion to praise maggie and bessie and to say what good, mannerly children they were. mr. jones, however, did not betray confidence, and later on, maggie changed her opinion; but the "happy circumstance" had remained a family joke ever since, and the expression was frequently brought into use in the sense in which maggie had employed it, and the children laughed now as the colonel used the old familiar phrase. chapter ii. letters. they found lena in the library, ensconced in state in her uncle's comfortable rolling chair, in which, in by-gone days when he was lame and helpless, he had spent many hours, and in which she could easily be conveyed from room to room by the colonel's man, starr, without putting her still tender little feet to the ground. it was natural that she should be glad to be down-stairs again after all the past weeks of confinement and suffering; but maggie and bessie found her in a state of happiness and excitement unusual with the calm, reserved lena, and which seemed hardly to be accounted for by the mere fact that she had once more been allowed to join the family circle. but this was soon explained. "maggie and bessie," she said, with more animation than her little friends had ever seen her show before, "what do you think has happened? such a wonderful, such a delightful thing! i cannot see how it did happen!" such a thing as had "happened" was indeed an unwonted occurrence in lena's young life; but she had been through so many new experiences lately, that she might almost have ceased to be surprised at anything. if she could have looked in upon her father and mother and invalid brother russell, in their far away southern sojourn a few days since, she would have seen what led to the present unexpected occurrence. mrs. neville had just read to the two gentlemen a letter from her brother, colonel rush, speaking of lena's continued imprisonment; and they had continued to talk of their little heroine and her achievement. "was lena delirious at any time while she was so very ill?" asked russell. "not exactly delirious," answered his mother, "but somewhat flighty at times; and at those times, and indeed when she was herself, her chief thought and her chief distress seemed to be that she would not be able to enter into competition with her schoolmates for some prize to be gained for composition. your aunt marion told me that this prize was an art education provided by some one for a girl with talent, whose circumstances would not permit her to obtain one for herself; and she said that lena had become very much interested in an english girl, the daughter of the rector of a poor struggling church in the suburbs of the city, a girl with a very remarkable artistic talent; and that she and those little bradfords, on whose education and training horace and marion seem to base all their ideas respecting children--if, indeed, they have any ideas except those of the most unlimited indulgence and license--had set their hearts on winning this prize for that child. had it been brought about in any other way and without physical injury to herself, i should be glad that lena was removed from such competition. i highly disapprove of all such arrangements. children should be taught to seek improvement and to do their duty because it _is_ their duty, and not with the object of gaining some outside advantage either for themselves or others." "in this case, it certainly seems to have been for a praiseworthy, unselfish object. poor, dear little lena!" said russell, who was the only member of his family who ever ventured to set up his opinion in opposition to his mother's. "it is the principle of the thing i object to," she said, a little severely. "as i say, i wish my children to do right because it is right, and not with any ulterior object." "the inducement seemed to have one good effect, at least," persisted russell, with a slight shrug of his shoulders which was not, perhaps, altogether respectful, "and that was the wonderful improvement lena made in letter-writing; in the matter and manner, the style and the handwriting, she has certainly made rapid progress during the time she has been with miss ashton. do you not agree with me, father?" "ahem-m-m! yes, i do indeed," answered mr. neville, thinking of a little letter which lay snugly ensconced in his left-hand waistcoat pocket, a letter which had come by the same mail as that which his wife held in her hand, but which he had not thought fit to submit to her perusal. it was a letter thanking him for giving her the liberty of asking for anything she wished for--her choice had been that she might be allowed to remain at her uncle's house during the stay of the family in the country--a letter sweet, tender, and confiding, and giving him glimpses into the child's heart which were a revelation to him; a letter which had touched him deeply, but which he believed mrs. neville would call "gush" and "nonsense." and just now he did not care to have it so criticised, so he would not show it to his wife, at least at present. but before the subject of the conversation had changed, mrs. neville was called from the room, and mr. neville said to his son: "russell, i am feeling that i owe--ahem!--i owe some recognition--ahem!--to the almighty for the very signal mercies granted to us during the past few weeks, some thank-offering--and, ahem!--perhaps i owe some to lena, too. you, in a fair way of recovery; and, through lena's wonderful heroism, a frightful casualty averted; and now she herself doing far better than we had dared to hope. if the child is set upon giving an artist's education to this young countrywoman of our own, and your uncle horace thinks well of it,--perhaps it might give her pleasure to have the means of doing so. being now disabled it will be impossible for her to enter into farther competition with her schoolmates, and i wish her to have the pleasure of making the gift herself. what say you?" the idea met with unqualified approbation from his son; and not only this, but russell expressed a wish to join his father in his thank-offering. he was liberal and open-handed, this young man, and, having lately come of age and into possession of quite a fortune in his own right, he was ready to seize upon any opportunity of benefiting others out of his own means. he was a young man after maggie's and bessie's own hearts, and they would instantly have stamped him with the seal of their approval had they known of this most desirable characteristic. some little further conference on the matter ensued between the father and son, with the result that lena's eyes and heart had to-day been gladdened by the receipt of two checks of no inconsiderable amount--a fortune they seemed to her--the one from her father representing one thousand dollars, the other from russell for five hundred. they were enclosed in a letter from mr. neville to his little daughter, saying that they were to be appropriated to any charitable purpose which she might designate, subject to her uncle's approval--either for the use of the young artist, or, if she were likely to gain the instruction she required through the means of any of lena's schoolmates, for any good object which would gratify her. "it's worth all the burns," said the delighted lena to her uncle, when she had shown her prize to him and consulted him as to the best disposition of it. "the true martyr spirit," the colonel said later to his wife. "and she shows herself a wise and prudent little woman; for when we were discussing the matter she said she would wait to decide what should be done with the money until she knows if maggie or bessie or any one of those interested in gladys seabrooke wins the prize. she knows that mr. ashton's gift will go to gladys in that case; and then she wishes to devote the money to repairing the old church. if she were thirty instead of thirteen she could not show better judgment or more common sense." "i am glad that her father is learning to appreciate her at last," said mrs. rush, who, being very fond of children herself, deeply resented the keep-your-distance system and constant repression under which her husband's sister and brother-in-law brought up their family. so this was the prize which lena had to show to her young friends, this the story she had to tell. they, maggie and bessie, were enchanted in their turn, and as lena displayed to them the two magic slips of paper which held for them such wonderful possibilities, and which appeared as untold wealth to their eyes, they could not contain their delight and enthusiasm. "why, that will build a whole new church; will it not, uncle horace?" asked bessie, whose faith that her own maggie would win the prize was absolute, especially now that gracie howard seemed to have withdrawn from the contest, and that lena had been disabled, and who therefore never doubted that the rector's little daughter was sure of the gift tendered by mr. ashton. "well, hardly," said the colonel, smiling, as he laid aside the evening paper; "hardly, although it will go far towards making some of the repairs which are so much needed, and also towards beautifying the inside of the church a little. and i think that you must let me also have a hand in this, for i, too, have occasion for a thank-offering. so altogether, i hope we shall be able to put the little church into a fairly presentable condition; that is, in case you decide, lena, to use your funds for that purpose," he added, with the private resolve that the needy church should not be the loser even if the checks were applied to gladys seabrooke's benefit. she was the first object with all three children, that was plainly to be seen; but if it should fall out that the means of improvement she so much desired and so much needed were gained for her by mr. ashton's trust, then this small fortune was to be devoted to the church of which her father was rector. then, too, these young home missionaries intended to devote the proceeds of the fair they were to hold at easter to the help of the same church; so that altogether the prospect for its relief seemed to be promising. [illustration: "that will build a whole new church"] "i had a letter from russell, too, written by his own hand, the very first since he has been ill," said the happy lena. "oh! and i forgot; i had a letter from percy, too. i did not read it, i was so excited by papa's and russell's and the two checks. let me see; where is it? oh, here it is!" and she opened it; but seeing at a glance that it was unusually long, she decided that she would not try to decipher percy's irregular, illegible handwriting at that time, but would wait till maggie and bessie should have left her and would make the most of their society. poor little lena! her day was not to be all sunshine, for a cloud came over the heaven of her happiness before she laid her head upon her pillow that night. but this cast no shadow as yet, and the evening passed merrily to all three children. "i do wish that you could come to the club-meeting on friday, lena," said bessie, shortly before it was time for them to separate for the night. "so do i," said maggie. "i am sure that i wish it," said lena, "but i suppose it will be some weeks yet before i can go." mrs. rush, who was sitting near, overheard the little colloquy, and at once made a charming suggestion. "suppose," she said, "that you meet here till lena is well enough to go to your house, maggie. my morning room shall be at your service, as your mother's is at present." "oh, how good in you!" cried maggie and bessie, both in one breath, while lena's pale face flushed with gratitude and pleasure; and so the matter was arranged, maggie undertaking to tell all the members of the club of the change in the place of meeting. but, glancing at bessie, maggie saw that she looked somewhat perturbed, and she suddenly remembered what had passed with gracie howard that very afternoon, and that she had been urged to resume her accustomed place among the "cheeryble sisters," and had consented to do so. how would that do now? would lena feel like having gracie come here? gracie who had treated her so badly, who had shown such jealousy and unkindness towards her. this was rather a complication, and considering it, maggie became uneasy and embarrassed, and lena, who was very quick-sighted, saw it. "what is the matter, maggie?" she asked. "do you think you would rather not come here?" "oh, no!" answered maggie, "you know i always love to come here. but, lena, this afternoon we met gracie howard, and i begged her to come to the meeting to-morrow. she has not been since--since--the day--of the fire." the flush which pleasure at her aunt's offer had brought to lena's face deepened to crimson, which mounted to the very roots of her hair as she heard maggie. then after a moment's hesitation, she said, "will you ask her to come, maggie?" "yes," answered maggie, doubtfully, "i'll ask her." "but you think that she will not come?" said lena. "i am afraid she will not," answered maggie; then added, "i am sure i should not if i were in her place; i should be too ashamed. i think she is ashamed, lena, and sorry, too; i really do." lena seemed to be considering for a moment; then she said, evidently with a great effort,-- "do you think she would come if i wrote and asked her? i--i would do it if you thought she would be friends again. and, perhaps," she added, with a little pathetic wistfulness which nearly made the tears come to the eyes of the sympathetic maggie and bessie, "perhaps she would, now, after such a thing happened to me. do you know," sinking her voice to a whisper, and speaking with an unreserve which she never showed towards any one save these little friends, and seldom to them, "do you know that when they thought i was going to die--oh, i know that every one thought i was going to die--i used to feel so sorry for gracie, because we had that quarrel that very afternoon; and i knew how i should have felt if i had been in her place, and i used to wish that i could make up with her; and now i would really like to if she will. shall i write?" bessie, whose eyes were now brimming over, stooped and kissed her cheek; and maggie followed her example, as she answered, with a break in her own voice, "i don't see how she could help it, lena; you dear lena." maggie and bessie were not a little astonished, not only at this burst of confidence from the shy, reserved lena, but also at the feeling she expressed and her readiness to go more than half way in making advances for the healing of a breach in which she certainly had not been to blame. but in the border-land through which lena's little feet had lately trod, many and serious thoughts had come to her; thoughts of which those about her were all unconscious, as she lay seemingly inert and passive from exhaustion, except when pain forced complaint from her; and chief among these had been the recollection of the unpleasant relation which for some time had existed between herself and gracie howard, and which had culminated in the attack of jealousy and ill-temper which the latter had shown towards her on the very afternoon of the day in which lena had been so badly, almost fatally, injured in the fire. and lena herself, as has been said, had been altogether blameless in the affair, had no cause whatever for self-reproach; nevertheless, she had wished that she could have made friends with gracie before she died. but she had spoken to no one of this until now, when she thus opened her heart, at least in a measure, to maggie and bessie. knowing all that they did--and still neither they nor lena knew one-half of gracie's misconduct--what wonder was it that they were touched, and filled with admiration for this little friend who, a stranger only a few months since, had come to fill so large a place in their affection and interest. but maggie, feeling confident, as she said, that gracie was both ashamed and repentant, was also overjoyed at this opening towards a reconciliation; for her peace-loving soul could not abide dissension in any shape, and this breach between two members of the once harmonious club of the "cheeryble sisters" had been a sore trial to her. nor was bessie much less pleased; and thinking that there was no time like the present, and that it would be well that lena should act before she had opportunity to change her mind,--this showed that she did not know lena well, for having once made up her mind that a thing was right, lena was not more apt to change than she would have been herself,--she offered to bring writing materials, that the note might be written at once; and running into the library, where colonel rush was smoking his cigar, she begged for and received them. but even with those before her and her resolve firmly taken, lena found not a little embarrassment and difficulty in wording her note; for, owing to the state of affairs between her and gracie, it was not the easiest thing in the world for her to do. however, by maggie's advice, she resolved to write as though nothing unpleasant had passed between herself and gracie, and she finally produced the following simply-worded note, ignoring all that was disagreeable. "dear gracie, "aunt marion has said that i may have the 'cheeryble sisters,' club here to-morrow, and she says she will make it a little celebration for us because it is so long since i have been with you girls. please come, for i want to have all of you here. "your schoolmate, "lena h. neville." she hesitated over the manner of closing it, for she could not put "affectionately yours," as, although she was striving to put from her all hard thoughts of gracie, she certainly did not regard her with any affection, nor would she pretend to do so; for lena was a most determinately honest child and would never express, even in a conventional way, that which she did not feel. she even shocked maggie and bessie now and then, truthful and sincere as they were, by her extreme and uncompromising plain-speaking; and perhaps it was as well that she was a child of so few words, or she would often have given offence. maggie had suggested "truly yours," as being a common form even between strangers; but lena rejected that also as expressing a sentiment she did not feel, and bessie finally proposed "your schoolmate," which satisfied the requirements of both truth and civility. maggie and bessie posted the note on the way home, so that it might be sure to reach gracie early in the morning, and that, as bessie said, she might have "time to get over the shock of lena's forgiveness before she came to school." lena had been carried upstairs and safely deposited in her own room by starr; and hannah, the nurse of the young nevilles, had gone down-stairs to seek the food which it was still considered necessary for the little invalid to take before going to rest, when lena bethought herself of her brother percy's letter, still unopened in the excitement which had attended the receipt of the two from her father and russell. with a half-remorseful feeling that she had so long left it unnoticed, she broke the seal of percy's letter. but the first words on which her eyes lighted sent a pang to her heart, and as she heard hannah's heavy step returning, she thrust the letter hurriedly out of sight. "dear, dear, child!" said the old nurse, as she saw that lena's hand shook so that she could hardly hold the bowl of broth, or carry the spoon to her lips, and with some triumph in, as she believed, the fulfilment of her own prophecies, "dear, dear, you're hall hupset, miss lena. i told the mistress and i told the doctor you wasn't in no state to go downstairs yet, or worse still, to be 'avin' company, not if it was miss maggie and miss bessie, leastways not hout of your hown room. 'ere, let me 'old the basin; you're not fit to do it. there now, here, child,--why, bless your 'eart, miss lena, what is it?" poor little girl! she was still so weak, so nervous from the effects of the frightful experience through which she had lately passed, and of all the consequent suffering, that she was in no state to bear even the slightest shock or excitement. had hannah not noticed her agitation she would probably have controlled herself; but the questions and pressing of the old servant were too much for her, and she burst into a flood of hysterical tears. she retained sufficient presence of mind, however, when hannah ran to the door to call her assistant, who was in the next room, to open the drawer of the table by which she sat, and shut the letter within. no one must see that letter until she had had time to read it, and find what those first few sentences meant. letitia was sent by hannah for mrs. rush, who speedily came; and, knowing no other cause, she believed, as the servants did, that this came from all the excitement of the day, and that they would have to be more guarded with their little convalescent. she soothed and petted her, mingling therewith a little judicious firmness, till lena's sobs ceased and she was comfortably settled in bed, where she soon forgot both joys and troubles in the sleep of exhaustion. "well!" said mrs. rush, when she had left her patient in hannah's care and rejoined her husband, "this puts an end to the project of having the children's club here to-morrow. we have gone too fast, and now prove that lena is not so strong and cannot bear so much as we thought. i must at once send word to maggie and bessie." chapter iii. lena's secret. when mrs. rush came up a couple of hours later to inquire about her little niece, she found her still in that heavy sleep; and with directions to hannah to call her if needful, left her, with the hope that she would rest undisturbed till morning. when lena woke from that dull sleep some time after midnight, all the house was still; the only sound she heard was the regular breathing of hannah, who slept on a cot on the other side of the room, that she might be near in case lena needed anything in the night. she roused to a bewildered half-consciousness of something unusual; what was it, good or ill? what had happened before she went to sleep? then came the recollection of those delightful letters from papa and russell, confiding to her disposal those precious slips of paper which represented so much; oh! what a pleasure it was to have the power of doing so much good; then with a shock came the remembrance of that other letter, and those two or three first lines, which seemed to have burned themselves upon her eyes as she read. "dear lena, "i am in the most awful scrape any one was ever in, and you are the only one who can help me out of it. if you can't, there is nothing for me but to be arrested and awfully disgraced, with all the rest of the family too, and the--" this was as far as lena had read when hannah's returning footsteps had impelled her to put the letter out of sight; but it had been enough in her weak state to startle her out of her self-control, and it has been seen what a shock it gave her. "arrested" had a terrible significance to lena. not very long before mrs. neville's family had left home, lena had seen a boy, about her brother percy's age, arrested in the streets of london. he had been taken up for some grave misdemeanor, and having violently resisted his captors, they had found it necessary to handcuff him, and when lena saw him he was being forced along between two policemen, still fiercely struggling, and with his face and hands covered with blood. the sight had made a dreadful impression upon the little girl, and when she heard the word "arrested" it always came back to her with painful force. had it been maggie or bessie, or any other child whose relations with her mother were as tender and confiding as are usually those between mothers and daughters, the impression might have been lessened by learning that such a sight was not a usual one, and that people when arrested were not apt to resist as desperately as the unhappy youth whom she had seen; but not being accustomed to go to mrs. neville with her joys or troubles, lena had kept her disagreeable experience to herself and supposed it all to be the necessary consequence of an arrest, and percy's words had conjured up at once all manner of dreadful possibilities. in imagination she saw him dragged along the streets in the horrible condition of the criminal she had seen, and the whole family covered with shame and disgrace. percy was four years older than lena, but had not half his young sister's strength of character, judgment or good sense, and he was, unfortunately, afflicted with that fatal incapacity for saying no, which brings so much trouble upon its victims. he was selfish, too; not with a deliberate selfishness, but with a heedless disregard for the welfare and comfort of others, which was often as trying as if he purposely sought first his own good. he would not have told a falsehood, would not have denied any wrong-doing of which he had been guilty, if taxed with it; but he would not scruple to conceal that wrong, or to evade the consequences thereof, by any means short of a deliberate untruth. his faults were those with which his father and mother had the least patience and sympathy, and those which needed a large share of both; had he ever received these, the faults would probably never have attained to such a growth, for he was in mortal dread of both parents, especially of his mother, and this, of course, had tended to foster the weakness of his character. poor lena lay wakeful but quiet for hours, wondering and wondering what could be the matter, and what those terrifying words with which percy's letter commenced could portend. and she, he wrote, was "the only one who could help him." she wished vainly for the letter, that she might know the worst at once; but she had no means of reaching it at present. her feet could not yet bear to be touched to the ground, and she dared not wake hannah and ask for it. such an unusual request at this time of night would arouse wonder and surmise, even if hannah could be induced to bring her the letter and give her sufficient light to read it. the old nurse would think her crazy or delirious, perhaps run and call her aunt and uncle. no, no; that was not to be thought of, the poor child said to herself as she lay and reasoned this all out; she must wait till the day came, and then she must contrive to read the letter when she was alone. then she could decide whether or no it would do to take colonel and mrs. rush into her confidence. she could not bear to think of keeping anything from this kind uncle and aunt, who had shown themselves so ready to enter into all her joys and sorrows, who took such an interest--so novel to her--in all her duties, her occupations, and amusements; who, with a genuine love for young people, were at no little pains to provide her with every pleasure suitable for her. but--percy--she must think of him first. oh, if she only knew all that was in that dreadful letter! but at last she fell asleep again, sleeping late and heavily, far beyond the usual hour. when she awoke, she insisted upon being taken up and dressed, although her aunt and nurse would fain have persuaded her to lie still and rest; and that done, her object was to obtain possession of percy's letter without attracting attention to it. being totally unaccustomed to anything like manoeuvring or planning, she could think of no excuse by which she might have the table brought near her chair, or the chair rolled near the table. the maids thought her remarkably fractious and whimsical and hard to please, but laid it all to the reaction from last night's hysterical attack. do what she would, she could not contrive, poor helpless child, to come at the drawer of the table unless she spoke out plainly, which she could not do, and she had been wheeled into the nursery before the opportunity offered. but here she found the way opened to her. hannah, who would let no one else attend to her young lady's meals when they were taken upstairs, departed for lena's breakfast; and after she had gone, lena speedily bethought herself of a way of procuring letitia's absence for a while by sending her down-stairs with directions for some change in her bill of fare. then calling her little sister elsie, who was playing about the nursery, she sent her into her own room, bidding her open the table drawer and bring her the letter she would find there. elsie, a demure, sedate little damsel, who always did as she was told and was a pattern child after mrs. neville's own heart, discharged her commission and came back with the letter, which she handed to her sister without asking any inconvenient questions, and returned to her dolls in the corner. lena ventured to open the letter, knowing that hannah, at least, was sure to be absent for some moments yet, and sure that letitia, who was a dull, unobserving girl, would take no notice. she felt that she could wait no longer. there was a few moments' silence in the room; elsie, absorbed in her quiet play, took no heed to her sister; letitia did not return, having stopped on her way back to the nursery to gossip with one of mrs. rush's maids; and lena read on undisturbed, read to the very end of the letter. then she spoke to elsie again, spoke in a voice so changed from its natural tone that the little one looked up in surprise. "what's the matter, lena?" she asked, coming to her sister's side; "is your throat sore? oh!" scanning her curiously, "did something frighten you?" lena did not heed either question. "elsie," she said, still in that strained voice, as if it were an effort to speak, "put this in the fire, away far back in the fire." "why, lena!" answered the child, "i'm forbidden to go near the fire. did you forget that?" lena thought a moment, then said, with a strong effort for self-control, and still in that same measured tone: "then go in my room and open the small right-hand compartment of my writing-desk and put this letter in it and shut the door tight, tight again, and lock it and bring me the key. quick, elsie." but again, influenced by conscientious scruples, elsie objected. "i 'spect hannah wouldn't like me to go in your room so much, lena; the windows are all open. she didn't say don't go in there, but i 'spect she thinked it, 'cause she always says don't go where the windows are open." for the first time in her life lena condescended to something like cajolery. "and you will not do that for your poor sister who cannot walk?" she asked, reproachfully. "oh, yes, yes; and burned herself for me to save me out the fire," exclaimed elsie, throwing her arms about lena, "i don't care if hannah does scold me; i'd just as lief be scolded for you. but your voice is so queer, lena; you must be thirsty for your breakfast." taking the letter from her sister's hand, the child turned to obey her request, but was again assailed by doubts as to the course of duty. "if hannah or letitia come, shall i tell them to put it away?" she asked. "no, no!" answered lena, sharply; then feeling that she must take the child, at least in a measure, into her confidence, she added, hurriedly, "hannah is not to see it. no one is to see it, no one; and you are not to speak of it, elsie. go now, quickly, and put it in the secretary." rather startled by her voice and manner, the little one obeyed and returned to lena's room with the letter. but now she fell into difficulties. the door of the compartment into which lena had told her to put the letter was hard to open; it stuck, and elsie vainly struggled with it, for it would not yield. meanwhile letitia, hearing hannah come up from the kitchen, had hurriedly returned to her post of duty. she exclaimed on finding the door between the rooms open and a draught of cold air sweeping through, and hastening to shut it, discovered elsie still struggling with the door of the little closet. "well, did i ever!" exclaimed the nursery-maid. "you here in this cold draught, miss elsie; an' what'll hannah say, i wonder?" "i want to put this in here, and i can't open this door," said the loyal little soul, refraining from shifting the blame from her own shoulders, by saying that she had come on lena's errand. letitia went to her assistance, but the door was still obstinate, and before the letter was hidden it was made plain "what hannah would say;" for the old nurse came bustling in in a transport of indignation at finding elsie exposed to the risk of taking cold, for she was a very delicate child. she rated both her little charge and her assistant in no measured terms, especially the latter, who, as she said, "had not even had the sense to put down the windows on the child." she snatched the letter from elsie's hand, the little girl repeating what she wanted to do with it, and bidding her at once to go back to the other room, gave a violent pull to the small door, which proved more successful than the efforts of her predecessors. "what's all this fuss about putting the letter away, anyway?" she said, glancing at the unlucky document. "bless me, if t'aint from master percy, an' to miss lena! well, an' she never saying a word of it. what's she so secret habout it for?" now hannah's chief stumbling-block was a most inordinate curiosity, and once aroused on the subject of that letter, was not likely to be laid to rest until it had received some satisfaction. she turned the letter over and over, scrutinizing it narrowly; but there was nothing to be learned from the address or the post-mark farther than that it was certainly from percy, whose handwriting she well knew. had she dared she would have opened it; but that was a thing upon which even she scarcely ventured, autocrat though she was within the nursery dominions. also, lena was rather beyond her rule since the neville family had come to colonel rush's house. elsie had lost no time in escaping from the storm which her seeming imprudence had evoked, and the nursery maid had followed; the little girl reporting to her sister that hannah had taken the letter from her and was putting it away. poor lena found her precautions of no avail, and she knew hannah well enough to feel sure that she would be subjected to the closest questioning. she must brave it out now, and she forced herself to face it. "_i_ sent elsie in there; it was my fault, not hers," she said, throwing down the gauntlet with an air of defiance which rather astonished hannah. "you know she oughtn't to go in that cold hair," said hannah, sharply. "and why for couldn't you wait till me or letitia came to put by your letter if you _was_ in 'aste habout it? there," mollified by the look in the beautiful dark eyes, now so unnaturally large and pathetic through illness and suffering, which lena turned piteously upon her without answering, "there, there, child; never mind now. heat your breakfast, my dear, for you look quite spent and worn out. ye've got a setback by yesterday's doin's that'll last a week. come, now, miss lena, take this nice chicken an' put a bit of strength into you." and the old woman bustled about, displaying to the best advantage the dainty breakfast she had brought to tempt the appetite of her young charge. but lena could not eat; she was still too sick at heart, and seeing this, hannah connected it with the letter. "you 'av'n't 'ad hany bad news, miss lena?" she suddenly asked, as she bade letitia remove the tray with its contents almost untouched. "master percy--none of 'em isn't hill?" "no, no," answered lena, replying to the latter question and ignoring the former. "i have not heard that any one was ill. letitia," in a tone of imperious command, very unusual with her when speaking to a servant, "hand me that book--and--hannah--let me alone." hannah was now indeed dumb with amazement, and her suspicions were more than ever aroused. there was something wrong with percy; he might not be ill--he was sure not to be if the absolutely truthful lena denied it, but he was in some trouble, and she would not rest until she found it out. percy was, of all her nurslings, hannah's favorite, perhaps for the very reason that the instability of his character had so often led him into scrapes in which she had shielded and helped him. he had, in his childhood, frequently escaped punishment by her connivance, and it was her theory that "the poor boy was put upon" more than any of the others. now he had been sent away to school, while the rest were enjoying the unwonted liberty and pleasures of their uncle's house; and her affectionate old heart was often sore within her as she pondered over the wrongs she fancied he endured. she was not over-scrupulous as to the means she took to avert the consequences of misdoing from percy, or any other one of the flock whom she had nursed from earliest babyhood; but so guarded was she that mrs. neville had never suspected her of anything like double-dealing, or assuredly her reign in the nursery would soon have come to an end. that she was right in her surmises she became more and more convinced as she watched lena and saw that though she kept her eyes fixed upon the open book in her lap, she never turned a leaf. it was evidently to avoid observation and to have a pretext for keeping quiet that she had taken the book. then, by dint of adroit questioning of the other servants, she managed to ascertain, without letting them know that anything was wrong, that no letters had been carried to lena that morning, but that starr had handed her three on the previous afternoon. lena had spoken of two of these, her papa's and russell's, had told the old nurse what treasures they contained, but she had said nothing of the other, percy's. hannah guessed the truth when she surmised that in the excitement over the first two, lena had forgotten percy's and opened it later. "when she'd come up to bed last night! i see, i see," the nurse said to herself. percy was surely in some difficulty again, and both he and lena were trying to hide it; but she would leave no means untried to discover what it was. mrs. rush was quite shocked at lena's looks when she came up to see her, and so was the colonel in his turn, and lena found it very difficult to parry their questions, and to appear even comparatively unembarrassed and at her ease in their presence. they both positively vetoed any attempt at coming down-stairs to-day, or the reception of any visitors; and, indeed, lena had no inclination for either, but was quite content to accept their verdict that she must keep absolutely quiet and try to recover from the over-excitement of yesterday. she did not wish to see any one; even maggie and bessie would not have been welcome visitors now when that dreadful secret was weighing upon her, and as for going down-stairs she had no desire to do so; she wanted to remain as near as might be to the fatal letter, would have insisted upon being carried back to her own room had she not feared it would occasion wonder. she was half frantic, too, about the key of the compartment of the secretary. hannah had not brought it to her, and she dared not ask for it. oh, how miserable it was to be so helpless with so much at stake! not to be able even to touch one's feet to the ground to go to find out if the key were still in the lock, the letter safe in the secretary. her apprehensions were of the vaguest, for there was no reason that any one should go to her secretary without permission, and she had no cause to suspect that any one would do so, and thus she reasoned with herself; but had she known it, they were not without cause, for hannah had resolved that she would find out what that letter contained. it must be said for her that although her curiosity was greatly aroused, she was actuated chiefly by her affection for percy, and the desire to rescue him from any trouble into which he might have fallen. an opportunity was not long in presenting itself, for when the doctor, who had been sent for, arrived, hannah made a plausible errand into lena's room and secured the letter. having gained her object the dishonorable old woman found the agitation of her invalid charge amply accounted for. she carried the letter to a place where she could read it undisturbed and free from observation, and make herself mistress of its contents; then returned to lena's room and put the letter in the place whence she had taken it. but hannah's face was very pale, and she was most unusually quiet all that day, falling into fits of abstraction as if her thoughts were far away. she was more tender than ever with lena, knowing now too well the trouble which was weighing upon the heart and spirits of the sensitive young sister, and secretly sharing it with her. hour after hour she pondered upon ways and means for relieving her favorite from the trouble into which his own folly and weakness had led him, and how she might do so without betraying either this or her own shameless conduct in possessing herself of the secret. chapter iv. percy. percy neville had been placed by his parents at a small private school where only twelve pupils were taken, and where they intended he should be, as mrs. neville said, "under the strictest personal supervision." the school had been chosen not only on this account, but also because the principal was an englishman, and had formerly been tutor in a school which mr. neville had attended when a boy. only two of the masters and tutors resided in the school, one of them being a young man of the name of seabrooke, who was half tutor, half scholar, giving his services for such lessons as he took. he was a youth of uncommon talent, studious and steady, and much thought of by dr. leacraft and the other masters. six of the twelve pupils were in one dormitory under charge of this young man; the other six in another, in the care of mr. merton. had dr. leacraft but known it, just the opposite arrangement would have been advisable, as the half-dozen boys in mr. merton's room were a much more steady set than those in young seabrooke's. seabrooke himself had little idea of the lawlessness which reigned in the quarters under his charge; he was an unusually heavy sleeper, and all manner of pranks were carried on at night without rousing him. the leader of these escapades was a boy of the name of flagg, utterly without principle or sense of honor; but plausible, and, being quick at his studies, making a fair show with his masters. over percy neville this boy had acquired a most undesirable influence, and led him into many pranks and violations of rules which were little suspected by the authorities. poor percy, weak, vacillating, and utterly without resolution or firmness of character, was easily led astray, although his conscience, his judgment, and his sense of truth were often offended by the wrong-doing into which he suffered himself to be persuaded. about a mile from the school lived a man of the name of rice, who kept boats, fishing-tackle and one or two horses which he let out; while back of his place was a small lake which afforded good fishing in the summer and excellent skating in the winter. his house was not a gambling or drinking place, at least not avowedly so; but some rather questionable doings had taken place there, and the spot was one absolutely forbidden to the scholars of dr. leacraft's school. nevertheless, some of the wilder spirits were in the habit of going there when they could do so without risk of discovery; and they also employed rice to procure for them such articles as were tabooed and which they could not purchase for themselves. lewis flagg was one of his most constant customers, and he had gradually drawn every one of the boys in his dormitory into various infringements of regulations. he had found percy an easy victim, and by degrees had drawn him on from bad to worse, until he had brought him to a pass where he was afraid to rebel lest lewis should reveal his former misdoings, as he threatened to do. within the last few weeks it had been the practice of the six boys in seabrooke's dormitory to slip out of the window at night upon the roof of the porch, thence by the pillars to the ground, and then off and away to rice's house, where a hot supper, previously ordered, awaited them. this flagrant violation of rules and order had taken place several times, and, so far, thanks to seabrooke's heavy slumbers, had not yet been discovered. about this time a hard frost of several days duration had made the skating unusually good; and there was no place within miles of the school so pleasant or so favorable for that pastime as rice's pond. tempted by this, all the boys under dr. leacraft's care had signed a petition, asking that they might be allowed to go upon this pond if they would promise not to go into the house. an hour or two after this petition had been sent in, but before it had received an answer, a telegram came to the doctor calling him to harvard, to his only son, who had been dangerously hurt. the boys were all assembled at the time for recitation to the doctor, and rising in his place he made known the subject of the despatch, and then said: "in answer to the request which i have just received from you, young gentlemen, i must return a positive negative. my reasons for forbidding you to go near rice's place have lately been given additional force, and, although i cannot take time to mention them now, i must request, i must absolutely _forbid_ each and every one of you from going in the neighborhood of rice's house or rice's pond. i cannot tell how long i may be away; meanwhile the school will be left under the charge of mr. merton and mr. seabrooke, and i trust that you will all prove yourselves amenable to their authority, and that i shall receive a good report. i leave by the next train. good-bye." the doctor's face was pale and his voice was husky, as he bade them farewell, dreading what might have come to him before he should see them again. he was gone in another moment, and in half an hour had left the house. dr. leacraft was a kind, a just, and a lenient master, granting to his pupils all the indulgence and privileges consistent with good discipline, and the more reasonable among the boys felt that he must have just cause for this renewed and emphatic prohibition against rice's place. but lewis flagg and his followers were not reasonable, and many and deep, though not loud, were the murmurs at his orders. lewis' boon companions saw from the expression of his eye that he meditated rebellion and disobedience even while the doctor was speaking; and percy neville and one or two others resolved that they would refuse to share in them. nor were they mistaken. no sooner were the six choice spirits alone together than lewis unfolded a plan for "a spree" for the following night. the moon was about at the full, and his proposal was that they should leave the house in the manner they had done more than once before, by means of the window and the root of the porch, go to rice's and have a supper, which was to be previously ordered, and afterwards a moonlight skate on the lake. "rip van winkle will never wake," said flagg, "not if you fire a cannon-ball under his bed, and we'll be back and in our places and have a good morning nap before he suspects a thing." but some of the better disposed among the boys demurred, fresh as they were from the doctor's late appeal to them, and their knowledge of the sad errand upon which he had gone; and foremost among them was percy neville. "i don't know," he said, doubtfully, when lewis flagg unfolded his plan. "i don't know. isn't it rather shabby after what the doctor said to us? and--you know--dick leacraft might be dying--might be dead--they say he's awfully hurt--and we wouldn't like to think about it afterwards if we were breaking rules when the doctor--" but the expression upon flagg's face stopped him. "hear the sentiment of him!" sneered the bad, reckless boy; "just hear the sentiment of him! who'd have thought neville was such a miss nancy, such a coward? but you're going if the rest go, for we're all in the same box and have got to stand by one another--none are going to be left behind to make a good thing for themselves if anything does leak out." "i shouldn't, you know i shouldn't say a word!" ejaculated percy, indignantly. "no, i don't believe you would," said flagg; "but we can't have any left behind. one in for it, all in for it. pluck up your courage and come along, percy. if you don't,"--meaningly--"you and i'll have some old scores to settle." this threat, which meant that former misdeeds and infringements of rules would be betrayed by lewis if percy did not yield, took effect, as it had done more than once before; and percy agreed to join in the prohibited sport. he had not the strength, the moral courage, to tell lewis that cowardice and weakness lay in that very yielding, in the fear which led him into new sin sooner than to face the consequences of former misdeeds,--misdeeds more venial than that now proposed. it was not the doctor of whom percy stood in such awe half so much as his parents, especially his mother. it is more than possible that he would have gone to the former and made confession of past offences rather than continue in such bondage as flagg now maintained over him; but he could not or would not face the displeasure of his father and mother, or the consequences which were likely to follow. leniency, or a tender compassion for their faults, were not looked for by any of the neville children; when these were discovered they must be prepared to bide the fullest penalty. "i don't know about seabrooke." said raymond stewart. "he has not slept as soundly as usual these last few nights. i've been awake myself so much with the toothache, and i know that he has been restless and wakeful; and he might chance to rouse up at the wrong time and find us going or gone." "he's seemed to have something on his mind and to be uneasy in the daytime, too," said another boy, "and he's been so eager for the mail, as if he were expecting something more than usual. he's everlastingly writing, too, every chance he finds." "oh, he fancies he has literary talent," said flagg, "and he's forever sending off the results of his labors. i suppose he expects to turn out an author and to become famous and a shining mark." "the doctor says he will be," said raymond, "and i know that one or two of his pieces have been accepted by the magazines and paid for, too. i saw them myself in a magazine at home. it must be a great thing for a fellow who has his own way to make in the world, as seabrooke has. i know his family are as poor as rats. his father is rector of a little shabby church just out of the city, and i know they have hard work to get along. you know seabrooke teaches for his own schooling." "i'll see that he sleeps sound enough not to interfere with us to-morrow night," said lewis flagg. "leave that to me." he spoke confidently; but to all the questions of the other boys as to how he was to bring about this result, he turned a deaf ear. but he succeeded in bringing every one of his five schoolmates to his own way of thinking, or, at least, to agreeing to join in the proposed expedition; and his arrangements were carried on without any further demur openly expressed from them. seabrooke was in the habit of taking a generous drink of water every night the last thing before he retired. on the evening of the following day, and that for which the aforesaid frolic had been planned, lewis flagg might have been found in the dormitory at a very unusual hour; and had there been any one there to see, he might have been observed to shake the contents of a little paper, a fine white powder, into the water carafe which stood filled upon the wash-stand in seabrooke's alcove. then, with the self-satisfied air of one who has accomplished a great feat, he stole from the room and back to his schoolmates. "seems to me seabrooke has been uncommonly chirk and chipper this evening," said charlie denham, when the boys had gone to their rooms, as their masters supposed-for the night. "yes, he had a letter by the evening mail which seemed to set him up wonderfully," said raymond. "i hope it has eased his mind of whatever was on it so that he won't be wakeful to-night." "oh, he'll sleep sound enough, i'll warrant you," said lewis flagg, with a meaning laugh. ensconced in bed, every boy fully dressed, but with other clothes so arranged as to deceive an unsuspecting observer into the belief that all was as usual, they waited the time when seabrooke should be asleep. the young tutor's alcove was not within the range of lewis' vision, but percy from his bed could see all that went on there, and he lay watching seabrooke. as usual, at the last moment the latter poured out a glass of water and proceeded to drink it down; but he had not taken half of it when he paused, and percy saw him hold it up to the light, smell it, taste of it again and then set the glass down, still more than two-thirds full. harley seabrooke had no mental cause for restlessness that night; the evening mail had, as raymond said, brought him that which had lifted a load of suspense and anxiety from his mind, and he was unusually light-hearted and at ease. his head was scarcely upon his pillow when he was asleep, but not so very sound asleep, for flagg had over-shot his mark, and the sleeping potion which he had so wickedly put into the carafe of water had given it a slightly bitter taste, so that seabrooke had found it disagreeable and had not drank the usual quantity, and the close he had taken was not sufficient to stupefy him, but rather to render him wakeful as soon as it began to act. believing themselves safe as soon as they heard his regular breathing, the six conspirators slipped from their beds out of the window upon the roof of the piazza, and thence down the pillars to the ground, and then off and away to rice's. hardly had they gone when seabrooke, on whom the intended anodyne began to have an exciting effect, awoke, and lay tossing for more than an hour. weary of this, he rose at last, intending to read awhile to see if it would render him sleepy; but as he drew the curtain before his alcove, in order to shield the light from the eyes of the companions whom he supposed to be safe in their beds fast asleep, he was struck with the unusual silence of the room. not a rustle, not a breath was to be heard, although he listened for some moments. he could hardly have told why, but he was impressed with the idea that he was entirely alone, and striking a light, he stepped out into the main room and went to the nearest bed. empty! and so with each one in succession. not a boy was there! remembering the petition to dr. leacraft and the resentment which his refusal to accede to it had provoked, it did not take him long to surmise whither they had gone; and hastily dressing himself he made his exit from the house in the same way that they had done and hastened in the same direction, filled with indignation at such flagrant disobedience and treachery at a time when the doctor was in such trouble. the runaways had had what they called a "jolly supper" and were in the hall of rice's house donning great-coats and mufflers before going out upon the lake, when the outer door was opened, and percy, who stood nearest, saw seabrooke. his exclamation of dismay drew the attention of all, and the delinquents, one and all, felt themselves, as percy afterwards said, "regularly caught." "you will go home at once, if you please," was all the young tutor said; but, taken in the very act of rebellion to the head master's orders, not one ventured to dispute the command. he marshalled them all before him, and the party walked solemnly home, five, at least, thoroughly shamefaced. "don't you feel sneaky?" whispered raymond to lewis flagg. "no" answered the other; "i'm not the one to feel sneaky. i haven't been spying and prying and trapping other fellows." but this bravado did not make the others easy. seabrooke made his captives enter by the way in which they had left, so that the rest of the household might not be disturbed, and ordered them at once to bed. "what are you going to do about this?" lewis asked. "report to mr. merton in the morning; and then write to the doctor, i presume, as mr. merton's hand is too lame for him to write. it will be as he thinks best," answered seabrooke, dryly. "i do not wish to talk about the matter now." contrary to his usual custom, lewis flagg did not attempt to treat lightly and as a matter of no consequence the displeasure of his masters, but seemed depressed and restless the next morning, and percy remarked upon it. "you'd be cut up too if you were in my place," said lewis, roughly; "you're only afraid of your father and mother and the doctor; and you see i've been in a lot of scrapes this term and been awfully unlucky about being found out, and my uncle threatened to stop my allowance if he caught me in another, and he'll do it, too; and i've lots of debts out--a big one to rice--and you know what the doctor is about debt, and my uncle is still worse; there'll be no end of a row if he knows it. if this fuss could only be kept quiet till after i have my next quarter-and that's due the first of next week--i could pay off rice, at least. but if word goes to the doctor, he'll let my uncle know--he promised to, by special request," he added, bitterly. "uncle will make ten times more row over my debts than he will over one lark, and i promised rice he should have his money next week. i'm in awfully deep with him, percy, and i don't dare let it be found out. we'll see what old merton says this morning. but--the doctor sha'n't hear of it just yet if i can help it." percy wondered how he _could_ help it; but before he could ask the question the school-bell rang and the boys took their places. after school was opened, mr. merton rose, and, with what lewis called "threatening looks" at the delinquents, said, quietly: "young gentlemen of mr. seabrooke's dormitory, it is hardly necessary to say that this evening's mail will carry to dr. leacraft an account of last night's flagrant misconduct. till i hear from him, i shall take no further steps, save to request that you will not go outside the house without either myself or mr. seabrooke in attendance." lewis flagg was a bright scholar, and so far as recitations went, maintained his standing in the class with the best; but to-day he was far below his usual mark, and his attention constantly wandered; and most of his fellow culprits were in like case. in view of the escapade of the previous night and its impending consequences, that was hardly to be wondered at; but lewis was wont to make light of such matters, and he was evidently taking this more seriously than usual. but the truth was that this did not rise from shame or regret--at least not from a saving repentance--but because he was absorbed in trying to find a way out of his difficulties. mr. merton was suffering from acute rheumatism in his right hand, and being disabled from writing, he had, after consultation with his junior, delegated him to make the necessary disclosures to the absent doctor. seabrooke was observed to be doing a great deal of writing that afternoon, and was supposed to be giving a full account of the affair. the letters to be taken out were always put into a basket upon the hall table, whence they were taken and carried to the post-office at the proper hour by the chore-boy of the school. here, lewis thought, lay his opportunity. drawing percy aside again, he said that seabrooke's letter to the doctor must be taken from the basket before tony carried all away, and be kept back for a day or two; then it could be posted and nothing more would be suspected than that it had been belated. meanwhile his allowance would arrive, and then dr. leacraft was welcome to know all the particulars of the escapade. percy was startled and shocked, and at first refused to have any part in the matter; but the old threat brought him to terms, and he at last agreed to lewis' plans that they should contrive to abstract seabrooke's letter to dr. leacraft from among the others laid ready for the post, and keep it back until lewis' allowance had been received. but although the two boys made various errands to the hall, they found no opportunity of carrying out their dishonorable purpose before tony had started on his round of afternoon duties, taking with him the letters for the post. scarcely had he disappeared when mr. merton said to the six culprits: "young gentlemen, you will go for afternoon exercise to walk with mr. seabrooke. the cold will prevent me from venturing out," touching the crippled right-arm, which lay in a sling, "or i should not trust you from beneath my own eyes; but if i hear of any farther misconduct, or you give him any trouble, there will be greater restrictions placed upon you, and there will be another chapter to add to the sad account which has already gone to the doctor." "dr. leacraft will be tired before he comes to a second volume of the thing seabrooke has written to him," flagg whispered to percy, as they started together for the walk under seabrooke's care. "did you see him writing and writing page after page? he must have given him every detail, and made the most of it. and he fairly gloated over it; looked as pleased as punch while he was doing it; never saw him look so happy." "i'm likely to lose my easter vacation, and dear knows what else for this," said percy, who was exceedingly low in his mind over the consequences of his lawlessness. "i'll have worse than that," answered lewis. "i wouldn't mind that; but if my quarter's allowance is stopped i don't know what i _shall_ do. oh, if i only could get hold of that letter!" percy made no response; for, much as he dreaded to have this affair come to the knowledge of his parents, he shrank from the thought of abstracting and destroying that letter. seabrooke had not much reason to enjoy his walk that afternoon if he had depended upon his company; his charge were all sulky and depressed; but, somewhat to their exasperation, their young leader did not pay much heed to their humors; his own thoughts seemed sufficient for him; and, to judge by the light in his eye and his altogether satisfied expression, these were pleasant society. "seabrooke's been awfully cock-a-hoop all clay," said raymond stewart; "wonder what's up with him." "he's glad we're in a scrape," said lewis, bitterly. "don't believe it," said raymond; "that's not like him." seabrooke led the way to the village store, a sort of _omnium-gatherum_ place, as village stores are apt to be, and which contained also the post-office. entering, the party found tony there before them, the letters he had carried from the school lying on the counter; for there were several small parcels and newspapers which would not go into the receiving box, and the post-mistress was sorting the afternoon up mail, and the delivery window of the office was closed; so tony was waiting his chance for attention. he stood with his back to the counter, examining some coal shovels, having received orders to buy one. seabrooke was at the other side of the store, making some purchases; the rest of the boys scattered here and there. "he hasn't put the letters in the box yet; now's our chance," whispered lewis to percy, and he sauntered up to the counter where the letters lay, drawing the reluctant percy with him. with a hasty glance at the letters, he snatched up the bulky one which he believed to be that to dr. leacraft, gave another quick look at the address and thrust it within his pocket; then, humming a tune, he walked leisurely away with an air of innocent unconcern, still with his arm through that of percy. "that was good luck, wasn't it?" he said. "now we'll keep it till my allowance comes and then post it." seabrooke and the six boys had just reached the door of the school, when tony rushed up to the young tutor, and said, hurriedly: "mr. seabrooke, sir, did you take that letter you told me to be particular of?" "no," said seabrooke, turning hastily. "you haven't lost it?" "i couldn't find it, sir," faltered the boy; "but i know i had it when i passed the bridge, for i was lookin' at it and rememberin' what you told me about it." seabrooke waited for no more, but darted off upon the road back to the village, followed by tony. "we're in a fix, now," whispered lewis to percy, "if there's going to be a row about that letter. isn't he the meanest fellow in the world to be so set upon having the doctor knowing about last night? percy, i'll tell you what! we've got to put the letter out of the way now. and there's old merton coming, and he's asking for me. quick, quick; take it!" drawing the stolen letter from his pocket and thrusting it into percy's unwilling hands. "put it in the stove, quick, quick! there's no one to see; no one will suspect! quick now, while i go to mr. merton and keep him back. you're not fit to meet him: why, man, you're as pale as a ghost." and lewis was gone, meeting mr. merton in the hall without. with not a moment for thought, save one of terror lest he should be found with the missing letter in his hand, percy opened the door of the stove, thrust the letter within upon the glowing coals, and closed the door again, leaving it to its fate, a speedy and entire destruction, accomplished in an instant. an hour passed; the supper gong had sounded and the boys had taken their places at the table, when seabrooke returned, pale as death, and with compressed lips and stern eyes. mr. merton, who was extremely near-sighted, did not observe his appearance as he took his seat, but the boys all noticed it. "i have not seen it," or, "i have not found it," was all the response he had to make to the inquiries of, "have you heard anything of your letter?" and so forth. "have you lost a letter, harley?" asked mr. merton, at length, his attention being attracted. "yes, sir," answered seabrooke. "how was that? was it a letter of importance?" asked the gentleman, "yes, sir, a letter of importance, a letter to my father," answered his junior, but in a tone which told the older man that he did not care to be questioned further on that subject. to his father! percy's fork dropped from his hand with a clatter upon his plate, and lewis' face took an expression of blank dismay which, fortunately for him, no one observed. his father! had they then run all this risk, been guilty of this meanness, only to delay, to destroy a letter to seabrooke's father, while that to the doctor, exposing their delinquencies, had gone on its way unmolested. chapter v. robbing the mail. "neville and flagg, i want to speak to you. will you come into the junior recitation-room?" said seabrooke, as soon after supper as he could find opportunity of speaking apart to the two terrified culprits. fain would the guilty boys have refused, but they dared not; and they followed seabrooke to the place indicated, where he closed the door and, turning, confronted them. "lewis flagg and percy neville," he said, sternly, and his voice seemed to carry as much weight and authority as that of dr. leacraft himself when he had occasion to administer some severe reproof, "i suppose that you are striving to annoy me in this manner in revenge for my detection of your deliberate infringement of rules last night, but your tricks have recoiled upon your own heads, although even now i will spare you any farther disgrace and punishment if you will make restitution at once, for you do not know the extent of the crime of which you have been guilty. robbing the mail is an offence which is punished by heavy penalties. you, lewis, were seen to take a letter from among those which tony carried to the post-office; you, percy, standing by and not interfering, even if you were not aiding and abetting. no matter who told me; you were seen; but it is looked upon as a school-boy trick, and, by my request, will not be spoken of if you return the letter without delay. nor shall i betray you. lewis, where is that letter? for your own sake, give it to me at once. you do not know what you have done." lewis would have braved it out, would perhaps even have denied taking the letter, for he was not at all above telling a lie; but he could not tell how far evidence would be given against him, and, at least, immunity from farther punishment was held forth to him and his fellow-culprit. but--restitution! percy, as he knew, had followed out his instructions and put the letter in the fire. "i'm sorry," he said, with a forced laugh, but with his voice faltering; "but we had no idea the letter was of special importance. we thought it was to the doctor about last night, and we only meant to keep it back for a day or two and--and--well, when you made such a row about it--percy--percy burned it up. but to call it 'robbing the mail--'" he was stopped by the change in seabrooke's face. "_you burned it!_" he almost shouted, forgetting the caution he had hitherto observed in lowering his voice so that it might not be heard by any one who might be outside the door. for one instant he stared at the two startled boys, looking from one to the other as if he could not believe the evidence of his ears. "you burned it!" he repeated, in a lower tone; then, covering his face with his hands, he bent his head upon the table before him with something very like a groan. when he raised his head and uncovered his face again he was deadly pale. "there were two hundred dollars in that letter," he said; "you have not only stolen and destroyed my letter, but also all that sum of money." stolen! all that money! they were sufficiently appalled now, these two reckless, thoughtless boys; percy to an even great degree than his more unprincipled comrade. lewis was the first to find his voice. "there was not! you're joking! you're only trying to frighten us," he said, although in his inmost soul he was convinced that this was no joking matter, no mere attempt to punish them by arousing their fears. seabrooke's agitation was not assumed, that was easy to be seen. then followed a long and terrible pause, while the three boys, the injured and the injuring, stood gazing at one another. then, despite his wrongs, the unutterable terror in the faces of the latter touched seabrooke, especially in the case of percy, for whom he had a strong liking; for the boy had many lovable traits, notwithstanding the weakness of his character. "what can we do?" faltered percy, at last. "what will you do?" asked lewis, almost in the same breath. trembling and anxious, the two culprits stood before the young man, scarcely older than themselves, who had become their victim and was now their accuser and their judge, in whose hands lay their sentence. "wait, i must think a minute," he said, willing, out of the kindness of his noble heart, to spare them ruin and disgrace, and yet scarcely seeing his way clear to it. "listen," he said, after some moments' pondering. "you thought that letter was to dr. leacraft, you say, giving an account of last night. mr. merton, who is disabled, as you know, asked me to write to the doctor; but i begged him to let me off and to ask one of the professors to do it. that letter you destroyed was to my father, and, as i told you, contained two hundred dollars in money--money earned by myself--money which i must have and which you must restore. give it back to me--i will wait till after the easter holidays for it--and this matter shall go no farther. no one but myself knows that the letter contained money; only one saw you take it out, and that one will be silent if i ask it. i will write out a confession and acknowledgment for you both to sign. bring me, after the holidays or before, each your own share of the money and i will destroy that paper; but if you fail, i will carry it to the doctor and he must require it of your friends. i will not--i cannot be the loser through your wickedness and dishonesty. if you refuse to sign i shall go to mr. merton now and to the doctor as soon as he returns. i do not know if i am quite right in offering to let you off, even upon such conditions; but if i can help it i will not ruin you and cause your expulsion from the school, which, i know, would follow the discovery of your guilt." percy, overwhelmed, was speechless; but lewis answered after a moment's pause, during which seabrooke waited for his answer: "how are we to raise the money?" "i do not know," answered seabrooke, "that is your affair. i worked hard for mine and earned it; you have taken it from me and must restore it--how, is for you to determine. if your friends must know of this, and i suppose that it is only through them that you can repay me, it seems to me that it would be better for you to make a private confession to them than to risk that which will probably follow if dr. leacraft knows of it. are you ready to abide by my terms?" "you will give us till--" stammered lewis, seeing no loophole of escape, but, as he afterwards told percy, hoping that something "would turn up" if they could gain time. "till easter--after the holidays--no longer," answered seabrooke. "i know very well that you could hardly raise so much at a moment's notice; so, although it is a bitter disappointment not to have it now, i will wait till then if you agree to sign the paper which i will have ready this evening after study hour. quick now; the bell will ring in two minutes." what could they do? seabrooke was evidently inexorable, and they knew well that he could not be expected to bear this loss. "yes, i will sign it," said the thoroughly cowed percy. but lewis suddenly flashed up and answered impudently: "how are we to know that the money was in that letter?" "i can prove it," answered seabrooke, quietly; "and, lewis flagg, i can prove something more. i tested the water that was in my carafe last night, and found that it had been tampered with. i know the object now, and have discovered who bought the drug at the apothecary's. do you comprehend me? if the doctor hears of one thing he will hear of all." utterly subdued now, lewis stammered his promise to comply with the young tutor's request. "one question," said seabrooke, as the two younger boys turned to leave the room. "how did you come to take a letter directed to my father for one addressed to dr. leacraft?" "i don't know," replied percy, at whom he was looking. "i didn't look at it particularly, but just put it in the stove when lewis handed it to me and told me to do it. we saw you writing for ever so long, and thought that thick letter was to the doctor. we are--were in such a hurry, you see." "and i am sure leacraft and seabrooke are not so very different when one is in a hurry," said lewis. "i see," said seabrooke; "you made up your minds that the letter was to the doctor, and were so afraid of being caught at your mean trick that you did not take time to make sure. there's the study bell." the confession and acknowledgment of their indebtedness was signed that night by both of the guilty boys. and this was the story which the sensitive, honorable lena, the faithful old hannah had read--percy's letter, which had commenced: "dear lena, "i am in the most awful scrape any boy ever was in, and you are the only one who can help me out of it. if you can't there is nothing for me but to be expelled from the school and arrested and awfully disgraced, with all the rest of the family; and the worst is that russell will be so cut up about it--you know his royal highness always holds his head so high, especially about anything he thinks is shabby--and i am afraid it will make him worse again. as for the mother! words could not paint her if she hears about it. and if the doctor gets hold of it!! i've told you how strict he is and what the rules are. if it hadn't been an iron-clad place, i shouldn't have been sent here. i hate these private schools where one can't do a thing without being found out. well, here goes; you must hear about it, and it is a bad business." then followed, in school-boy language, an account of the whole disgraceful transaction. a "bad business," indeed; even worse it appeared to the young sister and the old nurse than it did apparently to percy. "and now, dear lena," he continued, "there's no one but you who can help me. lewis flagg is going to have his share. he has a watch that was his father's, a very valuable one, and his older brother wants it awfully, and told him long ago he would give him a hundred dollars for it; he has money of his own, the brother has, and lewis says it isn't half what the watch is worth; but he'll have to let it go. so he's all right. "but what am i to do? i have no such watch. i have nothing i could sell without mamma and papa finding it out, and think of the row there would be if they did. you are my only hope, lena, and you might do something for me. at any rate, think of russell. havn't you something you could sell? or--i do not like very much to ask you, but what can a fellow in such a scrape do?--couldn't you ask uncle horace to let you have it? i am sure he owes you something for saving his house from being burnt up, and things would have been a great deal worse if you hadn't found it out and been so brave; and besides, he thinks so much of you since he will do anything for you, and you can just tell him you want it for a private purpose. he'll give it to you; it's only twenty pounds, lena, and what is twenty pounds to him? what is it to any of our people, only one wouldn't dare to ask papa or mamma for it. we wouldn't get it if we did, and everything would have to come out then; they never trust any one and _would_ know. only get it for me, dear lena, and save me and save russell, too. you have from now till after the easter holidays; and think what you'll save me from! oh, dear! i wish i'd never seen lewis flagg. he don't care a bit, so that he sees the way out of his own scrape. as for that solemn prig, seabrooke, who you'd think was one of the grown masters with his uppish airs, well, never mind, i suppose he has let us off easy on the whole, if i only raise my share of the money; and he is honor bright about it and don't even act as if we two had done anything worse than the others. oh! do think of some way, and try uncle horace. i know he'll prove all right, and you see we never meant to do this. "your affectionate brother, "percy h. neville. "oh, i forgot, how are the feet? "save russell!" the shock of the whole thing; the disobedience and rebellion against rules; the disgraceful theft of the letter; its destruction; the peril in which percy himself stood--all faded into comparative insignificance with the risk for her adored elder brother. absolute quiet, freedom from all worry and anxiety during his protracted convalescence had been peremptorily insisted upon by his physicians, and it had proved before this that any excitement not only retarded his recovery, but threw him back. that the knowledge of percy's guilt could be kept from russell if it came to the ears of her father and mother never occurred to her, and beyond words did she dread its effect upon him. she knew that the news of her own serious injuries a few weeks since had been very hurtful to him, and now her chief thought was for him. she lost sight altogether of the contemptible meanness of percy's appeal to her--a helpless girl--to rescue him from the consequences of his own worse than folly, but she was bitterly stung by his suggestion--nay, almost demand--that she should ask from their kind and indulgent uncle the means of satisfying the justly outraged seabrooke; the uncle who had opened his heart and home to them, whom she credited with every known virtue, and for whose good opinion and approbation she looked more eagerly than she did for those of any other human being, even the beloved brother russell. no, no; she would never ask him for such a thing, that honorable, high-minded, hero-uncle, with his scorn for everything that was contemptible or mean; "fussy," percy had called him, about such matters. nor did it occur to her that in his selfish desire to secure her aid, percy had perhaps exaggerated the risk to himself--the risk of his arrest and public disgrace, which would reflect upon the family. poor little girl! in her inexperience and alarm she did not reflect that it was not at all probable that percy would be arrested, even though he should not be able to comply with seabrooke's just demands; and all manner of direful possibilities presented themselves to her mind. little wonder was it that she was perfectly overwhelmed, or that mental excitement had prostrated her again and brought on a return of her fever. nor was hannah less credulous. she magnified the danger for percy as much as the young sister did, although her fears were chiefly for the culprit himself. she had the means of relieving the boy's embarrassment if they were but in her own hands, but she had put the greater part of these in her master's care for investment, and she could not obtain any large sum of money without application to him. and, like lena, she was afraid of exciting some inquiry or suspicion if she did so. the poor old soul stood almost alone in the world, having neither chick nor child, kith nor kin left to her, save one bad and dissipated nephew whom she had long since, by the advice of her master, cast off. if she asked mr. neville for the sum necessary to help percy out of his difficulty, he would, she felt confident, suspect that she was about to give it to this reprobate nephew, and would remonstrate. besides the accumulated wages in her master's hands she had one other resource, quite a sum, which she carried about with her; a number of bright, golden guineas tied in a small bag which she wore fastened about her waist, and which was really a burden to her, since she lived in constant fear of losing it. but this was for a purpose dear to old hannah's heart, namely, her own funeral expenses and the erection of what she considered a suitable head-stone for herself after she should have done with life. she would not trust this precious gold to any bank or company, lest it should fail and leave her without the means for what she considered a fitting monument for herself. within the bag was also an epitaph, composed by herself, which was to be put upon the proposed gravestone. for hannah had no mean opinion of her own merits, and this set her forth as an epitome of many christian graces, reading thus: "here lies the mortal body of hannah achsah stillwell which she was hed nurse in the family of howard neville eskire for years and brung up mostly by hand his children and never felt she done enuf for them not sparin herself with infantile elements walkin nites and the like, pashunt and gentle not cross-grained like some which the poor little things they can't help theirselves teethin and the like, respeckful to her betters knoin her place, kind to them beneth her--which she was much thort of by all above and below her--and respected by her ekals. which to her gabriel shall say in fittin time: "well done good and faithful servant come to the skys stranger read this pious lesson go and do likewise." this gem she had read in turn to each of her nurslings as they came to what she considered a fitting age to appreciate it; and they had regarded it with great awe and admiration, till they outgrew it and began to consider it as a joke. not to hannah, however, did any one of them confide the change in his or her views, although they made merry over it among themselves; and harold and elsie still looked upon it as a most touching and fitting tribute to the merits of their faithful old nurse, albeit it had been composed and arranged by herself. hannah had also frequently found the bag and its contents an incentive to well-doing, or an effective and gentle means of coercion, as upon any rare symptoms of rebellion or mischief which would occasionally arise within the nursery precincts, in spite of iron rules and severe penalties, she was wont to detach the bag from its hiding-place and, retiring to a corner, would count the gold and read over the future epitaph, murmuring in sepulchral tones, befitting such a lugubrious subject, that she should soon have need of both. this course had generally sufficed to bring the small rebel to terms at once, and it would promise to be good if she would only consent to live and continue her care of the nursery. and now, how could she make up her mind to sacrifice this cherished sum even for the reckless, selfish boy whom she loved? it had been dedicated to that one purpose, and it had never before entered her thoughts to divert it to any other. she was devoted to each one and all of her charges, past and present; but for no other one than percy would she ever have thought of resigning this gold. not to relieve the sickening terror and anxiety of the poor little invalid; not to save the whole family from the disgrace which she apprehended, would she have entertained the slightest thought of doing so; but for the sake of her beloved scrapegrace! could she resolve to do it, was the question which was now agitating her mind. if hannah was worried she was apt to be cross, and for the next day or two she was captious and exacting beyond anything within the past experience of the nursery, driving letitia to the verge of rebellion, and exciting the open-eyed wonder of the pattern elsie. over lena she crooned and hovered, petting and coddling her, and longing to speak some words of hope and comfort, but not daring to do so lest she should betray herself and the dishonorable way in which she had become possessed of the child's secret. colonel rush was seated in his library one afternoon when there came a knock at the door; and being bidden to enter, the portiere was drawn aside and old hannah appeared, her face wearing an unusually solemn and portentous expression. "beggin' your pardon, colonel," she said, dropping her curtsey, "but i'm not much hacquainted with these hamerican monies, and would you be so good as to tell me the worth of twenty-one gold guineas in the dollars they uses in this country. more shame to 'em, say i, that they didn't 'old by what was their hown when they was hunder the rule of hour gracious lady, queen victoria, but 'ad to go changin' an' pesterin' them what 'asn't no partickler hacquaintance with harithmetic." hannah was a privileged character, and sometimes expressed her opinions with some freedom in the presence of her superiors. the colonel did not think it worth while to enlighten her on the subject of american history, or to explain that the united states, and even the early colonies, had never been beneath the rule of queen victoria; but he gave her the information she desired. "twenty-one golden guineas would be somewhere from a hundred and five to a hundred and ten or fifteen dollars, hannah," he said; "it might be even a little more; that would depend upon what is called the price of gold. a guinea would be worth something over five dollars in american money at any time, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always beyond the five. why?"--knowing of the secret fund for future expenses, the story having been told to him by his nephews,--"have you gold of which you wish to dispose? if so, i will do my best to sell it for you at advantage." "no, thank'ee, sir," she answered. "i'm only fain to know what it would fetch," and with another curtsey she was gone, not daring either to wait for farther questioning or to ask the gentleman to exchange her gold for her. indeed, upon the latter point she had not, hitherto, at all made up her mind. but now it seemed to her that it was clearly intended that she should make the sacrifice. "seems as if it was a callin' of providence," she murmured to herself, as she slowly and thoughtfully mounted the stairs and returned to the nursery; and had any one known the circumstances he might have seen that the old nurse's resolution respecting that gold was wavering; "seems as if it was a callin' of providence. 'twould just be a little more than the poor boy needs--oh, will he never learn to say no when it's befittin 'he should!--just a little more, and it do seem as if it were put hinto my 'ands to do it. an' i s'pose i might believe the lord will take care of them banks and railroads an' things where the master 'as put what he's hinvested for me. i don't know as i put so much faith in this hinvestin', you never know what'll come of it with the ups and downs of them things. dear, dear! if i 'ad it now there needn't be no trouble about master percy. but"--feeling for the precious bag--"i think i couldn't rest heasy in my grave if i 'ad the statoo of the queen 'erself hover me if i'd let the child i brought up come to this disgrace an' 'im the puny, weakly baby he was, too, when i took 'im, the fine, sturdy lad he is now if he is maybe a bit too soon led hastray. but what can you hexpect of a lad when he's kept hunder the way hour boys is. an' he's not a bad 'eart, 'asn't master percy, an' maybe he might put up a monyment and a hepithet 'imself for me if he did but know i'd done that for 'im. it's a risk, too; percy's no 'ead on his shoulders, an' i might be left with no tombstone an' no hepithet." to one who knew hannah it might have been easy to see which way the balance was likely to turn; that cherished gold was sure to be taken for percy's rescue from the difficulty he was in; but she persuaded herself that she had not yet made up her mind about the matter. chapter vi. a confidence. meanwhile lena was fretting herself ill over the terrible secret which she imagined she shared with no one in the house; turning over and over in her mind all manner of impossible devices for the relief of her scapegrace brother. not for one instant would she entertain the thought of applying to her uncle in accordance with his indelicate suggestion; and her father and mother were, to her mind, as well as to percy's, utterly out of the question. no idea of applying to them entered her head. the change in her, her troubled, worried expression, the almost hunted look in her beautiful eyes made her uncle and aunt extremely anxious, especially as they could find no clew to the cause, for they knew nothing of the letter from percy. the child wrote to her brother and told him that she could see no way of procuring the money for him, for she _would not_ apply to their uncle; but she would try and contrive some means of helping him. with the heedless _insouciance_ which distinguished him, or rather with the selfish facility with which he threw a share, and a large share, of his burdens upon others, he had comforted himself with the thought that lena would surely contrive some way of helping him; would, in spite of her declarations to the contrary, apply to colonel rush, guarding his secret, and taking upon herself all the weight and embarrassment of asking such an unheard of favor. but although he did strive to be hopeful, he had times of the deepest despondency and dread, when he looked his predicament fully in the face; and he felt it hard that lewis, who, after all, had been the chief offender, should be, as he in his careless way phrased it, "all right" at what seemed to be so little cost to him, while he, percy, was under this cloud of apprehension and uncertainty. harley seabrooke was not hard-hearted, although he was determined that the two boys should make full restitution, and justly so, and he could not but feel sorry for percy when these fits of despair overtook him. "neville," he said to him one day, "have you written to your parents about this matter?" "to my father and mother! oh, no!" answered percy, looking dismayed at the bare idea of such a thing; "oh, no, of course not. how could i?" "it seems to me," said harley, eying the boy curiously, "that such a thing is the most natural course when one is in such a difficulty. certainly it must involve confession, but they would be the most lenient and tender judges one could have. why not make a clean breast of it, percy, and have it over? you hardly, i suppose, can obtain such a sum of money except by application to them; or have you some other friend who will help you?" "i have--i did--i mean i will," stammered percy. "i have asked and--and--i know i must have it somehow." he looked so utterly depressed and forlorn that harley's heart was moved for him. "if i were rich, percy," he said, "if i could in any way afford it, i would not insist upon such early payment of my loss; but it is only just that you should make it good. you did not know what you were doing, it is true, the extent of the injury to me; but you had suffered yourself to be tempted into wrong by a boy much worse than yourself, and you meant to play me a sorry trick, which has recoiled upon yourself. that money, the check you destroyed, i had received from a publisher for a piece of work over which i had spent much time and which i had devoted to a special purpose. i have a young sister who has a wonderful talent for drawing and painting, is, in fact, a genius; and her gift ought to be cultivated, for we hope it will, in time, be a source of profit to herself and others; but my father is a poor clergyman, and all of us try to do what we can to help ourselves and one another. you know on what terms i am here; and it is only through the kindness of dr. leacraft that i enjoy the advantages i do; and of late i have been able to earn a little by articles i have written for papers and magazines. this two hundred dollars i had received for a little book, and i intended it should be the means of giving my little sister at least a beginning of the drawing lessons which would be of so much use to her. you may judge then if i do not feel that i must have it back, and that without farther delay. i am sorry for you, but i cannot sacrifice my sister." seabrooke was regarded by the boys as unsympathetic, cold, and stiff in his manner--perhaps he was somewhat so--and as he seldom spoke of himself they knew little of his affairs or of his family relations; and he was also considered to have a rather elderly style of talking, unbefitting his comparatively few years. percy's manner, which had been rather sullen and listless when the other began to speak, had brightened as seabrooke went on; and when he mentioned his sister, his face lighted with a look of interest which somewhat surprised his senior. "what is your sister's name? gladys?" he asked. "yes," answered harley, surprised at the question. "do you know her?" "yes--no--my sister and some other girls i know, know her," said percy; and then followed the story of the meeting in the church and of the interest taken in the young artist by lena, maggie and bessie. "so it was your friends and relatives, then, who sent the check for the church to my father, and the christmas box to my sister?" said seabrooke, feeling much more inclined to forgive percy than he had felt since the destruction of his letter. "i don't know anything about a check," answered percy, for colonel rush had not mentioned that little circumstance to the junior portion of his family, "but i do know that the girls sent your sister a christmas box, for i helped to pack it myself, and they are all agog about some prize they hope to win among them, a prize which will give them somehow, an artist education, which they can give to some girl who needs it. i don't know exactly how it is, only i do know they are all just agog about it, and they want it for your sister gladys, at least for a girl of that name. but i believe i ought not to have spoken of that; it is only a chance, you know; there are ever so many girls to try for the prize, and our girls may not gain it." "and my sister don't want the chance," said harley, the stubborn pride which was one of his characteristics, up in arms at once. "we may be and are poor, but we will not ask for charity." "well, you needn't be so highty-tighty about it," said percy, taking a more sensible view of the matter than his older companion did. "_i_ don't call it charity, and if it is, it comes from somebody who is dead, so one needn't feel any special obligation to the girls. it is only that they earn the right to say to whom the gift shall go; they don't _give_ it. and," he added, with his usual happy faculty for saying the wrong thing, "i don't see why you should be so stiff about it when you yourself"--he paused, seeing by the dark look which came over seabrooke's face that he had touched upon a sore point. "you would say," said harley, stiffly, "when i accept favors from dr. leacraft for myself; but you will please remember that i, at least, give some equivalent for my tuition, so i am not altogether a charity scholar. and it is my object to provide for my sister myself, and i still insist that you shall pay me what you owe me, neville. if your friends earned forty scholarships for gladys, that would make no difference in my just demands." "nobody asked that it should!" exclaimed percy, flying into one of the rare passions to which his amiable, easy-going nature would occasionally lapse under great provocation, "nobody asked that it should; and you are"--and here he launched into some most uncomplimentary remarks, and then dashed from the room, leaving harley to feel that he had made a great mistake, and missed, by the insinuation that percy fancied he would abate his demands for restitution, an opportunity of influencing the boy, who was easily led for either good or evil. the result of this was, on percy's part, another frantic appeal to lena to find some means of helping him before easter, that seabrooke was very hard on him and determined not to spare him. this letter would never have reached lena had it not been delivered into the hands of colonel rush, who met the postman at the foot of his own steps, and took this with others from him. for hannah, following out her policy that the end justified the means, and undeterred by the scrape into which percy had brought himself by means somewhat similar, kept on the watch for letters for lena, determined to hide and destroy any which should come from percy. she fancied that she had not yet made up her mind to the course she would pursue; but she really had done so, though the faithful old nurse clung till the last moment to the cherished gold, with a faint hope that something might yet chance to save it. the colonel went up to pay a little visit to lena, and came down looking rather perturbed and anxious. "that child continues to look badly," he said to mrs. rush, "and she appears to me to have something on her mind. do you think it is possible, now that russell is better?" "i am sure of it," answered his wife, "sure that something is troubling her very much, and i was about to speak of it to you. she is such a reticent, reserved child, that i did not like to try and force her confidence, although i have opened the way for her to give it to me if she chose to do so." "i brought her a letter from percy yesterday," said the colonel, "and when i handed it to her, she flushed painfully and seemed very nervous, and i noticed that she did not open it while i was in the room. i wonder if he is in any trouble." mrs. rush shook her head. she had not even noticed this, and had no clew whereby she might guess at the cause of lena's depression; but she said: "i am going to send for maggie and bessie to come and spend the day with her. she is able, i think, to have them with her, and they may brighten her a little." no sooner said than done; the colonel, always glad of any excuse for bringing these prime favorites of his to his own house, went for them himself, and finding them disengaged, this being saturday and a holiday, brought them back with him. he had the pleasure of seeing lena's pale face light up when she saw them, and soon left the young patient with her two little friends to work what healing influences they might. now, although lena was very fond of both these girls, bessie was her special favorite, perhaps because she, being less shy than maggie, had been the first to offer her sympathy and comfort at the time when lena had been left at her uncle's with her heart wrung with anxiety and distress for her brother russell who was then very dangerously ill. and bessie was now quick to see that something was wrong with lena. maggie saw it too, but shy maggie, unless it was with some one as frank as herself, could not seek to draw forth confidences. but, with her usual considerate thoughtfulness, she did that which was perhaps better; she presently withdrew herself to the next room with elsie and little may and amused them there, so that lena might have the opportunity of speaking to bessie if she so chose. but not even to bessie would or could lena confide the story of percy's misdoing and its direful results, longing though she might be for her sympathy and advice. lena knew bessie's strict conscientiousness, which was almost equalled by her own, and she knew also bessie's complete trust in her parents, and how in any trouble her first thought would be to confide in them in full faith that they would be only too ready to lift the burden from her shoulders. no, bessie was not like herself; she had no dread of her father and mother, nor had any of the children in that large and happy family; and it would have seemed unnatural to them to have any such fears. but there was a question which had been agitating her own mind which she meant to ask bessie and hear her clear, straightforward views on the matter; for lena feared, and justly, that her own wishes might have too much weight with her own opinion, and she dared not yield to these for fear of doing wrong. "lena, dear," said bessie, "is your brother russell worse?" "no," answered lena, "he is improving every day now, mamma says." "you seem rather troubled and as if something were the matter," said bessie, simply, but in half-questioning tones, thus opening the door for confidence if lena wished to give it. "i would like to ask you something," said lena, wistfully. "you remember the checks papa and russell sent me?" "oh, yes, of course," answered bessie. "how could i forget them?" "do you think," said lena, slowly and doubtfully, "that if a person who was not a poor person was in great trouble, it would be quite right to use some of that money to help them out of their trouble? you know papa and russell say i may use it for any charity i choose. do you think it would be called charity to do that when the person was in trouble only because he had been--had done very wrong?" "i don't know. i don't quite understand," said bessie, quite at sea, as she might well be, at such a vague representation of the case. "i suppose," thoughtfully, "that it might be right if you felt quite sure that your father or brother would be willing." "but they would not be--at least--oh, i do not know what to think or what to do," exclaimed poor lena, breaking down under the weight of all her troubles and perplexities. "i can't tell what to say unless i know more about it," said bessie, taking lena's hand; "but, lena dear,"--approaching the subject of lena's relations with her own family with some reluctance, "but, lena dear, if you do not want to ask your father and mother, why do you not ask uncle horace? he is so very nice and good, and he knows about almost everything." but before she had finished speaking she saw that the suggestion did not meet the case at all. "uncle horace! oh, no!" ejaculated lena, "that would be worse than all! oh, if i could only tell russell!" "why do you not?" asked bessie. "it would make him ill again; it might kill him," answered lena, more excitedly than ever. "tell me what it is right to do by myself, bessie." "how can i, dear, when i do not know what it is?" said the troubled and sympathizing bessie. lena looked into the clear, tender eyes before her own, and her resolution was taken; although, knowing, as she did, bessie's almost morbid conscientiousness and her horror of anything small, mean or tricky, she knew that she would be terribly shocked when she heard the source of the trouble; but she _must_ tell some one, must have a little advice. "i want to tell you, bessie," she said, falteringly, "but you will not tell any one, will you? not even maggie?" "no. maggie is very good about that, and not at all curious," said bessie. "i couldn't keep a secret of my own from her; but some one else's she would not mind. but mamma--could i not tell mamma?" "oh, no," said lena, "no! _must_ you tell your mother everything--things that are not secrets of your own?" bessie stood thoughtful for a moment. "no," she at last answered, a little reluctantly. "if mamma knew it would be a help to some one to have me keep a secret, i do not think she would mind; for mamma has a good deal"--of confidence in her children, she would have added, but checked herself with the thought that lena enjoyed no such blessing, and that she was presenting too forcible a contrast between her own lot and that of her little friend, and she hastily substituted, "a great deal of good sense for her children. but, lena dear, you do not know how well my mamma keeps a secret, and how she can help people out of trouble." "no, no!" said lena again, "i couldn't let her know. he wouldn't like it; he would never forgive me," she added, forgetting herself. light flashed upon bessie. "lena, is it percy?" she asked. "yes," faltered lena; and then followed the whole story; at least, the whole as she knew it, so much as percy had revealed to her. bessie was indeed shocked, perhaps even more at the contemptible selfishness and weakness which had led percy to throw the burden of this secret upon his young sister, and to appeal to her for help, than she was by his original fault. her own brother harry was noted for his chivalrous gallantry to girls; so much so, that it was a subject of joke among his schoolmates and companions; and fred, although known as a tease, was quite above anything small or petty, and would have scorned to ask such a thing as this from any girl, especially from one who was weak and ill, and but just coming back from the borders of the grave. bessie felt no sympathy whatever for percy, but more than she could express for the innocent lena; and her indignation at the reckless brother found vent in terms unusually emphatic for her. but, alas for lena! bessie could see no way out of the difficulty more than lena could herself. in spite of her ardent wish to do this, her upright little soul could by no means advise or justify for this purpose the use of any part of the sums put by mr. neville and russell into lena's hands. "for you know, dear lena," she said, "your father and brother said for charity, didn't they? and percy is not a 'charity.'" "no," answered lena, with a pitiful, pleading tremor in her voice, "but papa said i could use it for any good object i chose. see, bessie, here is his letter, and that is just what he says." "yes," said bessie, glancing at the lines in mr. neville's letter to which lena pointed, "yes; but percy is not an 'object.' at least not what your father means by 'any object.'" "and he certainly is not good" she added to herself; then said slowly again: "but, lena, why don't you tell your brother russell, when you say he is so good and nice?" but to this also lena returned the most decided negative. no, russell must not be worried or made anxious and unhappy, no matter what might happen to percy or to the rest of the family. russell must be spared, at all hazards, and it was plainly to be seen that, distressed as she was for percy, his welfare was by no means to be weighed in the balance against that of his elder brother. bessie, helpless as lena herself, had no farther suggestion to offer, and save that she now shared the burden of her secret with some one who could sympathize, lena had gained nothing by imparting it to her little friend; and when maggie returned, she found her looking as depressed and anxious as before, while bessie's sweet face also now wore a troubled expression. maggie asked no questions; but when they were at home that evening, bessie said to her: "maggie, dear, i have to have a secret from you. it is not mine, but lena's, and she will not let me tell even you; and she will not tell uncle horace or aunt marion or any of her people. and then again it is not her very own secret, but some one else's, and it is a great weight on her mind because she does not know what to do about it. and so it is on mine," she added, with a deep sigh. "i wish you could tell me," said maggie; "not that i am so very curious about it, although, of course, i should like very much to know; but cannot you tell mamma, bessie?" "no," answered bessie; "it seemed to me mamma would not mind if i promised i would not tell even her, when lena seemed to have such a trouble and wanted to tell me. i can't bear not to tell her or not to tell you; but i thought i would promise, because lena is such a very good girl and so very true, and she has such a perfectly horrible mother. maggie, every night when you say your prayers, do you thank god that mrs. neville is not your mother? i do." "yes, and about a thousand times a day besides," answered maggie. "but, bessie, could you help lena in her trouble?" "no," said bessie, her face shadowed again, "and i do not see how any one can help her, so long as she will not tell any grown-up person. not one of us children could help her." bessie was depressed and very thoughtful that evening, and so silent as to attract the attention of her family; but to all inquiries she returned only a faint smile without words, while to her mother she confessed that she had "a weight on her mind," but that this was caused by another person's secret which she could not tell. accustomed to invite and receive the unlimited confidence of her children, mrs. bradford still treated them as if they were reasonable beings, and on the rare occasions, such as the present, when they withheld it, she was satisfied to believe that they had good and sufficient reasons for so doing. chapter vii. a box of bonbons. if there was one of the two sisters who lay awake after the proper time in the pretty room which maggie and bessie bradford called their own--a thing not of frequent occurrence, it was usually maggie, when she was revolving in her mind some grand idea, either as the subject of a composition, or some of the schemes for business or pleasure which her fertile brain was always devising. but on this night it was bessie who could not sleep for worry and anxiety over lena's perplexities. as a usual thing she was off to the land of nod the moment her head was on the pillow; but to-night she lay tossing and uneasy until she thought the night must be almost gone. then suddenly, as a bright thought came to her--an idea which she thought almost worthy of maggie herself--she heard her mother in her own room. "mamma," she called, "is it almost time to rise?" "why, no, my darling," said mrs. bradford, coming in, "it is only half-past ten o'clock. what woke you?" "oh, i have not been asleep at all, mamma," answered her little daughter. "i thought i had been awake all the night." "oh, no," said mrs. bradford; "but it is certainly time that you were asleep. have you been troubling yourself, dear, over that secret?" "i suppose that i have, mamma," answered bessie; "but i have had a very nice thought which i believe will help that secret, and i will try not to be troubled about it any more." and five minutes later, when her mother looked in again to see if she were quiet, she found her sleeping. "papa," said bessie, walking into the library the next morning, all ready for school, and not seeing for the moment that any one was with her father, "papa, are you going early to your office?" mr. bradford was fond of a long walk on a pleasant morning, and would occasionally start from home with his little girls on their way to school, leave them at miss ashton's, and then proceed on his way down town. they always considered this a treat, and he knew now that bessie hoped for his company in lieu of that of jane, the nursery-maid. "i think that i shall do so that i may have the pleasure of escorting two little damsels to school," he answered. "then perhaps i shall be fifth wheel to a coach that only needs three," said a deep, jolly voice from the other side of the room; and bessie, turning, saw the tall form of her uncle ruthven standing before one of the book-cases, in which he was searching for a book he had come to borrow. her face brightened with a look which told that this "fifth wheel" could never be _de trop_; and she sprung toward him with a welcoming kiss and good morning. uncle ruthven was mamma's dear and only brother, and a great favorite with his young nieces and nephews, who thought this much travelled, "much adventured uncle," as bessie had once called him, a wonderful hero, and the most entertaining of mortals. so maggie was as well pleased as bessie when she heard by whom they were to be escorted to school, papa and uncle ruthven forming as desirable a pair of cavaliers as could well be imagined by any two little maidens. but uncle ruthven was somewhat amused to see how bessie contrived that he should walk with maggie, while she took mr. bradford's hand and tried to keep him a little behind. observing this, and rightly conjecturing that she had something to say to her father, mr. stanton obligingly drew maggie on a little faster till they were sufficiently in advance of the others to permit bessie to make her confidences. "papa," said the little girl, as soon as she thought that her sister and uncle were out of hearing, "papa, you know that you told me i might begin to take music lessons after easter?" "i remember my promise quite well, dear, and you shall certainly do so," answered her father. "you have been a dear, patient child about those lessons, and you may depend now upon your reward." bessie had for a long time been anxious to take lessons upon the piano; but her father and mother had thought it best to defer it, as she was not very strong, and they had considered that her daily lessons at school were sufficient for her without the extra labor which music lessons and practising would involve. this decision had been a disappointment to her, but she had borne it well, never fretting and teasing about it, only looking forward eagerly to the time when she might begin; and her parents now thought her old enough for this. "well, i want to ask you something, papa," she said, coloring a little, but throwing back her head to look up into his face with her clear, fearless eyes. "how much would it cost for me to take music lessons?" "forty dollars a quarter is miss ashton's price, i think," answered mr. bradford, wondering what this earnest little woman was thinking of now. "and two quarters would be eighty dollars--and twenty more would be a hundred," slowly and thoughtfully said bessie, who was not remarkably quick at figures. "that would take two quarters and a half a quarter to make up a hundred dollars, would it not, papa?" "yes," answered her father. "then," said bessie, eagerly, "if i wait for my music lessons for two quarters and a half longer, will you let me have the hundred dollars they would cost, papa? i would rather have it; oh, much rather, papa." "my child," said her father, "what can you possibly want of a hundred dollars? have you some new charity at heart?" "no, papa," answered the child with growing earnestness; "it is not a _charity_, but it is for a secret--not my secret, papa,--you know i would tell you if it was--but another person's secret. and that person is so very deserving, anybody ought to be very glad to do a kindness for that person, and she cannot tell anybody about it--only she told me, and mamma knows i have a secret--and i do want so very much to help her, and i think i would say i would never take music lessons all my life to do it." and more she poured forth in like incoherent style, pleading too, with eyes and voice and close pressure of her father's hand. mr. bradford was a lawyer of large practice and not a little note, accustomed to deal with knotty problems, and to solve without difficulty much more intricate sums than the putting of this two and two together, and he could guess pretty well in whose behalf bessie was pleading now. he had heard during the past week of lena neville's unaccountable depression and nervousness, and of her refusal to disclose its cause; knew that his little daughters had spent the previous afternoon with her, and that bessie had returned from colonel rush's house with "a weight on her mind," as she always phrased it when she was troubled or anxious, and that even to her mother and maggie she had not confided the source of that "weight." to mr. bradford, accustomed to the open natures and sweet, affectionate ways of his own daughters, lena neville was by no means an attractive child; but so far as he could judge, she was upright and perfectly straightforward, and with no little strength of will and purpose; and petted as she was by her indulgent aunt and uncle, he could not believe that she had brought herself into any difficulty which she could not confess, on her own account. no; there must be something behind this; there must be some other person whom she was shielding, and whom she and bessie were striving to rescue from the consequences of his or her own folly and wrong-doing, and mr. bradford believed that he had not far to look for this person. he had, even in the short period of the christmas holidays, when percy had been much with his own boys, marked the weakness of his character and the ease with which he was swayed for either good or evil, according to the temptations or influences presented to him; and he now felt assured that he had fallen into some trouble and had appealed to his sister for pecuniary aid; and that this must be very serious, mr. bradford rightly judged, since lena dared not apply to the uncle who was so ready to do everything to make her happy and contented in his house. and what to do now, mr. bradford did not know. it might not be best that percy--if it were indeed he for whom these two little girls were acting--should be shielded from the consequences of his wrong-doing; and in his own want of knowledge of the circumstances he could not, of course, judge how this might be; but his pity and sympathy were strongly moved for lena; and she was, indeed, unselfish, little heroine that she was, deserving of any kindness or relief that could be extended to her. but to act thus in the dark was repugnant to him; and his judgment and his feelings were strongly at variance as he listened to bessie's pleadings that she might be allowed to make this sacrifice. "i must think this over for a little, my darling," he said; but when he saw the disappointment in her face and the gathering tears in her eyes, he felt that he could not altogether resist her, and he added, "i think we shall find some way out of this difficulty; but are you sure that this person has no grown friend to whom she could apply?" "she thinks not, papa," answered bessie,"_i_ think she could and ought to, but she thinks not; and i feel quite sure you would let me do this if you knew all the reasons." "mamma and i will talk the matter over, dear," said mr. bradford; "and you are a dear, generous little girl, to be willing to do this; for i know how much your heart has been set upon your music lessons." "but my heart is more set upon this, papa; oh, quite, quite more set," said bessie, quaintly. "we must hurry on now a little," said mr. bradford, giving an encouraging pressure to the small hand within his own, "and you must try not to worry yourself over this matter." "what is in that little woman's mind? may i know?" asked mr. stanton, when he and his brother-in-law had left their two young charges at miss ashton's door and had turned their faces business-ward. "or is it of a private nature?" he added. "well, i suppose i may tell you what she asked; for if i yield every one will know it, as she has talked so much of her music lessons," said mr. bradford; "and i will tell you my suspicions. i fear that i am perhaps too much inclined to yield to her plea, while i am not satisfied that it is wise to do so. but i am not sure that you will be a very unprejudiced adviser," he added, knowing well that uncle ruthven was generally of the opinion that it was well to yield to the wishes of his favorite nieces, maggie and bessie. then he told of bessie's proposal, and of whither his own suspicions tended. "the dear little soul!" said mr. stanton, "and these music lessons have been the desire of her heart for the last two years." "yes for a longer time than that," said mr. bradford; "she is making a real sacrifice in offering to give them up. of course, there is no necessity for her to do that; she shall have her music lessons. but the question with me is whether it is well to work blindly in this way, even for the purpose of relieving these two innocent children." "i ask nothing better for my girls than that they may grow up like yours," said mr. stanton, extending his hand to his brother-in-law. but he offered no advice, expressed no opinion. many a time during his busy day did his little daughter's pleading face rise before mr. bradford, and he found himself unable to resist it, and resolved that he would cast scruples to the winds and tell bessie she should have the sum she had asked for. but although he would not tell her this yet, she should not lose her much desired lessons; she should begin them at the promised time, and they should be his easter gift to her. mr. stanton found a little private business of his own--quite unexpected when he left home--to attend to after he parted from his brother-in-law at the door of his office, a little business which was attended with the following results. mr. bradford reached home that afternoon, and entering the door with his latch-key was just closing it behind him when bessie came flying down the stairs and precipitated herself upon him like a small whirlwind, followed by maggie in a state of equal excitement and making like demonstrations. "spare me, ladies," he said, when he could speak; "with your kind permission i should wish to take farewell of the remainder of my family before i am altogether suffocated. might i ask the cause of this more than usually effusive greeting?" the answer to this was continued embraces and caresses from both his captors, a series of the little ecstatic squeals maggie was wont to give when she was especially delighted with anything, and from bessie the exclamation of: "oh, you dear, darling papa! you needn't try to be anonymous, for we know you did it! there was nobody else, for nobody else knew. we know it was you; we know it!" "if i might be allowed to take off my overcoat and to sit down," gasped mr. bradford. then he was released, and proceeded to take off his overcoat, while the two little girls seized upon one another and went dancing about the hall to the music of maggie's continued squeals. "have i made a mistake as to my own house and found my way into a private insane asylum?" said mr. bradford, pretending to soliloquize. "it must be so, else why this wild excitement? these must be two of the wildest and most excitable of the inmates. i must escape." [illustration: "have i found my way into a private insane asylum?"] and he made a feint of trying to do so, running into his library and sinking into an easy chair where he was speedily held captive again by two pair of arms piled one above the other about his neck, while all manner of endearing epithets were lavished upon him. "thank you very much," he said at last, "for all these compliments, but really i am ignorant why i am particularly deserving of them at the present moment." "oh, you needn't pretend you don't know now, you sweet, lovely darling," said maggie, with a fresh squeeze and a kiss, planted directly upon his right eye. "you have lifted the most dreadful weight off of bessie's mind. i don't know what it was, but i know that she had one, and now it is all gone." "and you did it in such a delightful way, too, papa," said bessie; "sending it in that lovely box of bonbons." "sending what--the weight?" said mr. bradford. "now, papa!" expostulated both at once. "you know what we mean, and you needn't pretend that you don't," said bessie. "no, you took away the weight, and you're just too good for anything." "if you would throw a little light, perhaps i could understand," answered her father; "but really, as it is, i cannot take credit to myself for having lifted any one's burdens to-day, at least, not knowingly." "oh, papa," said bessie again, "you know you sent me what i asked you for this morning in a box of huyler's, all beautifully done up, and--oh! i know you, papa--my name written on the parcel by some one else, so i wouldn't know. but just as if i wouldn't know; it _could not_ be any one but you, because no one else knew that i wanted it." "upon my word, this is very embarrassing," said mr. bradford. "i should be very glad to be able to say that i had been so generous and given so much pleasure; but i must disclaim the deed. upon my honor, as a gentleman, i know nothing of your box of bonbons or its contents." to tell the truth, he was really somewhat embarrassed, for he could give a very good guess as to the donor of the gift, who, since he had chosen to be "anonymous," must not be betrayed, and these very interested inquirers were likely to put some searching questions which it might be difficult to evade. to avoid these--truth compels me to state--mr. bradford took an ignominious flight, for, saying that he must hasten upstairs to dress for dinner, he put aside the detaining arms which would have kept him till conjecture was satisfied, and once more assuring his little girls that he had absolutely nothing to do with the box of bonbons and its valuable contents, and congratulating bessie that her heart's desire was attained, he hurried away to his own room. here he found mrs. bradford, who had thought, as did the little girls, that he had been the one to relieve bessie's mind by this means. discreet bessie, and equally discreet maggie, had neither one betrayed the little circumstance of the gift to the former to the general household, mamma alone sharing the secret, and even she did not know for what purpose it was destined. the two girls had been with their mother in mrs. bradford's morning-room after they returned from school, when patrick came to the door and delivered "a parcel for miss bessie." the nature of this parcel disclosed itself even before it was opened. there is a peculiar distinctive air about such parcels which stamps them at once as mines of delight, and maggie had little hesitation in pronouncing it to be "a monstrous box of huyler's! must be three pounds at least!" uncle ruthven--that which proved a mystery to maggie and bessie need prove no mystery to us--was a generous giver, and when he did a kind action it was carried out munificently; and the wrappings being taken off and the cover of the box removed, a most tempting sight was disclosed. "there is a note to tell you who it is from," said maggie, seeing an envelope lying on the top of the bonbons. but maggie was mistaken, for the envelope contained no writing, nothing to give, by words, a clue to the giver; but the candies were forgotten when bessie drew therefrom a new crisp one hundred dollar bill. for a moment both she and maggie stood speechless with surprise; then the color surged all over bessie's face, and clasping her hands together she said, softly, but not so softly but that mamma and maggie did not catch the words: "papa, oh, papa! i know what that is for." then turning to her mother, she said: "it is my secret, mamma; that is, that other person's secret." but mamma and maggie, although in the dark and much puzzled about all this mystery, rejoiced with her in the relief which was evidently afforded by this gift, the removal of the "weight;" and maggie was quite as ecstatic over papa's goodness as was bessie herself. and nowhere was papa disclaiming all knowledge of the gift, at least disclaiming all responsibility therefor. the mystery thickened for all concerned. who could have known, thought bessie, how very much she wished for this sum of money? but how to convey this money to lena was now the question with bessie. in her innocent simplicity she believed that she had not disclosed the identity of the person whose secret she was bearing, that this was still unsuspected by her parents and maggie, to whom she had confided that the secret existed. mystery and management and all concealment were hateful to her; and as has been seen, she was no adept at them, and she now felt herself much nonplussed. if she asked to go to lena, or to send the money to her, suspicion would be at once aroused, and loyalty to lena forbade this. moreover, judging not only by herself, but also by what she knew of lena, she feared that the pride and independence of the latter would rebel, even in such a strait, against receiving pecuniary aid from one who, until a few short months ago, had been a stranger to her, and she would spare her if possible. then suddenly an idea occurred to her which removed, at least, the latter difficulty. why not make use of the very way in which this well timed gift had come to her and send it to lena anonymously? no thought of keeping it or converting it to her own use had for one instant entered bessie's mind; to her it seemed heaven-sent, and as if destined for the very purpose for which she had been longing for it. to the bonbons she felt that she could lay claim for herself and her brothers and sisters, but for her own part she could not really enjoy them until the more valuable portion of the contents of the box was on its way to its destination. after some thought and planning about the method of accomplishing this, she carried an envelope to jane, the nursery maid, believing rightly that lena would not recognize her handwriting, made her put lena's address upon it, and then privately enclosed therein the precious hundred dollar note; and the next morning on the way to school with her own hand she posted it in the letter-box on the nearest corner. lena was not to know whence or from whom it came. she never thought of any risk in sending it in this unprotected manner; but happily it fell into honest hands throughout the course of its journeyings and safely reached those for which it was intended. the relief that it was to bessie to have this accomplished can scarcely be told. "oh!" she said to herself, "i'll never, never, never again let any one tell me a secret which i may not tell to mamma and maggie, especially mamma." the concealment and the management to obtain her object without revealing it had been more of a cross to her than can well be imagined, unaccustomed as she was to anything of the kind. chapter viii. "innocents abroad." hannah had asked for "a morning out;" a request which greatly amazed her temporary mistress, mrs. rush, inasmuch as the old woman had no friends or acquaintances in the city, and was possessed of a wholesome dread of the snares and pitfalls with which she believed it abounded, and even when out with her charge would never go without an escort beyond the park on which colonel rush's house fronted and whence she could keep it in view. but permission, of course, was granted, and hannah, after ascertaining that a banker's office was the proper place to exchange her precious gold, sallied forth with it, having finally resolved to sacrifice it for percy's relief without further delay, as easter was drawing near and the time of reprieve was coming to a close. it would take too long to tell of the trials and tribulations she encountered on her way to her destination. she consulted every single policeman she met, and then had so little confidence in their directions and advice that she still felt herself hopelessly bewildered and at sea in the business streets of the great city; while whenever she was obliged to cross among the trucks, express-wagons and other vehicles, she felt as if there would be an immediate necessity for the epitaph. as may be supposed, she afforded no little sport to the guardians of the peace, but they were, on the whole, kind and considerate to her and often passed her on from one to another. but at length, unshielded for the time by any such friendly protection, she stood at the corner of the greatest and most thronged thoroughfare and one almost equally crowded which intersected it, and vainly strove to cross. the policeman on duty there was for the moment engaged with a lost child and had no eyes for her. she made several frantic dives forward; but the confusion of wheels, horses' heads and shouting drivers speedily drove her back to the sidewalk after each fresh essay; and she was beginning to be in despair when she felt herself spasmodically seized by the arm, and a terrified voice said in her ear--no, not in her ear, for hannah's ear was far above the diminutive person who had clutched her, and whom she turned to face,-- "don't! don't! you'll be run over--yes, over--over indeed! wait for the policeman--yes, policeman--'liceman, indeed!" hannah's eyes fell upon a very small old lady, attired in a quaint, old-fashioned costume, with little corkscrew curls surrounding her face, and carrying a good-sized leather satchel, while her every movement and word betrayed a timid, nervous, excitable temperament. "don't, don't!" she reiterated, "you'll be crushed--yes, crushed, indeed, crushed; that horse's head touched you, head--indeed--yes, head. what a place this city is--city, indeed, yes, city. why did i come back to it, back, yes, back?" there are some who may recognize this old lady, but to hannah she was an utter stranger, and she gazed upon her in surprise. she was generally very offish and reserved with strangers, but now a common misery made her have a fellow-feeling for the little oddity, and she responded graciously. seizing the hand of the woman, whom she could almost have put into her pocket, she drew it through her arm, and said: "ye may well say it; what a place hindeed! but hover i must go some ow, so come on, ma'am. if so be we're sent to heternity, we'll go together, an' i'll see you safe through it." but, apparently, the prospect of going to eternity at such short notice and under such doubtful protection was not pleasing to miss trevor, and she shrank back from the thronging dangers before her. but now came the policeman and escorted the two women, both large and small, through the terrors which had beset them, landing them safely on the other side of the street. hannah's eye had recognized the lady even beneath miss trevor's shabby black dress and strange manner, and she now turned to her with a respectful: "which way are you bound, ma'am? if so be your way's mine, we might 'old on together. there seems to be pretty much men around 'ere, an' i never did take much stock in men. leastway honly in one or two," with an appreciative remembrance of colonel rush and her young master, russell neville. "i'm going to the banker's--yes--banker's--banker's--yes, going," answered miss trevor, still flustered and nervous, and forgetting, in the distractions of the crowd, her usually besetting terror that every one who addressed her or looked at her in the street was actuated by purposes of robbery, and speaking as if there were but one banker in the great city. but hannah was wiser. "there be a lot of 'em i 'ear," she said, "an' i don't know which is the best of 'em. what do you say, ma'am? who be you goin' to, by your leave?" "to mr. powers," answered miss trevor. "powers, yes, powers. a good man and a kind--yes, man, indeed, man." "is he the kind of a one--a banker, i mean," said hannah, "that would give you a note for gold--golden guineas?" miss trevor looked at her suspiciously for one moment. was this a trap? was this friendly person, who was seemingly as much at sea as she was herself in this wilderness of business streets and crowd of business men, some swindler in petticoats, some decoy who would lead her where she might be robbed of all she had about her that was valuable, of the really precious contents of that shabby, worn satchel? the bare idea of such a thing was enough to lend wings of terror to miss trevor's feet; and she was about to dart away from hannah's side when the hand of the latter in its turn arrested her, giving, if possible, new force to the fears of the old lady. "what did i come for?" she ejaculated, "yes, come. i wish i was back in sylvandale--yes, sylvandale, indeed, 'dale." "sylvandale!" the name had a familiar--since the events of the last few days, an unpleasantly familiar sound to hannah, and she gave a little start. "sylvandale," she repeated; "do you know sylvandale?" but again her inquiry only provoked increased alarm in the breast of miss trevor. she had heard of swindlers pretending to know of places and people belonging to those whom they would victimize; and had not hannah's hold upon her been firm she would have wrenched herself free and fled. hannah repeated her question in a rather different form and with an addition. "do you come from sylvandale? and you maybe know dr. leacraft's school? an' you maybe 'ave seen my boy, master percy neville, my boy that i nursed?" now it so happened that miss trevor had seen and marked percy neville, and moreover that she had a very exalted opinion of the young scapegrace. for she did live in sylvandale, with a nephew who had some years since persuaded her to give up teaching in the city in miss ashton's and other schools, and to come to him and let him care for her in her old age. the home she had gladly accepted; but she possessed a spirit of independence, and insisted on giving such lessons as she could procure. she had been fairly successful in this, and had laid by quite a little sum, which she intended to leave to this kind nephew. but while this money was in her own keeping, it was a burden and a care to her, for she lived in constant dread of robbers and of losing her little savings; therefore she had come to the city to place it in safe keeping. belle powers had been her favorite pupil while she taught at miss ashton's, the child having a remarkable talent for drawing and making the most of the instruction she received. belle thought so much of her queer little teacher that she had interested her doting father in the old lady, and he had performed two or three small acts of kindness for her which her grateful heart had never forgotten. consequently she credited mr. powers and belle with every known virtue, and believed that she could not possibly place her savings in any safer place than the hands of that gentleman; and perhaps she was not far wrong. but on her way to the city and to mr. powers' office she had been warily on her guard for snares and pitfalls tending swindlerwise, until she had fallen into the hands of hannah. but her unworthy suspicions of that good person were speedily put to flight by the mention of percy neville's name. coming up the village street of sylvandale one day, she had been chased by a flock of geese, and as she was hurrying along as fast as her age and infirmities permitted--anything in the shape of dignity she had cast to the winds before such foes--she encountered some of dr. leacraft's scholars returning from an afternoon ramble. most of them had laughed at the predicament of the terrified old lady, who certainly presented a ridiculous sight; but percy, pitying her plight, and with a strongly chivalrous streak in his nature, had made a furious onslaught on the geese, and presently turned the pursuers into the pursued. then he had picked up the ubiquitous satchel which miss trevor had dropped in her flight, attempted to straighten her bonnet which was all awry--she thought none the less of him because his awkward efforts left it rather worse than before--and escorted her quite beyond the reach of the hissing, long-necked enemy, who seemed inclined to renew the attack were his protection removed and the coast clear. from this time percy neville was a hero and a young knight _sans peur et sans reproche_ with miss trevor. she had inquired his name, and maintained that it just suited him, and her wits had been constantly at work all winter to devise such small gifts and treats for him as she was able to procure. many a basket of nuts and apples, many a loaf of gingerbread, or other nice home-made dainty, had found its way into percy's hands, and had met with ready acceptance and been heartily enjoyed by the schoolboy appetites of himself and his companions. percy always exchanged a cheery nod and smile with her when he met her, or a pleasant word or two if he encountered her in the village store or elsewhere. and now she heard his name in terms of proprietorship and tenderness from this woman who claimed to be his nurse; and she was at once arrested in her attempt to shake her off. "master percy neville--neville, indeed, percy!" she exclaimed; "yes, yes--oh, yes--the dear boy! those other geese were after me--yes, geese, indeed, chasing me down the sidewalk--yes, sidewalk, geese they were--geese--and he came, the dear boy--came and shoo-ed them away--shoo-ed them, yes, shoo-ed, indeed, shoo-ed." and now she was quite ready to answer any and every question which hannah might put to her, and, so far as she was able, to put her in the way of that which she was seeking. she confided her own purpose to the old nurse, and hannah was fain to tell her hers, at least so much as that she was anxious to convert her gold into a bank-note which she might send to percy without exciting his suspicions as to whence it came. of course she gave no hint of his wrong-doing, saying only that she wished him to have the money and that he should not know the donor. but, jostled and pushed about by the passers-by hurrying on during the most busy time of the day, they could not talk at their ease there on the sidewalk; and presently hannah proposed retiring within the shelter of the broad hallway of an imposing building, where the two old innocents sat themselves down on a flight of stone stairs and exchanged confidences. they exchanged more; for before the close of the conference hannah's gold, or the greater part of it, was in miss trevor's satchel and a hundred-dollar note in hannah's hands. hannah's arithmetic was much at fault, notwithstanding the information she had gained from colonel rush on the subject of her finances; and her unheard-of confidence in this utter stranger of an hour since was further strengthened when miss trevor, with her superior knowledge, made it clear to her that she was about to give her too much gold in exchange for the bank-note. moreover, the odd little drawing-teacher, whom hannah afterwards, when some qualms as to her own prudence assailed her, characterized as "hevery hinch a lady if she was that queer you'd think she'd just hescaped the lunatic hasylum," removed another stumbling-block from the path of the latter. she offered, if hannah desired it, to carry the money for percy back to sylvandale, and to see that it was safely given into his hands; thus delivering the faithful old nurse from her dilemma as to the means of conveying it to him. having once lost some money through the mail, she had also lost all faith in that, and knowing nothing of the ways now afforded for sending it in safety, she had been in some perplexity over this. and, will it be believed? she committed it to miss trevor's keeping without other guarantee than her word that percy should receive it without knowing whence it came. hannah would readily have let the boy know that she had sent it, for she was not disposed to hide her light under a bushel; but she dared not, lest she should betray the dishonorable part she had played in reading his letter to lena and so discovering the disgraceful secret. she was further satisfied, however, as to miss trevor's good faith, after she had, at her request, accompanied her to mr. powers' office. the name of powers had not conveyed any especial meaning to hannah, although she did know that one of lena's classmates was named belle powers, and she had seen the little girl once or twice; but when she entered the gentleman's office and remembered that she had seen him at the christmas party at mr. bradford's and afterwards at colonel rush's, she at once set the seal of her approval upon him as being "the friend of such gentry;" and when mr. powers received miss trevor with great respect and attention, and promised with many expressions of good will to carry out her wishes, she plumed herself upon her sagacity in so intuitively discovering the quality of the little old lady's "hinches." it is true that these were few in quantity, but hannah believed that they were of the right material; nor was she far wrong. but to make assurance doubly sure she stepped up to mr. powers at a moment when miss trevor, intent upon securing the lock of her satchel, had turned her back, and whispered to him: "she's all right, isn't she, sir?" "oh, yes, yes; only a little odd, but quite herself; as sane as you are," answered the gentleman, supposing that miss trevor's manner had led hannah to infer that she was insane. "if she wasn't hall right i'd lose my buryin' and my moniment for nothing," said hannah, almost in the same breath; and mr. powers stared at her, believing that she herself must be a candidate for the lunatic asylum. hitherto he had not paid much attention to her, merely glancing at her as she came in, and supposing her to be miss trevor's attendant; but at this extraordinary speech he scrutinized her narrowly, wondering if she were quite in her right mind and if it were safe to let miss trevor go about under her guidance. having transacted her business, miss trevor asked mr. powers concerning belle and some of her young friends whom she also taught. and then, to hannah's dismay, she asked him if he could tell her anything of mrs. rush and her sister, mrs. stanton, names very familiar to hannah, and which she was not pleased to hear at the present juncture. she would never have taken miss trevor into partial confidence, would never have entrusted her with the mission to percy, had she known that the old lady was acquainted with members of the very family in whose service she was, with the uncle and aunt of the boy whom she was secretly striving to save from disgrace. what should she do now? and here was mr. powers actually advising the old lady to go up and see mrs. rush and her late pupils if she had time to do so. poor hannah! she may almost be forgiven for the dishonorable way in which she had contrived to possess herself of lena's letter, for the sake of her loyalty to and self-sacrifice for her nurslings. her chief thought now was less for her money than for the risk of the discovery of percy's secret by his relatives. she must be very careful to keep out of the way of any one coming to colonel rush's house, at least, for a day or two. she was in a very bad humor now, this old hannah, and as dissatisfied with the turn matters had taken as but a short time since she had been well pleased. she quite resented miss trevor's acquaintance with mrs. rush and other friends of the neville family, and her looks toward that lady were now so glum and ill-natured that mr. powers could not fail to notice them, and was more than ever beset by doubts as to her perfect sanity. they were a queer couple, he thought, to go wandering together through the distracting business streets. when hannah was worried she was cross, as has been seen; and now, being thus assailed with doubts as to the wisdom of the course she had pursued, she proved herself no agreeable companion, and laid aside the respectful tone and manner with which she had hitherto treated miss trevor, till the old lady began to feel uneasy in her turn, and her manner and speech became more queer, jerky, and confused than ever. at last, when they reached the corner of the street, she grabbed the arm of a policeman and in her broken, incoherent way, begged to be put into a street car; and as one happened to be passing at the moment, the request was complied with and miss trevor borne away before hannah had fairly realized that she had left her. poor hannah! if she had been uneasy before, it may be imagined what a state of mind she was in now. she stood watching the retreating conveyance in a bewildered sort of way till it was almost lost to sight among the crowd of vehicles; and then, with some vague notion of pursuing miss trevor and demanding back her money, hailed another car and entered it. but after she was seated, sober second thought came to her aid, and all the reasons she had before formed for trusting miss trevor, returned to her, till she once more rested satisfied that the means for percy's rescue from the toils he had woven for himself were in safe hands. chapter ix. an unexpected meeting. "who do you think is going to win that prize of mr. ashton's?" asked fred bradford of his sisters that day at the dinner table. "it is coming near easter, you know, and you must have some idea by this time." "why, maggie, of course," answered bessie, positively, for the question was not one which admitted of dispute to bessie's mind. she gave no time for her sister to answer, and maggie did not reply. "you seem to be very sure of your position, little woman," said her father. "well, papa," said bessie, still confidently, "lena has not been able to try for it, you know, since she was burned; and gracie _will not_ try. she says she don't want it, and she acts very queerly and seems to have no interest about it at all." "perhaps she's ashamed of the way she behaved that day she had the row with lena," said fred, who had heard the account of gracie's ill-behavior, not from maggie and bessie, but from some of "the other fellows" whose sisters were members of the "cheeryble sisters." bessie shook her sunny head. "no, i don't think so," she answered. "at least she has never said so, and if she felt sorry enough to keep her from trying for the prize, i should think she would tell lena so." "_you_ would, but not she," said fred. "catch gracie howard eating humble pie. but you don't seem to have much idea of gaining it yourself." "i!" said bessie, opening wide her eyes in undisguised astonishment, "why, no; i am not even trying for it." "well, it is too late now, as it is so near easter," said harry; "but since the prize is for general improvement and not for any one particular composition, i do not see why you should not have tried and generally improved as well as the others." "well, i did try to do the best i could and to improve myself," answered bessie; "but i did not think about gaining the prize. i know i couldn't." "catch bess not doing her level best for conscience' sake, prizes, or no prizes," said fred. "oh, i say, bess, you are going to begin your music lessons at easter, are you not?" the color flushed all over bessie's face and neck as she answered, after a moment's hesitation, "no, i am not, fred; and no questions asked." "'no questions asked,'" repeated fred, laughing, "but that is rather hard on our curiosity, when you have been so wild for music lessons for the last year or more. what have you been doing that they are forfeited, for i know papa promised them to you after easter?" "i told you no questions asked," repeated bessie, in a slightly irritated tone, and looking very much disturbed. "hallo!" said the astonished fred, taking these for the signs of guilt. "hallo! our pattern bess has never been doing anything wrong, has she? and so very wrong that--ouch! hal, what was that for? i'll thank you not to be kicking me that way under the table!" for harry had given him a by no means gentle reminder of that nature; and now his father, too, came to the rescue. "let your sister alone, fred," he said. "i can tell you that she has done nothing wrong. she and i have a little understanding on this matter; but she has forgotten that there is no necessity for doing without the music lessons, and she is, i assure you, to have them. but, as bessie says, 'no questions asked.' we will drop the subject." bessie's soft eyes opened wide, as she gazed at her father in pleased surprise. although the money which had been devoted by her to lena's relief had not come through him, it actually had not occurred to her until this moment that she would not be called upon to give up the music lessons. she had made the sacrifice freely for lena's sake, and had had no thought of evading its fulfilment, even after circumstances had turned out so differently from anything that she had expected. she flashed a grateful, appreciative glance at her father from out of the depths of those loving eyes, but said nothing; and, as mr. bradford had decreed, the subject was changed. the father and his little daughter understood one another. mr. bradford did not, however, tell bessie that he had never intended that she should be obliged to carry out her sacrifice; she had offered it unselfishly, and in good faith, and he would let her have the satisfaction of feeling that she had been willing to do this for her little friend. bessie was not sure whether or no she was in haste to see lena and hear from her of the providential gift she had received. she was so little accustomed to conceal her feelings, to evasion, or to affectation of an ignorance which did not exist, that she did not know how she was to maintain an appearance of innocence when lena should tell her that which she would doubtless believe to be surprising news; and more and more confirmed became her resolution "never, never, never to have another secret" which she could not share with her mother and maggie. but when she did see lena--which was not until the latter had sent for her to come to her--all difficulty on that score was removed, for the news which her friend had to communicate to her was really so extraordinary and unlocked for that she did not need to affect surprise, or to feel embarrassed over her own share in the events lena had to relate. and the possibility of bessie being the donor of that sum of money never occurred to lena. perhaps she would have been glad to know it, for lena was a proud child, with a very independent spirit, and in spite of the immense relief it was to her to be able to free percy from the difficulties in which he had involved himself, there had been an uncomfortable feeling back of that from the sense of obligation to some unknown person. who could have sent her that money? who could have been aware of her extreme need of it? there is small occasion to say that it had scarcely come into her hands when it was sent again on its travels; this time to percy. the hilarious acknowledgment which immediately came back to her was a relief in more ways than one, although she was half provoked at the _insouciant_, devil-may-care-now spirit which it evinced. percy wrote: "dear lena, "you're the dearest of little sisters, the brickiest of bricks! but there is no need for me to rob you of your hundred dollars. you say somebody sent it to you anonymously; well, the same somebody, i suppose, has done the same good office for me, sent me a hundred dollars. you say you don't know who it could be; why, it was russell, of course. you know he's just as generous as generous can be, and since he came into his own money he can't rid himself of it fast enough, but must always be finding out ways of spending it for other people. and i don't see anything so strange in this way of doing it. he knew the powers that be would make an awful row if they knew we had all that money to spend at our own sweet wills, so he took this way of sending it to us, so that we could keep our own counsel; and if they do find out we have it, we can say we don't know where it came from. it is a blessed thing they will never know that i had mine, at any rate, or ask where it went. you may be sure it did not stay in my hands long, but went into those of seabrooke in five minutes. how i did want to keep it too. but there, seabrooke is paid, and i'm free and no one the wiser; at least, no one that i'm afraid of, so no harm is done. but to think i've had to lose that money for such a thing as that. i suppose it was a shabby trick to play, and i tell you i think i never heard anything quite so scurvy as flagg putting that stuff into seabrooke's carafe to make him sleep, and i'm sure seabrooke feels more put out about that than he does about the letter, because that was malice prepense, and the other was--well--an accident; at least, we did not know the mischief we were doing, and we have made it all right. but he can't get over the drugging, and i'm glad i had no hand in it, for i do not know what the doctor will say to it. he is not back yet; but his son is better, and he will be here when we come after the easter holidays. i'm rather sick of flagg anyway; he has mean ways, and our dear old russell wouldn't tolerate him for a moment, so i'll shake him off all i can when i come back to school. i'll keep your hundred dollars till i come home, and hand it to you then. you're a trump, lena, and i never would have taken it if i could have helped it. but i would have had to do it if this other hundred had not come. and, do you know, there is one thing that puzzles me. it came by post from new york in a hair-pin box, and done up in about a thousand papers-at least there were six--so i suppose russell sent to some one in the city to do it for him; but the whole thing was awfully womanish. the address was in the most correct, copy-book-y handwriting, every point turned just so, every loop according to rule. but it came just in the nick of time, and saved me and your money. bless your heart, how are the feet? "your own all the same everlastingly obliged brother, "percy neville." thankful as lena had been to receive this letter, so annoyed was she by percy's indifferent, careless way of looking upon his own misdeeds that she did not show it to bessie; she was ashamed to do so, knowing, as she did, bessie's conscientiousness and strict sense of honor and honesty. "all right now." was this indeed all the impression made upon percy by his late peril, all the shame and regret he could feel? child though she was, and several years younger than her erring brother, the ways of right and wrong were so much clearer to her than they were to him, she had so much more steadfastness of character and purpose. "now," she said, when she had told bessie all, "now if i could only find out who sent me that money and return it when percy sends it back to me. but you see, bessie, i am not so sure that it was russell. it is not at all like the way he does things; he is never mysterious or anonymous; and he is not at all afraid of papa or mamma, and can do what he likes with his own money. he is very, very generous, and always takes such nice ways of being kind to people and giving them pleasure; and i do not think that this would be at all a nice way of sending presents to percy and me. do you, bessie?" "no," answered bessie, doubtfully, remembering her own way of conveying to lena the means of rescuing percy,--"no--i--do not like anonymousity very much; but i suppose there are times when one has to do it." "um-m-m; no, i do not think so," said lena, all unconscious of bessie's secret, and looking at her with surprise; for she knew bessie's ideas about underhand dealings to be as uncompromising as her own. but bessie stuck to her point; she had known of a case where "to be anonymous" was the best and only course to take, so it had seemed to her, and she was not to be convinced that there were not times when it was justifiable. however, she was not anxious to dwell upon the subject, and soon changed it. she knew that lena's unknown friend was not her brother russell, and she was herself mystified about the other sum sent to percy; but, fearful of betraying her own part, she began to talk of something else. "do you remember, lena," she said, "that next sunday is easter sunday, and that saturday is the day for miss ashton to name the one who deserves mr. ashton's prize?" "yes," answered lena, rather despondently, "but that cannot make much difference to me, except that i shall be so glad if you or maggie win it." "oh, maggie will, certainly," said bessie, secure in her belief that no one could compete with her sister, now that lena was supposed to be out of the question and gracie howard had decidedly withdrawn from the contest. "maggie is sure to have it, and you know that she is anxious for it so she can give it to gladys seabrooke, as you would have done." "i was thinking," said lena, with a little hesitation, very different from her usual straightforward, somewhat blunt way of speaking, "i was thinking that you and maggie praise me too much for wishing to earn the prize for gladys seabrooke. i would like to be the one to win it for her; but i think--i know--it is more for my own sake than for hers. you know i told you i wished so much that papa and mamma would think me so much improved by miss ashton's teaching that they would wish me to stay with her; and they would think it a sign of that if i did win the prize." "yes, i know," answered bessie; "but i thought your father had promised that you should stay with uncle horace and aunt may, and go to miss ashton's while you were in our country." "yes," said lena, "but i want to stay here till i am quite grown up and educated. i want papa and mamma to think that i am doing better here, improving more than i have ever done before--as i am--so that they will leave me till i am grown up and quite old. uncle horace and aunt may would keep me; uncle horace said he would like to have me for his girl always." not even her opinion of mrs. neville as a mother, not even her appreciation of the happiness of a home with her beloved colonel and mrs. rush could quite reconcile bessie to the fact that lena was not only willing but anxious to leave her own home and family and to remain in a country where she would be separated from them for years to come; but nevertheless she felt a great sympathy for her and a strong desire that this wish should be fulfilled. still she could not but have a little feeling of gladness that, according to her belief, there was no one who could now compete with her own maggie for the prize; and she rather evaded the subject and took up that of school-news until maggie, who had come with jane, the nursery-maid, to take bessie home, ran in. she brought with her the papers read at the last meeting of the "cheeryble sisters' club," such papers being, at lena's special request, always turned over to her for perusal. "whose are these?" asked the young convalescent, when maggie delivered them to her. "one is bessie's, and it is poetry. did you know that bessie had begun to write poetry?" said maggie. "two poetesses in one family!" said lena. "no, i did not hear that bessie wrote poetry too." "and this is so sweet," said maggie; "such a pretty idea. and this paper is lily's. lily has given up the resolution that she would never let her compositions be read in the club, and this is the second one she has given us. it is good, too," she added. "and this is another one from frankie. he seems to think himself quite a 'cheeryble sister,'" she added, laughing. "can you not read them to me before you go?" asked lena, and maggie assented. "i'll read the best first," with a smile full of appreciative pride at bessie, "for fear jane comes and asks me to hurry because she has a million things to do." and accordingly she unfolded one of the papers she had laid upon lena's table when she came in; but before she had time even to commence it, jane put her head in at the door with the usual formula. "miss maggie and miss bessie, will you please come. i have a million things to do, and ought to be at home." "in a few moments," answered maggie; but jane added to her persuasions by saying: "and it's snowing, too; a snow kind of soft-like that'll be turning into rain before long, and miss bessie'll get wet." this moved maggie, as the politic jane knew that it would do, for it was not expedient for bessie to be out in the damp or wet; and when she glanced out of the window and saw that the maid's words were true, she lingered no longer, but laid the papers down again and told lena they must go; and jane, congratulating herself that she had gained her point so easily, was bearing away her young charge when an interruption occurred. the children were in mrs. rush's sitting-room, and just at this moment she came in, accompanied by a little old lady, who will, doubtless be immediately recognized by those who have met her before. "maggie and bessie, you are not just going, are you?" said mrs. rush. "here is an old friend who would like to see you, at least for a few moments." "i think we must go, aunt may," said maggie, "for it is snowing, and mamma would not like bessie to be out." then, turning to the little old lady, "how do you do, miss trevor? it is a long time since we have seen you." "time, indeed; time, yes, time," said miss trevor, shaking hands warmly with both maggie and bessie. "and you've grown, yes, grown, actually grown--why, grown!" she added, in a tone which would indicate that it was a matter of surprise two girls of the ages of maggie and bessie should grow. then she put her head on one side and critically scanned her quondam pupils, giving them little nods of approval as she did so. maggie and bessie were used to miss trevor's odd ways and manner of speaking; but to lena they were a novelty, as she had never seen her before, although she had heard of her from her aunt and from her schoolmates, who often made merry over the recollection of her peculiarities when she had been their teacher in writing and drawing. presently she turned to lena and surveyed her as if she were a kind of natural curiosity; yet there was nothing rude or obtrusive in the gaze. "my niece, lena neville, miss trevor," said mrs. rush. "lena, dear, this is miss trevor, of whom you have often heard me speak." "so this is the little heroine," murmured miss trevor, "heroine, yes, heroine, indeed. fire, oh yes, indeed, fire; such courage, such presence of mind, yes, mind, indeed, mind." lena was annoyed. she did not like allusions to the fire, to her own bravery and her rescue of her little sister, even from those who were near and dear to her; and from strangers they were unendurable to her. she shrank back in her chair and half turned her face from miss trevor, while the dark look which mrs. rush knew so well, but which she seldom wore now, came over it. she hastened to effect a diversion. "miss maggie, if you please, it's snowing fast," said jane, "and i've a mil--" "the young ladies cannot walk home in this wet snow," interposed mrs. rush. "the carriage has gone for the colonel; when it returns it shall take them home. and, miss trevor, it shall take you also. you can go to the nursery if you choose, jane." so jane, forgetting the "million things" in the prospect of a comfortable gossip with old margaret, departed to the nursery till the carriage should return and her young ladies be ready to go. miss trevor, who was at her ease with mrs. rush and her former pupils of miss ashton's class if she was with any one, asked many questions about the studies of the latter and of the progress they were making in the two branches in which she had been their instructress, and gave some information respecting herself; lena listening and looking on in wonder at her peculiarities of speech and manner, but taking no part in the conversation. but at last miss trevor turned to her again. "neville, you said, my dear mrs. rush,--your niece--yes, neville, indeed, neville. such a favorite with me--me, indeed, yes, favorite. i know a boy, yes, boy--indeed, youth--such a fine youth--such a hero--ro, indeed, ro--does not fear geese--hissing creatures, my dears--yes, creatures, indeed creatures, my dears, yes, creatures, indeed. neville he is, yes, neville--chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche, 'proche_, indeed, _'proche_." now, as may be supposed, lena was far from regarding her brother percy as a "chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_." she had little reason, in view of late occurrences, to do so, and she never connected him with the heroic youth on whose praises this odd little old lady was dwelling. she felt no interest in her, only a sort of impatient surprise, and wished that her aunt would take her away. miss trevor dwelt farther upon the episode of the geese and percy's coming to the rescue; and while lena maintained a sober face, seeing nothing especially funny in the story, maggie and bessie, and even mrs. rush, had some difficulty in restraining themselves from laughing outright at the tragic tale she contrived to make out of it, and the thought of the droll spectacle the old lady must have presented as she flew down the street, pursued by the hissing, long-necked foe. but presently lena's attention was aroused. "but are flocks of geese allowed to wander loose in the streets of utica, miss trevor?" asked mrs. rush. "i thought it was too much of a place for that." "oh, no, my dear not utica, no indeed, not utica--did you not know? we moved, yes, moved, a year ago, yes, 'go, to sylvandale, yes, sylvandale--yes, 'dale," said miss trevor. "sylvandale! neville!" said mrs. rush. "lena has a brother at school at sylvandale. percy neville! can it be that our percy is your young cavalier, miss trevor?" "percy neville," repeated miss trevor, "yes, indeed, that is his name, name, yes, name. is it possible he is your brother?" turning to lena with a face now radiant with pleasure at this discovery. "ah! such a boy, boy, indeed, boy!" lena was interested now, and, perhaps a trifle uneasy, lest by any possibility some knowledge of percy's escapades should have come to miss trevor and might by her be incautiously betrayed to colonel and mrs. rush. she turned rather an anxious eye upon the old lady, wishing that she would not pursue the theme of percy and his valorous deeds, but not seeing very well how she could change the subject. words did not come easily to lena. and her fears were not without foundation, although miss trevor knew nothing of percy's troubles. further and more startling revelations were to come. for just at the moment, to this assembled group, entered hannah, bearing in her hands a tray, on which was a cup of beef-tea for lena. she was close to her little lady before she perceived the stranger, whom she would have shunned as she would a pestilence. the recognition was mutual, and to hannah most unpleasant, and in the start it gave her she nearly dropped the tray and its contents. "merciful lord!" she ejaculated, taken completely off her guard; but the exclamation was far more of a prayer than an irreverent mention of her maker's name. for was not her beloved nursling in danger? her master percy, for whom she had sacrificed so much, was he not in danger of betrayal and disgrace in case this old lady should touch upon the subject of the money confided to her care to be conveyed to him? she was not gifted with presence of mind, and she stood perfectly still, staring in undisguised perturbation at miss trevor. perceiving this, miss trevor believed that it was caused not only by surprise at seeing her there when she had told hannah that she expected to return at once to sylvandale, but also by the fear that the money had not reached its destination in good time, and she hastened to relieve her, thus bringing on the disclosures which hannah was dreading. "good morning," she said, kindly. "your money has gone, yes gone, my good woman, gone. i stayed in the city, yes, stayed, but the money has gone. he has it, the dear boy, yes, boy, he has it." it was not her money but her boy that hannah was fearing for now, and for whom she stood dismayed at the sight of miss trevor. moreover, although she knew her place, and generally treated her superiors with all due respect, if there was one thing more than another which exasperated her, it was to have any one call her "my good woman;" and, hastily setting her tray upon the table, she looked daggers at miss trevor, as she answered, snappishly: "i wasn't askin' ye nothin', ma'am." then she turned and fled, desirous to avoid all questions, although it was not hannah's way to flee before danger, either real or apprehended. [illustration: "i wasn't askin' ye nothin', ma'am."] chapter x. frankie to the front again. it was the worst thing she could have done for her cause. it was her custom to stand over lena "till hevery drop of that beef-tea is taken," knowing, as she did, that her young charge was averse to the process; and, had she stood her ground she might have evaded or parried questions, and perhaps have conveyed to miss trevor her desire for secrecy; but her dark looks and sudden exit, evidently caused by the presence of the latter, put the timid old lady into one of her flutters. "what is it, my dear?" she asked, turning to mrs. rush, and speaking in a kind of panic. "what did i do? does she think--yes--think that the money has not gone? oh, yes, indeed, yes, i sent it so carefully, carefully indeed, fully, and the dear boy has it, yes, has it, indeed, long before this, long!" then to lena, "your brother, my dear, yes, brother. oh, i would have gone home myself to take it to him, yes, take, if i could not have sent it quite safely, yes, safe; but they persuaded me to stay, and so i sent it by post, sent it, yes, post." lena gave a little gasp. here then was a partial solution of the mystery of that second hundred dollars. she and bessie both saw it; hannah had sent it to percy, and by some strange means, through miss trevor. and hannah was now evidently very angry and disturbed. what could it all mean? bessie wondered: but the matter was not of as much moment to her as it was to lena, who was more bewildered, if possible, than ever. and she knew what must follow--questions, explanations, and disclosure to her aunt and uncle of percy's wrong-doing. now, however, that he was released from the other dangers that had threatened him, the child felt this to be almost a relief: she had so suffered under the knowledge that she was keeping his secret from them, had felt such a sense of positive guiltiness in their presence. "what is all this, miss trevor?" asked mrs. rush. "where have you met lena's old nurse before? and what is this about percy; for i take it for granted he is the brother of lena of whom you are speaking." her manner was so grave that miss trevor was alarmed, and imagining that she had brought herself and her young cavalier into some difficulty, she became more incoherent, nervous and rambling than usual. repeating herself over and over again, she related, in such a confused manner, the story of her encounter with hannah, and of how the latter had entrusted her with the money for percy; of how she had intended to return to sylvandale at once when she had accepted the trust, but had been persuaded by her friends to remain in the city until after easter, and how she, mindful of the task she had undertaken, and not knowing where she could find hannah to inform her of the change in her plans, had sent the money by post; but, as she assured mrs. rush, with the greatest precautions. only those who were accustomed to her ways of speech could have thoroughly understood her, and even mrs. rush, who had known the old lady from her own childhood, had some difficulty in patching together a connected tale; and all she arrived at in the end only increased her desire to know more of the matter and to understand for what purpose hannah had sent such a sum of money to percy, and in such a mysterious manner. as for lena, a new thorn was planted in her poor little heart, a new shame bowed her head. this much she understood, that hannah had been sending money to percy. was it possible that her reckless brother had been so lost to all sense of what was fitting that he had actually applied to his faithful old nurse, this servant in his father's family, for aid? oh, percy, percy; shame, shame! as we know, she wronged percy in this; but as she had no means of ascertaining how hannah had become possessed of his secret and of his extremity, it was the most natural thing in the world that she should think he had so far forgotten himself. she could guess at more than mrs. rush or bessie bradford could, and had no doubt to what purpose the money entrusted to miss trevor had been destined. and an added pang of shame and regret was given to the proud, high-spirited child when, at the conclusion of miss trevor's rambling tale, her aunt turned to her, and said: "why, lena, that gold must have been those cherished sovereigns which hannah destined for her monument and '_epithet_.' why should she have sent them to percy? it is not possible that she would trust them to the keeping of a careless schoolboy." as yet, it was plain, mrs. rush had suspected nothing wrong, so far as percy was concerned about the disposal of hannah's money, but now when she observed the painful flush and startled, shamed look upon the little girl's face, she could not but see that lena was distressed, and instantly coupled this with the low spirits and nervous restlessness which had, for some time past, so evidently retarded her recovery. lena could make her no answer in words, but her expression and manner were enough, and mrs. rush asked no more, intending to leave the matter to the judgment of her husband. she gave no hint of her suspicions to lena, moreover, passing over the child's agitation in silence; and when the carriage had returned with the colonel, and the visitors departed, she set herself to divert lena, offering, if she chose, to read the "club papers" maggie had brought with her. lena assented, more to divert attention from herself and to turn her aunt's thoughts from the subject of the mysterious doings of hannah, than from any real interest in the compositions; but as mrs. rush read her attention was presently attracted. "this is one of maggie's, i see," said mrs. rush, perceiving one in maggie's handwriting. "oh, no," glancing at the commencement and seeing that it was by no means in maggie's style, "it is another effusion of frankie's; she has only written it out from his dictation. i wonder if it will be as droll as 'babylon babylon.'" "the man that broke good friday." "once there was a boy, and he never told a lie, and his name wasn't george washington either. and i don't think it was anything so great to tell about that everlasting cherry-tree that everybody's tired hearing about; and when i come to be the father of my country and i do something bad, i'll just go and tell my papa about it without waiting for him to go poking round and having to ask me if i did it. i think it is awfully mean to do a fault and wait till somebody comes and asks you about it; it is skimpy of telling the truth. and if you do bad things your fathers don't always claps you in their arms and say they'd rather you'd do a hundred bad things than tell a lie; sometimes they punish you, all the same, and you don't always get out of it that way. "well, this boy didn't think so much of himself because he didn't tell lies; he was used to not telling them, and he didn't get himself put into the history books about it and make himself chestnuts. he was very polite to girls, too, and always got up and gave them a chair and gave them the best of everything, just like our hal. hal's awfully generous, and fred is, too; only fred teases, and the boys call hal 'troubadour.' "well, there was a man lived by this boy's house, and he was a real bad man, and it came good friday, and this man didn't go to church or anything; but he bought a flag--a great big, new one, and he put it right up on his flag-staff with his own hands. he just must have been glad that god was dead. the good boy saw it, and he knew it wasn't any use to tell that man he was breaking good friday, 'cause he would just say 'mind your own business,' so the boy ran to the president and told him about it, and the president came down out of his capitol and ran with the truth-telling boy and came to the man and said, 'hi, there, you! pull down that flag this minute on good friday! and the man was awfully frightened 'cause he knew the president has such lots of soldiers and policemen, and he was afraid he'd set them on him; so he pulled down the flag mighty quick. but he was so mad he made faces at the president; but the president didn't care a bit. presidents grow used to disagreeable things, and it is worse having people not vote for you than it is to be made faces at. he had a lot of laws to make that day and he thought he'd make a new one about putting up flags on good friday; so he hurried home to his capitol; but when he came there, he said to his wife: "'my dear, i'm afraid that man might do something horrid to that truth-telling boy--i know just by the look of him he don't like people who tell the truth; so you run and peep round the corner and watch!' "and the president's wife said, 'yes, your presidency, i will'; and she put on her best frock and her crown, so as to make the man think she was very grand, so he'd be respectful to her, and she kissed the president for good-by and went and peeped around the corner. "well, you see after the president went away that man had grown madder and madder, but he didn't dare to put the flag up again, only he didn't like it 'cause somebody meddled with his business; generally people don't like it if you meddle with their business; and he stamped his feet and clenched his hands, and just screamed, he was so mad. it sometimes makes you feel a little better to scream if you're mad, only your fathers and mothers don't like it, but this man was so old and grown up his father and mother had had to die long ago; but they saw him out of heaven and were mad at him. well, all of a sudden he said, 'i guess it was that boy who never tells lies; he looked real mad when he saw that flag, and i'll pay him off, oh, won't i though!' then he cut off a great big piece of his flag-staff; he forgot the flag wouldn't go so high if he did it, and he was going to run at that boy who didn't tell lies; but the boy wasn't going to wait for him to ask, and he went up to him and said: "'hi, there, you! i told the president about you; i don't want you to ask me any kestions, 'cause always i speak the truth without waiting for people to ask me, and i did it, so, there now!' "then the bad man struck at the boy with the piece of the flag-staff in his hand; but the boy was too quick for him, and he couldn't reach him, and the president's wife screamed right out and ran for her husband's soldiers. she would have gone to help the boy herself; but she had to be very proud and stiff of herself because she was the president's wife. "when the president heard her scream he knew it was because that man was trying to do something to the boy; so he looked in his laws dictionary to find what to do to him; but the man that made the dictionary never thought that any one would be so bad as to break good friday, so there was nothing about it. so he made a new law himself very quick and told the soldiers what to do, and they came; and the president's wife was hollering like anything and nervous; but the boy was just laughing and jumping around the man, saying, 'catch me; why don't you catch me, old good friday breaker.' "well, this boy had a fairy of his own--this is partly a fairy tale and partly a bible story, 'cause it is about good friday; and i don't know if it's very pious to mix up the two, but i have to end up the story--and this fairy came to help him, and she opened a hole in the ground and let the man fall right through to africa, where the cannibals got him and eat him up; but he was so bad he disagreed with them, so even after he was killed he was a nuisance. then the president gave the boy a beautiful present, and told him he'd vote for him to be president when he grew up, and he'd give him a whole regiment of soldiers for his own. "so this is what you get for always telling the truth, and for not being afraid to tell when you've done a bad thing. anybody is an awful old meaner to hide it when he's done it, and you ought to tell right out and not be sneaky. a boy who hides what he's done _is_ a sneak, i don't care. the end." there were some parts of this fanciful tale which made lena wince, as she saw how much clearer an idea of right and wrong, truth and justice, had this little boy of seven than had her own brother of more than twice his age. if percy could but think that it was "mean and sneaky" to endeavor to hide a fault, could but see how much nobler and more manly it was to make confession, and, so far as possible, reparation. true, the money had been repaid to seabrooke; but through what a source had it come to him; and there were so many other things to confess, things which had led to this very trouble with seabrooke. the rambling, half-incoherent nonsense written, or rather, dictated by the little brother of her young friends made her feel more than ever the shame and meanness of percy's conduct, and she could not laugh at frankie's contribution to the "cheeryble sisters," as her aunt did. and frankie practised that which he preached, as lena very well knew. mischievous and heedless, almost to recklessness, he was not only always ready to confess his wrong-doing when questioned, but when conscious of his fault, did not wait for his parents to "go poking about to find him out," but would go straightway and accuse himself. like all the bradford children, strictly truthful and upright, he scorned concealment or evasion, and accepted the consequences of his naughtiness without attempt at either. but well could lena remember how in the nursery days from which she and percy had but so recently escaped, he would hide, by every possible device, his own misdoings, even to the very verge of suffering others to be blamed for them. hannah would even then strive to shield him from detection and punishment at his parents' hands, thus fostering his weakness and moral cowardice. with over-severity on the one hand, and over-indulgence on the other, what wonder was it that percy's faults had grown with his growth and strengthened with his strength? it cannot be said that lena put all this into words, even to herself: but such thoughts were there, or those very much like them. she was given to reasoning and pondering over things in the recesses of her own mind, and she was uncommonly clear-sighted for a girl of her age. probably the child was not the happier for that. to maggie and bessie, in their joyous lives, full of the tenderness and confidence and sympathy which existed between them and their parents, such ideas would never have come, even while they wondered at and pitied the utter lack in lena's existence of all that made the happiness of theirs. and another trouble, perhaps now the greatest which weighed upon lena's mind, was the knowledge that their faithful old nurse had sacrificed her long-cherished gold, with its particular purpose, to the rescue of percy from his dilemma. for, after hearing miss trevor's story, lena could not--did not doubt that this was so. and aunt may, having also heard the tale, would tell uncle horace; there was no doubt of that. lena was not at all relieved by the fact that her aunt asked no questions, never once alluded to the subject. she suspected something wrong, and was only waiting for an opportunity to submit it to the colonel. lena did not imagine, of course, that her aunt blamed her in any way in the matter; there was no reason that she should do so, and in one respect it would be almost a relief to have her aunt and uncle know all. but for percy's sake she still shrank from that. but hannah, and hannah's cherished money! dear, faithful old hannah! oh, the shame, the shame of it! mrs. rush, with her suspicions already tending percy-wise in connection with lena's late low spirits, and noting how devoid of interest she seemed to be in the papers she was reading for her benefit, had those suspicions more than ever confirmed since she observed the effect miss trevor's revelation had had upon her; she felt assured now that percy had fallen into some trouble from which his sister and his old nurse had endeavored to extricate him. and it must be indeed a serious trouble which made needful such secrecy, such mysterious, underhand doings. suddenly mrs. rush saw lena's countenance change; a look of relief passed over it, and her head was lifted and her eye brightened again. for it had flashed upon the child that there was a way out of a part of the difficulty, at least. that second hundred dollars could be taken to return to hannah that which she had sacrificed. percy had written that he would bring it to her when she came home for the easter holidays; she would somehow contrive to have it turned into gold and give it back to the old woman, telling her at the same time that she and percy had discovered her generosity, and loved her all the more for her faithful tenderness. ah! she said to herself, how stupid she had been not to see this at once, and how strange that percy had not thought of doing it when he must at least have suspected the truth after applying to hannah. mrs. rush took up the second paper and glanced over it, then laughed. "this is lily's," she said. "spelling does not seem to be her strong point." "no," answered lena, "she says she never can spell, and i do not think she tries very hard. miss ashton takes a great deal of trouble with her, too; but lily just laughs at her own spelling and does not seem to think that it matters very much. but she is so nice," she added, apologetically, "and we all like her so much." "yes," answered mrs. rush, "lily is a dear child, and so truly noble and upright and conscientious, in spite of her sometimes careless way of speaking of right and wrong. shall i read this, lena; do you care to hear it?" for she had noticed that lena appeared _distraite_ during the reading of frankie's composition. "oh, yes, if you please, aunt marian," answered lena, more cheerfully than she had spoken before. "lily's compositions are always rather droll, even if they are not very correct." "but does miss ashton leave it to lily's own choice to say whether she will write compositions or no?" asked mrs. rush. "oh, no," answered lena, "she has to write them regularly, as the rest of us do; but she has never before been willing to have one read in the club, and even this she will not allow to go in our book." "'good resolutions' is the title of the piece," said mrs. rush, beginning to read from the paper in her hand. "good resolutions are capitle things if you keep them, but generally they are made to be broken; at least i am afraid mine are. i think i've made about a thousand in my life, and about nine hundred and ninety-seven have been broken. but there is one good resolution i made i have never broken and never shall, and that is, forever and ever and ever to hate oliver cromwell. i shall always kepe that. i know of lots of bad men, but i think he was the worst i ever knew. he made believe he was very pious, but he was not at all, he was a hipokrit and deceiver; and he made believe he had the king killed for writeousness' sake, and i know he only did it so as to take the head place himself. i think i can't bear cromwell more than any one i ever knew. i just hate him, and it is no use for any one to say he was doing what he thought was best for his country and he meant well. i don't believe it, and i hate people who mean well; they are always tiresome. the poor dear king! i would like to have been there when they tryed him, and i would have been like lady fairfax and would have called out, 'oliver cromwell is a rogue and a traitor,' and not been afrade of anybody when i wanted to stand up for my king. i love lady fairfax." "what a stanch little royalist lily is and would have been had she lived in those days," said mrs. rush, smiling as she came to a pause. "yes," said lena, "she always stands up for kings and the rights of kings." "but i am amazed," said mrs. rush, "that lily does not write a better composition than this. it is really not as good as some which i have seen written by the younger children of the class, bessie, belle and amy." "no," answered lena, "and we all think it is because lily does not choose to take pains with her compositions. she is so bright and clever about all her other lessons, history, geography, french, and everything but composition and spelling; but she only laughs about her bad report for those two, and does not seem to care at all or to take any trouble to improve in them. miss ashton is sometimes quite vexed with her, and says it is only carelessness." "and even the wish to earn the prize did not spur her on?" asked mrs. rush. "oh, no," answered lena, "she only said she knew she could never gain it, and wasn't going to try. i think maggie persuaded her to write a paper to be read in the club in the hope that it would make her take a little pains and try to improve." "but it hardly seems to have answered the purpose," said mrs. rush. "but" she added, as she took up again lily's paper, which she had laid upon the table, "she is a dear child, and as you say, very bright. do you wish to hear more of this, dear; or are you tired?" "oh, yes, please," answered lena, who was now so relieved by the remembrance that the debt to hannah could be paid as soon as her brother returned, that she felt as if some heavy weight had been lifted from her, and looked, spoke, and acted like a different child from the one of a few moments since; "if you please, aunt marian. lily goes on for some time in such a nonsensical way and then comes out with something so clever and droll that we cannot help laughing. i would like to hear the rest of it; and there is bessie's piece, too." but before mrs. rush had time to commence once more the reading of lily's composition, the colonel sent up a message to ask his wife to come to him. chapter xi. a trust. the puzzled colonel, even more puzzled than were his wife and lena, since he had not all the clews to guide him which they had received, and, moreover, rather astonished that the former had not come to greet him, according to her usual custom, when he entered the house after an absence of some hours, had his tale to tell and his riddle to solve. "where have you been? why did you not come before? is lena worse?" were questions he propounded in a breath, not waiting for an answer to the first till he had asked all three. no, lena was not worse, mrs. rush said, but she had been startled and worried, and she had stayed with her and tried to divert her until she should be more comfortable. and then she told the story of miss trevor's visit, of her encounter with hannah, and the latter's evident dismay and displeasure at seeing her there; of how the old lady had betrayed that which the old nurse had plainly intended should be kept a profound secret; of how there could be no doubt that lena had had the key to these revelations, and of how she had been much distressed and agitated by them, but had tried to conceal this and had told her nothing. the colonel had his say also, and told how he had met miss trevor at the door with maggie and bessie when they came down to take the carriage; of how she had, in her own queer, incoherent way, told him some story of which he could make nothing clear save that hannah had, through her, sent a large sum of money to percy; and how he, coupling one thing with another, had arrived at the conclusion that percy had fallen into trouble through his own fault, and so had not dared to apply for help to those upon whom he had a legitimate right to call, but had confided in hannah, and begged and received aid from her. there could be no doubt of this, both the colonel and his wife agreed; nor that the depression and anxiety shown by lena some time since was to be referred to the same cause, whatever that might be. but as percy would be home for the easter vacation in a couple of days, the colonel said he would not question lena or disturb her further at present. if percy were in fault and had been guilty of any wrong-doing, he must be made to confess; if not, it would still be expedient that it should be known why a sum of money, so large for such a boy, should have been conveyed to him by a servant in such a surreptitious manner. if no information on the matter could be obtained from either lena, percy or hannah, he should feel it only right to write to percy's father and place it in his hands; and in any case hannah must be repaid. the story of the exchange of the gold for miss trevor's bank-notes left little doubt in the mind of either colonel or mrs. rush that the sum consecrated to the monument and epitaph which were to commemorate the virtues of the faithful old woman, had been sacrificed to percy's needs; and now the colonel remembered how she had asked him the value of british gold in american paper. so nothing more was said till percy should come, and lena, seeing that her uncle and aunt were just as usual, and that they plied her with no questions, took heart of grace, and consoled herself with the reflection that she had alarmed herself unnecessarily, and that they were not going to "make a fuss" over miss trevor's revelations. meanwhile percy had kept his promise to his sister, namely, that he would henceforth avoid lewis flagg; at least, he had done so as far as he was able, for it is easier to take up with bad company than it is to shake it off; that is, if the desire to do so is not mutual, and the bad company has no mind to be discarded. and this was the case with lewis. he had reasons of his own for wishing to keep his influence over percy, and he did not intend that he should escape it if it were possible to maintain it. so, in spite of percy's avoidance of him, which became so marked that the other boys noticed it, he persisted in seeking his company at all times and in all places. he was not by any means blind to percy's endeavors to avoid him, but chose to ignore them and to be constantly hail-fellow-well-met with him as he had been before. but, fortunately for percy, seabrooke had his eye on both. while seeing all the weakness and instability of the younger boy's character, he saw also much that was lovable and good; and moreover, a kindly feeling towards him had been aroused through gratitude to his friends and relations. he had heard through his sister gladys and his father, not only of the kindness shown to the little girl, but also of the generous donation made by colonel rush to the struggling church of which his father was rector; and he knew through percy of the efforts of lena and her young friends to gain the scholarship for gladys. in spite of his rather stubborn pride which had led him so haughtily to answer percy that his sister was not an object of charity, he could not but feel grateful to the sweet little strangers who were striving to earn such a benefit for his own sister; and for the sake of percy's relatives as well as for that of the boy himself, he had resolved to keep an eye upon him during the few remaining days of the term and to endeavor to keep him from going astray again. and percy, who had been pretty thoroughly frightened, and also truly ashamed of the disgraceful scrape into which he had fallen, was far more amenable than usual to rules and regulations, and was not without gratitude to seabrooke for having dealt so leniently with him. but even now, as harley seabrooke could plainly see, percy had no proper sense of the gravity of his late offence; the dread of dr. leacraft's displeasure and of the exposure to his relatives being what chiefly concerned him. percy had told seabrooke whence he had received the money with which he had been enabled to repay him, and had been rather troubled by his reluctance to accept it through the means of a girl who was totally innocent of any share of blame. careless as he was, percy could not but feel that it cast a reflection upon him. hence he had been glad when that second remittance arrived in such a mysterious manner to let harley know of it, and to declare that he should repay his sister at once on his return to his uncle's house at the approaching easter holidays. but seabrooke had little faith in percy's strength of purpose in case any new temptation presented itself in the meantime; that is, any temptation to spend the money in any other way. "don't you think it is what i ought to do?" asked percy, when he had told seabrooke of his intentions, and observed, as he could not help doing, that the other seemed a little doubtful. "certainly, i think it is what you ought to do; it is the only thing you _can_ do if you have any sense of right and honor," answered seabrooke, looking at him steadily. "but you think i won't," said percy, awakening to a sense that seabrooke had no confidence in his good resolutions. "i think you are open to temptation, neville, more than any one i know," answered his uncompromising mentor; and percy could not deny that there was too much truth in the assertion. he took it in good part, however, although he made no answer beyond what was conveyed by a rather sheepish look; and presently seabrooke said: "does any one know that you have received this money, neville?" he would not ask the direct question which was in his mind, namely, whether lewis flagg knew of it. "oh, yes, all the fellows know of it," answered percy; "they were all there when i opened that odd-looking parcel. i thought it was a hoax--wrapped up in paper after paper that way--and i was not going to open the hair-pin box when it came out at last; but raymond stewart cut the string and there was the hundred-dollar note. a nice thing it would have been if i had tossed it in the fire, as i had a mind to do half-a-dozen times while i was unrolling those papers. oh, yes; they all saw it. flagg says i am the luckiest fellow he knows." "yes," thought seabrooke, "and he'll persuade you to make way with it before it goes into your sister's hands, if i know him aright. i say, percy," aloud, "why don't you put that money into mr. merton's hands till you are going home?" "why?" asked percy, rather indignantly. "you don't suppose any one is going to steal it, do you?" "of course not," answered seabrooke, who really had no such thought, and only feared that percy himself might be tempted to do something foolish--in his situation something almost dishonorable seabrooke thought it would be. it was due to percy's sister that this sum should be employed to repay her; it would be an absolute wrong to employ it for anything else. "only," he added, with a little hesitation, "i thought you might find it a sort of a safeguard to have it in the hands of some one else." "a safeguard against myself, eh?" said percy, laughing good-naturedly, and not at all offended, as seabrooke feared he might be. "all right, if you are unhappy about it take care of it yourself." and drawing his purse from his pocket he opened it, took from it the hundred dollar note, and thrust the latter into seabrooke's hand. "i suppose it's wisest," he said; "but i _know_ i shouldn't spend it. however, if it gives you any satisfaction it is as well in your pocket as mine." "it will not lodge in my pocket," said seabrooke; "how can you carry such a sum of money in such an insecure place, neville? playing rough-and-tumble games, too, when any minute it is likely to fall out of your pocket. i shall lock it up, i can tell you; and what if you tell me not to return it to you till we are breaking up?" "all right," said percy again. "i request you not to give it back to me until the day we leave." "i promise," said seabrooke. "remember now; i shall keep my word and take you at yours, and _will_ not return this money to you until thursday morning of next week." "no, don't," said percy, laughing. "i give you full leave to refuse to return it to me till then." "self-confident, careless fellow!" said seabrooke to himself as the other turned away in a series of somersaults down the slope on the edge of which they had been standing. "he is so sure of himself; and yet, i know, at the very first temptation he would forget all about his debt to his sister and make way with that money. but i can't help having a liking for him, and for the sake of that sister who has been so nice to gladys i shall do what i can to keep him straight." "i say, neville," said raymond stewart, meeting percy not half an hour afterward, "aren't you going to stand treat out of that fortune of yours?" "no," answered percy, "not this time. i have something else to do with that fortune of mine." "turned stingy all of a sudden, eh?" said raymond, with the disagreeable sneer which was almost habitual with him; and percy, in spite of his boasting self-confidence, felt glad that his money was in other keeping than his own. he knew perfectly well that he would not have stood proof against the persuasions and sneers, perhaps even threats, which might be brought into use to induce him to part with at least a portion of it. seabrooke had foreseen just some such state of affairs when he heard that the other boys all knew of percy's fortune, and hence the precautions he had taken. he would have felt that they were fully justified had he overheard the present conversation. further pressure, not only from raymond stewart, but from several of the other boys was brought to bear upon percy: but, as he laughingly declared, he had not the money in his hands, and so could not spend it. "where is it, then?" "what have you done with it?" "have you sent it home?" asked one and another; but percy still refused to tell. only lewis flagg did not beset him, did not ask any questions or seem to take any interest in the matter; but that would easily be accounted for by the coolness which had arisen between percy and himself during the last few days. but this state of affairs had really nothing to do with it, for lewis did not choose to be snubbed so long as he had any object to gain, and the coolness was all on percy's side. but lewis could give a very good guess as to the whereabouts of percy's money at present, or at least, as to the person in whose custody it was. he had been standing at one of the school-room windows while seabrooke and percy had been talking at the top of the slope, and had seen the latter take out his pocket-book, take something from it and hand it to seabrooke, and he rightly conjectured how matters were, that seabrooke had persuaded percy to give him the money for safe-keeping. and then arose a thought which had made itself felt before, that it was hard that percy had been furnished not only with the means to defray the claim of seabrooke, and that through no sacrifice or exertion of his own, but also with a like sum which he was at liberty to spend as he pleased, while he himself had been obliged to dispose of his watch in order to obtain the sum which would save him. he felt quite wronged, and as if some injustice had been done to him, forgetting or losing sight of all the meanness, underhand dealing and disobedience of rules which had brought him to his present predicament. and the doctor would be here tomorrow,--for his son was out of danger and he was coming back to close the school,--would hear the account of his misconduct and would report at home, if nothing worse. a feeling of intense irritation against both seabrooke and percy neville took possession of him, a feeling as unreasonable as it was spiteful; and he said to himself that he would find means to be revenged on both, especially on seabrooke, whom he chose to look upon as the offender instead of the offended, the injurer instead of the injured. then another idea took possession of him, and one worthy of his own mean spirit, namely, that seabrooke had been demanding and percy giving a further prize for the silence of the former in the matter of the burnt money; and he immediately formed in his own mind a plan by which he might be revenged upon seabrooke. he called it to himself, "playing a jolly good trick;" but lewis flagg's "jolly good tricks" were apt to prove more jolly to himself than to his victims, and they did occasionally, as we have seen, recoil upon his own head. "i say, percy," said raymond stewart, "you hav'n't made over that hundred dollars to flagg, have you? we know that he can get out of you anything that he chooses. has he, flagg? own up now if he has. i shouldn't wonder." "no, i hav'n't," said percy, exasperated by the assertion that flagg could do as he pleased with him. "no, i haven't given it to him, and he can't make me do as he pleases. no one can." at this assumption of his own independence from the facile, easily-led percy a shout of derision was raised; and then began a running fire of schoolboy jeers and jests. the good humor with which percy generally took such attacks was apt to disarm his tormentors; but now, probably because he was conscious that their taunts were so well-deserved, he resented them and showed some irritability in the matter. had he not felt assured that seabrooke would abide by his word and insist upon keeping possession of the money until the day of the breaking up of school, there is little doubt that he would have allowed himself to be urged into demanding it back and spending at least some portion of it for the entertainment of his school-fellows. "see here," said one of the boys, apropos of nothing it seemed, "see here, do you know seabrooke is going to dine with the dons up at mr. fanshawe's to-night?" "then who's going to be sentinel at evening study?" asked raymond stewart. "mr. merton," answered the other. "isn't he invited?" asked raymond. "yes, but he wants seabrooke to go because he says he has but little pleasure; so he told him he would decline and take the evening study, so that he might go to the dinner. here he comes now. hallo! seabrooke, what a big-bug you're getting to be! going out to dine with the dons and so forth." seabrooke passed on with a cold, indifferent smile just moving the corners of his mouth. he had little of the spirit of good comradeship and was not accustomed to meet any joke or nonsense from his companions in a responsive manner; so it was little wonder that he was not very popular with the other boys. but as he passed percy, who stood leaning with his back against a tree, rather discontentedly kicking the toe of his shoe into the ground, he saw that the boy was vexed about something, and paused to speak to him. "hallo, neville," he said; "what is the matter? you look as if the world were not wagging your way just now." "nothing," answered percy, half-sulkily, "only i wish i hadn't given you that money. the fellows think i'm awfully mean." "so soon!" said seabrooke to himself; then replied aloud, "why, because you wish to pay a just debt?" "no, they don't know about that," said percy, "only they think i ought to stand treat." "i shall keep my word to you," said seabrooke, significantly, and walked on. "you wouldn't like it yourself," answered percy; but seabrooke only shrugged his shoulders and gave no symptom of yielding to his unspoken desire. "weak, unstable fellow!" he said to himself. "he would have asked me for that money if he had thought there was the slightest chance i would give it to him, and would have spent a part of it rather than have those fellows chaff and run him. after his sister's sacrifice, too. pah!" he had never been a boy who was subject to temptations of this nature, or who cared one iota for the opinion of others, especially if he believed himself to be in the right; and he had no patience with or pity for weakness of character or purpose. to him there was something utterly contemptible in percy's indulging in the least thought of withdrawing from his resolution of using the sum he had confided to his keeping to repay his debt to his sister, and he wasted no sympathy upon him or his fancied difficulties. seabrooke went to dine with "the dons," caring not so much for the social pleasure as for the honor conferred upon him by the invitation; mr. merton taking, as had been arranged, his place in the schoolroom during evening study. the tutor cast his eye around the line of heads and missed one. "where is lewis flagg?" he asked. "i don't know, sir," answered one of the boys. "i saw him about ten minutes ago." scarcely had he spoken when the delinquent entered the room and hastened to his seat. "late, lewis," said mr. merton, placing a tardy mark against his name. "i did not hear the bell, sir," answered lewis, telling his falsehood with coolness, although his manner was somewhat flurried and nervous. percy was running across the play-ground the next morning when he came full against seabrooke, who was just rounding the corner of an evergreen hedge. he would have been thrown off his balance by the shock had not seabrooke caught him; but the next instant he shook him off, while he regarded him with a look of the most scornful contempt. "hallo!" said percy, not observing this at first, "that was a concussion between opposing forces. i beg your pardon. i should have been down, too, but for you" "you're pretty well _down_, i should say," replied seabrooke, sneeringly. "you're a nice fellow to call yourself a gentleman, are'n't you?" percy opened his eyes in unfeigned astonishment. the grave, studious, young pupil-teacher was no favorite with the other boys, who thought him priggish and rather arbitrary; but at least he was always courteous in his dealings with them, and, indeed, rather prided himself upon his manners. "well, that's one way to take it," said the younger boy, resentfully, his regrets taking flight at once as they met with this apparently ungracious reception. "accidents will happen, and, after all, it was just as much your fault as mine." "i would not try to appear innocent. it will hardly serve your turn under the circumstances," said seabrooke, still with the same disagreeable tone and manner. "but let me tell you, mr. neville, that i have a great mind to report you for trespassing in my quarters. you may think you have the right to demand your own if you choose to break a compact made for your own good, but you have no right to be guilty of the liberty and meanness of ransacking another man's belongings in search of it." "i don't know what you are talking about. what do you mean?" exclaimed the astonished percy, really for the moment forgetting that seabrooke had anything belonging to him in his keeping. but seabrooke only answered, as he turned away, "such an assumption of innocence is quite thrown away, i repeat, sir and the next time you meddle with my things or places, you shall suffer for it, i assure you." but percy seized him by the arm. "you shall not leave me this way," he said. "what do you mean? explain yourself. who touched your things?" "it shows what you are," answered seabrooke, continuing his reproaches, instead of giving the straightforward answer which he considered unnecessary, "that you have not the decent manliness to demand that which rightfully belonged to you because you were ashamed of your own folly and weakness, but must go and ransack in my quarters to find your money. let me go; i wish nothing more to do with you." light broke upon the bewildered percy. seabrooke was accusing him of searching for and taking the money he had confided to his care, but which he, percy, certainly had no right to recover by such means. "you say i took back my money without asking you for it, and hunted it out from your places?" he asked, incredulously, but fiercely. "i do," answered seabrooke, "and i've nothing more to say to you now or hereafter." percy contradicted him flatly, and in language which left no doubt as to his opinion of his veracity, and very hard words were interchanged. both lost their temper, and seabrooke his dignity--poor percy had not much of the latter quality to lose--and the quarrel presently attracted the attention, not only of the other boys, but of one or two of the masters who happened to be within hearing. naturally this called forth inquiry, and it soon became known that percy had entrusted to seabrooke's keeping a large sum of money, lest he should himself be tempted to spend any portion of it, as it was to be reserved for a special purpose; that seabrooke before going to the dinner on the previous evening had put it, as he supposed, in a secure place, and that this morning the money was gone, while he had discovered slight but unmistakable evidence that his quarters had been ransacked in search of it. he had, perhaps, not unnaturally, at once arrived at the conclusion that percy himself had searched for and taken it, being determined to have it, and yet ashamed to demand its return. it was a grave accusation, and one which percy denied in the most emphatic and indignant manner which convinced nearly every one who heard him of his innocence. seabrooke was not among these. he maintained that no one but percy knew that he had taken the money in charge; no one but percy had any object in finding it, and he appeared and professed himself perfectly outraged that any one "should have dared" to open his trunk, bureau and so forth. there could be no question of actual theft, since the money was percy's own, to dispose of as he pleased, but the liberty was a great one, and it was a very mean way of regaining possession even of his own property, had he been guilty of it. but percy was popular, seabrooke was not; and even the masters were inclined to believe that the latter must have been careless and forgetful and mislaid the money, while believing he had put it in the place he indicated, and presently--no one knew exactly how it started or could trace the rumor to its source--presently it began to be bruited about among the boys that seabrooke was keeping it for his own use and had never intended to return it to percy, and was now making him his scape-goat. but percy, even in the midst of his own wrath and indignation, generously combated this; he inclined to the first supposition that seabrooke had mislaid or lost the note, and he even maintained that it would shortly be found. but this did not make seabrooke any more lenient in his judgment. he said little, but that little expressed the most dogged and obstinate belief in percy's weakness of purpose, and in his search for and abstraction of his own property. the situation was one hard to deal with, and mr. merton and the other tutors resolved to let the matter rest until the return of dr. leacraft, who was expected that very evening. school closed the next day, and the various actors in this little drama were to scatter to their respective homes for the easter holidays. "what a miserable report we have to make to the doctor on his return!" said mr. merton. "when he has been through so much, too, and is just feeling a little relief from his anxiety. he will find that his boys--the majority at least--have not had much consideration for him in his trouble." what would he have said had he known how much worse the record might have been--had all been revealed, had seabrooke disclosed the drugging, the theft of his letter to his father, and the destruction, unintentional though it was, of the money? seabrooke went about the business of the day with all his accustomed regularity and precision, but with a sort of defiant and i-am-going-to-stick-to-it air about him which in itself incited the other boys to covert thrusts and innuendoes tending to throw distrust upon his version of the story and to make known their thorough sympathy with percy, not only for his loss, but also for the aspersions cast upon him by the young pupil-teacher. seabrooke professed, and perhaps with truth, not to care particularly for popularity or for what others said about him; but he found this hard to bear, more especially as he fully believed percy to be guilty of the meanness he had ascribed to him. but for some unknown reason lewis flagg, who was usually the ringleader in all such little amenities, held his peace and had nothing to say. chapter xii. discovery. if dr. leacraft expected to be received with much enthusiasm on his return that evening he was destined to disappointment. the boys cheered him on his arrival, it is true, and came about him with inquiries for his injured son and congratulations on his partial recovery; but there was a certain restraint in the manner of the majority which to his experienced eye and ear told that all things had not gone quite well. and that it was something more than the by-gone offence of the expedition to rice's was evident. only one-half of the boys were implicated in that affair; they had already been punished by the restrictions which had been placed upon them, and were to be further disgraced by the public reprimand which he intended to give them on the dismissal of the school; and these culprits were probably dreading this or some other severe punishment which would be meted out to them by the report of their misconduct which would be sent home. but there was something here beyond all this; the boys were looking askance at one another, and as if there were some new revelation to be made. mr. merton would have spared the doctor the recital of any further disturbance until the morning; but the principal, having observed all this, would not be put off; the time was short, and if the matter were a serious one which required investigation, he must have knowledge of it at once. serious, indeed, the doctor thought it when he heard the tale: the disappearance of a hundred-dollar note confided by one boy to another, and the question as to who was responsible for it. but was it certain that this responsibility lay solely between these two boys? this was an idea which now presented itself to the minds of the two gentlemen, as it had before this to the minds of the pupils. it had been started by raymond stewart, who had said: "how do we know that some one else has not been meddling with that money? i do not see that it follows no one could touch it but seabrooke or percy." "that would say that there was a thief among us," said another boy, indignantly. "that's about it," answered raymond. the boys had looked from one to another almost in dismay. whatever their faults and shortcomings--and some of these had been grave enough--such an idea, such an implication as this had never before presented itself to them--that there was a thief in their midst, that one of their number had been guilty of flagrant dishonesty, of an absolute theft, and that of a large sum. "that's a nice thing for you to say," broke forth malcolm ainslie. "whom do you accuse?" "i accuse no one," answered raymond. "i only said such a thing might be." but percy and seabrooke had both scouted the idea; no one, they both said, knew that the former had intrusted his money to seabrooke; no one had been present at the time, and both declared that they had spoken of it to no one. but the suspicion aroused by raymond was not set at rest by this, and an uncomfortable atmosphere had reigned ever since, and, as has been seen, was remarked by dr. leacraft as soon as he returned home. thursday morning, and the closing day arrived, and there was a general feeling of shame and annoyance that such a cloud should be resting upon the school as its members separated even for a few days. it seemed now as if nothing could "come out," as the boys said, there was so little time for any investigation, for the pupils, none of whom lived at more than a few hours distance from sylvandale, were to leave by the afternoon trains. the morning lessons were to continue as usual, but those for the after part of the day were to be dispensed with. the matron did the boys' packing, so that there were no especial calls upon their time before leaving. "henderson, are you ill?" asked dr. leacraft, coming into the junior class-room about eleven o'clock, and noticing that charlie henderson, the youngest boy in the school and a pattern scholar, was deathly pale, and supporting his head upon his hand. the boy was subject to frightful headaches, which for the time unfitted him for all study or recitation; and seabrooke, who was hearing the lesson in progress, had excused him from taking any part in it. these headaches were of few hours duration; but the boy needed absolute rest and quiet to enable him to conquer them. as he lifted his heavy, suffering eyes to the doctor's face, seabrooke answered for him. "yes, sir, he has one of his headaches, and is afraid he will not be able to go this afternoon. i have excused him from recitation, and was going to ask if he may go to his room. he is not fit to be here." "certainly. go at once, my child," said the doctor, laying his hand kindly on the boy's throbbing head. "you must have a sleep, and ease this poor head before afternoon. you will feel better by train time." charlie rose with a murmured word of thanks, every step and movement adding a fresh pang to his pain, and went slowly from the room and up to the dormitory devoted to the younger boys. but there seemed small prospect of quiet here. the matron and three housemaids were in the room, half a dozen trunks were standing here and there, bureau drawers and closets were standing open, and a general appearance of disorder attendant upon the packing for half-a-dozen boys reigned throughout the apartment. charlie gave a little groan of despair as he stood at the open door and looked in. "oh, master henderson, my dear!" ejaculated the matron, as she caught sight of the pale, suffering young face, "you've never gone and got one of your headaches to-day of all days. such a hubbub as there is here. you can't come in, my dear; you'll never get rest for your poor head. come to the other dormitory; we're all done there, and it's as quiet as a nunnery, and one can get to sleep, and sleep you must have if you are going home this afternoon. come now; you have five hours to get rid of that good-for-nothing headache." and the voluble but kind-hearted woman led the way to the dormitory of the older boys, where all was quiet and in order, and installed her patient on percy neville's bed, covered him, gave him the medicine prescribed for his relief, and having made him as comfortable as circumstances would permit, left him to the coveted rest and quiet in the half-darkened room. the healing sleep was not long in coming, and for three hours or more charlie lay motionless and lost to all around him, mrs. moffat coming once or twice to look in upon him, and depart with a satisfied nod of her head, confident that he would wake sufficiently restored to undertake the journey home at the appointed hour. it was with a grave face that the doctor rose at the close of the morning lessons to dismiss his charge for the easter holidays. his customary leave-taking was one simply of good-will and kind wishes for the enjoyment of his pupils, and for their return at the commencement of another term; but this time there was much to be said that was not so agreeable. to the younger boys he addressed only a few commendatory words, praising them for their fair progress and general good conduct, and wishing them a very pleasant holiday. to those of the senior department he then turned with stern looks and tones, saying he had thought it but right to inform their parents and guardians of their misconduct during his absence. he did not intend to leave punishment entirely to them, however, but on the return of the boys to school, further restrictions would be placed upon their liberty, and many of their past privileges would be taken from them for the remainder of the school year. he spoke severely, not only of the want of principle shown by the culprits, but alluded also to the lack of feeling they had shown in so defying his express wishes and orders at a time of such distress and anxiety to himself, although he did not dwell much upon this. but to those among them who had any sense of honor left, there was an added shame when this was presented anew to them, and as percy afterwards said, he did "feel uncommonly mean and sneaky." he must speak of another and still more painful matter, the doctor continued. a matter so serious that he felt he must allude to it before they separated. a large sum of money was missing under very mysterious circumstances; he believed that there was no need to enter into particulars. he wished and was inclined to think that some forgetfulness and carelessness lay at the bottom of this. here seabrooke's hand, which lay upon his desk, clenched itself, and a dark scowl passed over his face, while percy glanced over at him with suspicion and resentment written on every feature, and a battery of eyes turned in his direction, not one among them with friendly look for himself. but the doctor said there might be even a worse interpretation put upon the disappearance of the money, an interpretation he was both to entertain, but which must occur to all, namely, that some one had succumbed to temptation, and had appropriated the missing sum, which one of their number had been so positive he left in a safe place. was it possible that there was one among the circle who would do such a thing? if so, let him make confession and restitution before he left to-day, and although he could not be suffered to return to the school, he might at least be spared the shame of confronting his schoolmates after discovery. for he would leave no stone unturned, he said, emphatically, to unravel the mystery; and if nothing came to light before to-night, he should at once place the matter in competent hands for its solution. a dead silence fell upon the boys as he concluded, and if they had been uneasy and inclined to look askance upon one another before, how was it with them now? so the higher powers shared the suspicions which, they scarcely knew how, had made themselves felt among them since yesterday morning. what an uncomfortable puzzle it all was! and who was to read the answer to the riddle? had seabrooke lost the money? had percy been guilty of possessing himself of his own property by such unjustifiable means? or was one of their number an actual thief? in a few more words dr. leacraft then dismissed the school, and the boys were free for discussion of the matter among themselves. it was easy for seabrooke to see, as it had been from the first, in which direction the current of opinion tended, and not caring to talk further upon the subject, he withdrew to the shelter of his own alcove. charlie henderson, in the solitary dormitory, lay quiet and undisturbed, until, having nearly slept off his headache, he woke with the delightful sense of relief and peace which comes after the cessation of severe pain. he lay still, however, feeling languid, and waiting till some one should come whom he could ask for the cup of strong coffee which was always needed to perfect his cure, and thinking happily of home and the pleasure he anticipated in the holidays just at hand. at last mrs. moffat put her head into the room. "ah, master henderson, my dear," she said, at once appreciating the change in the situation, "so you're better. that's a dear boy"--as though it were highly meritorious in charlie to have allowed himself to feel better. "well, now, you must have your cup of coffee to tone you up for your trip. you lie still, while i see about it. there's lots of time yet, and i'm not going to send you home faint and miserable to your mother, and have her say there's nobody at sylvandale academy to look after her head-ache-y boy." and she was gone, while charlie, nothing loth, obeyed orders and lay almost motionless. suddenly quick footsteps came along the hall, and the door of the room, which mrs. moffat had left ajar, was pushed open and a boy entered--one of the older boys--and charlie knew that his presence here would be questioned, and that he must hasten to explain. who was it? there were boys and boys belonging to that dormitory, and charlie felt that he would rather be found there by some than by others. it was for this reason that he had chosen the bed of the good-natured, easy-going percy to rest upon; he would "raise no fuss," or make him feel himself an intruder. it was lewis flagg. certainly he was not the one by whom charlie would choose to be faced, and seeing that he was not perceived, he hesitated whether he should speak and reveal his presence, or pretend to be still asleep and trust to silence and good fortune to remain undiscovered. but before he had quite made up his mind which course to pursue the matter was decided for him, and he found that he had no need to betray himself. lewis was upon business which necessitated haste and secrecy; and knowing that all the other legitimate occupants of the dormitory were below stairs, he never gave a thought to the possibility that there might be some one else there, and believed himself quite alone. his hurried movements were very mysterious to the young spectator. lewis went to the alcove occupied by seabrooke, where his trunk, like that of the other boys, stood packed and closed, but not locked or strapped lest there should be "some last things to put in." he stooped over the trunk, lifted the lid, and taking something from his pocket, thrust it down beneath the contents, hastily closed it again, and darted from the room. the whole performance took but a moment, but there was an unmistakable air of guilt and terror about lewis which did not fail to make itself apparent even to the inexperienced eye of charlie. [illustration: an unsuspecting witness] "i wonder what he was doing. he hates seabrooke; so he wasn't giving him a pleasant surprise," said the little boy to himself. "he's a sneak, and i suspect he was doing something sneaky. i've a great mind to tell seabrooke to look in his trunk before he locks it. perhaps he has put in something to explode or do some harm to the things in seabrook's trunk or to himself." charlie was a nervous child and rather imaginative, and was always conjuring up possibilities of disaster in his own mind. he did not make these public; he knew better than to do such a thing in a house full of schoolboys, but they existed all the same. he did not wish to "tell tales;" but he had not too much confidence in lewis flagg--it would be hard to find the boy in the school who had, especially among the younger ones--and he could not bear to think that he might have planned some scurvy trick on seabrooke. charlie was a pattern scholar, a boy after seabrooke's own heart, because of his sincere efforts to do right; and hence he had found favor in his eyes, and he had shown many little tokens of partiality toward the child which had won for him the younger boy's gratitude and affection. he lay waiting for mrs. moffat and trying to make up his mind what he had better do, when seabrooke himself entered the room and went directly to his alcove, in his turn unconscious of charlie's presence. he looked troubled and harassed, as he well might do, and sat down for a moment, leaning his head upon his hand, and seemingly in deep thought. should he tell him? charlie asked himself. presently with a sigh and a despondent shake of the head, to which he would never have given vent had he known that any one was observing him, seabrooke rose, and going to his trunk proceeded to lock it. it was too much for charlie. "seabrooke!" he said, in a low tone, and raising himself from his pillows. seabrooke looked up, startled at finding that he was not the sole occupant of the room. "charlie," he exclaimed, "what are you doing here?" then with a flash of recollection, "oh! i suppose they put you here to sleep off your headache." "yes," answered charlie, "and--seabrooke--" "well, what is it?" asked the other, as the boy hesitated. "won't you look in your trunk--carefully--before you lock it?" said charlie. "why?" asked seabrooke, much surprised, and thinking for a moment that charlie's headache must have produced something like delirium. "oh, because," said charlie, thinking how he could best warn seabrooke and yet not betray flagg, "because--there's something in your trunk." "of course there is," said seabrooke, "lots of things, i should say--pretty much all i possess is there." and he wondered as he spoke if he should ever bring any of his possessions back there again, whether, with this cloud, this suspicion of a possible betrayal of his trust resting upon him, he should ever return to sylvandale school. "but--" stammered charlie, "i mean--seabrooke--somebody put something there. i--i saw him--but he did not see me here. he's playing you a trick, i know. do look." seeing that the boy was quite himself and thoroughly in earnest, seabrooke turned to his trunk and began taking the clothes out, charlie sitting up and watching him anxiously, and wondering what would be discovered. "it's in the left-hand corner in front," he said; and then there was silence for a moment. seabrooke laid aside half-a-dozen articles, then suddenly started to his feet with an exclamation, holding in his hand a creased and crumpled envelope, which he hastily opened, and took from it--percy's hundred-dollar note! he turned deathly pale and for a moment stood gazing at it as if stupefied. "what is it? percy neville's money?" asked charlie, who, in common with every other boy in the school, knew the story of percy's lost banknote. "yes," answered seabrooke in a stern, cold tone, "did you say you saw some one put it there?" "yes," said charlie, "but you must not ask me who it was, for i cannot tell." "you _must_ tell me," said seabrooke, striding up to the bed, "you _must_ tell me. who was it?" "i won't, i won't; i will not," said charlie, firmly. "i told you because i thought you ought to know some one went to your trunk; but i _won't_ tell who it was." "ah, i know," answered seabrooke; "no need to look very far. it was neville himself. who would have believed it of him, weak, miserable coward that he is? he would have set some one to search my trunk, i suppose, that it might be found there and prove me a thief." "percy neville! it was not percy! oh, no!" exclaimed charlie; "you ought not to say it." "who then? tell me at once," persisted seabrooke, just as mrs. moffat returned with the coffee, to find her young patient flushed and distressed, with seabrooke standing over him in rather a threatening manner. "i won't," repeated charlie, "but it wasn't percy." "hi! what's the matter? what is this?" demanded mrs. moffat. "if master henderson's been breaking any rules, you'll please not nag him about it now, mr. seabrooke. you'll have him all worried into another headache, and he is not fairly over this one yet, and he'll not be fit for his journey home." seabrooke paid no more attention to her than if she had not spoken. "do you hear me, henderson?" he asked. "i _will_ know." "i won't--" began charlie again; but mrs. moffat interposed once more. "mr. seabrooke," she said, actually pushing herself between the two boys, the tray with the coffee in her hand, "mr. seabrooke, master henderson is under my care so long as he is in here, and i will not have him worried in this way. let him alone if you please." seabrooke was blind and deaf to all her interference. "i will know," he repeated. "i will bring the doctor here if you do not tell. who was it?" charlie's eyes turned involuntarily towards the corner of the room occupied by lewis flagg's bed and other belongings, and seabrooke caught the look. quick-sighted and quick-witted, he drew his own inferences and attacked the boy from another quarter. "it was flagg, then," he persisted. the color flashed up over charlie's pale face, but he only answered sharply: "i tell you to let me alone. you're real mean, seabrooke." "so he is," said mrs. moffat, "and i wish the doctor would come. we'd see if he'd have this sick boy put about this way, mr. seabrooke. i tell you i have the care of him now, and i'll not have him plagued this way." but seabrooke was gone before she was half through with this speech, and poor charlie was left to take his coffee in such peace as he might with the dread hanging over him of being reported as a tell-tale. mrs. moffat's sympathy and her almost abuse of seabrooke did him little good; he was very sensitive to praise or blame, and could not bear the thought of incurring the ill-will of any one of the boys. chapter xiii. accusation. quiet and self-contained and little given to impulse as he was, seabrooke, when roused to anger or resentment, was a very lion in his wrath, and there was one thing which he could never tolerate or overlook, and that was any attempt to take an unfair advantage of him. he had been exasperated to a great degree by flagg's endeavor to drug him on the night of the expedition to rice's, and that with good reason; and now his suspicions, nay, more than suspicions aroused that he was trying to make it appear that he, seabrooke, had wrongfully kept percy's money and then pretended that the latter had taken it from him by stealth, enraged him beyond bounds. striding in among the group of boys who were still discussing the very question of the disappearance of the money which had been the main topic of interest ever since the loss was discovered, the bank-note in his hand, he advanced directly to flagg, who was taking an active part in the conversation--that is, he had been doing so within the last few moments, since he had returned after a short absence from the school-room, looking, as more than one of the boys observed, "flushed and rather flurried." indeed one boy had remarked: "you seem to be short of breath, flaggy; you're purring like a steam-engine. what ails you?" "can't a fellow take a run around the house without anything being the matter with him?" asked lewis, sharply, but with a little nervous trepidation in his tone and manner; but the subject was now dropped, and he had more than recovered his composure and was taking an apparently interested part in the renewed discussion over percy's loss, when the enraged seabrooke entered the room. "you scoundrel!" he ejaculated between his set teeth, and with his eyes actually blazing, "you stole this, did you?"--flourishing the note before the now terrified lewis, who, taken thus by surprise, had no time to collect his wits and assume an appearance of unconcern and innocence. "you stole this, and to make it appear that i was the thief--the thief!--you put it in my trunk. don't deny it," as lewis endeavored to speak, "don't dare to deny it.--you were _seen_ to do it!" no other thought entered the head of the terrified lewis than that seabrooke himself had seen him at his shameful work, and that he had chosen to confront and convict him with it here in the presence of the rest of the school. he would have denied it could he have found words in which to do it, had he had time to frame a denial, but he was so entirely off his guard, so confounded by seabrooke's sudden accusation and this evidence of the dastardly deed he had performed that he was utterly overwhelmed, and stood speechless, and the picture of detected guilt. the doctor happened to be in one of the adjoining recitation rooms in conference with some of the other teachers over this very matter, and the raised tones--so very unusual--of seabrooke's angry voice arrested his attention and called him into the main schoolroom. to him seabrooke, without waiting to be questioned, made known his complaint, and again displayed the note in proof thereof, accusing lewis flagg of stealing it and then placing it in his trunk for the purpose of criminating him, hoping that it might be found there before school broke up. in this he did flagg some partial injustice. lewis had searched for and taken the money with the object of playing an annoying trick upon seabrooke and percy, but proposing, after giving both "a good fright," to put it back where he had found it, or in some other place in seabrooke's alcove where he might be supposed to have mislaid it. but once in his possession, the note excited his cupidity and a strong desire to keep it. if it were but his, he could easily clear off sundry debts which he had contracted, especially the remainder of that to rice, which he had only partially satisfied. on his return to school after the easter holidays it might well appear that he had an unusual amount of funds; a boy's relations were apt to be generous at such times, and no one need ever know the extent of his riches. so reasoned this unprincipled boy, and he had actually made up his mind to make no attempt to restore the money to a place where it might be found, but to retain it for himself, when the doctor's address and a dread that his crime might after all be detected, decided him to return to his first intentions. there was little time to be lost now. seizing the first opportunity of slipping away from his schoolmates, he rushed upstairs to the dormitory with the design of throwing the note under seabrooke's bed or bureau, where it might be supposed to have fallen; but seeing the trunk standing there ready packed, the impulse had taken him to put it in that, and without reflecting--perhaps hardly caring--that this would place seabrooke in a still more embarrassing position, he thrust the note within, as charlie henderson saw, and fled from the room. he was rid of it in any event, and he cared little what the consequences might be to any one else, especially seabrooke. and now he was confronted with the evidence of his misdeeds, and even when he began to recover himself a little, knew not what to say, what excuse to make. and here was dr. leacraft awaiting his answer to seabrooke's accusations, and regarding him with stern and questioning eyes. the doctor was a just man, however, and would condemn no culprit unheard, and he had no proof that lewis flagg was the culprit in the present case, other than seabrooke's asseverations and the boy's own guilty appearance. as the latter stood hesitating for words which would not plunge him deeper, dr. leacraft turned to seabrooke. "_who_ saw flagg do this thing?" he questioned. "did you, seabrooke?" "no, sir," answered seabrooke, who was becoming more calm; "i did not see him myself, but he was seen to do it." "by whom?" persisted the doctor. seabrooke hesitated. he was beginning to realize that he was placing charlie henderson in rather an unpleasant position: that young involuntary detective might be scouted at by the boys for the part he had taken in bringing flagg to justice, for "telling." he knew that there were those among the older scholars who would make the child's school-life a misery to him if they heard that he had informed, and he would not betray him to them. "could i see you a moment alone, sir?" he asked the doctor. dr. leacraft assented, and retired with seabrooke to one of the adjoining class-rooms, bidding every boy remain where he was till their return. alone with the doctor, seabrooke told his story and besought him not to let it be known that charlie had been the unsuspected observer of flagg's actions. "the boy is as honest as the day, doctor," said seabrooke. "i know it; above suspicion. a most honest and loyal little fellow," said the doctor. "his secret shall be kept, if possible." then he went up to see charlie, and received from him the fullest confirmation of all that seabrooke had told; and he assured the boy that his knowledge of the transaction should not be betrayed to the others. charlie himself had taken such precautions against "being found out" as he was able to do; he would not even drink his coffee until he had persuaded mrs. moffat to let him go to his own dormitory, lest any of the "big fellows" should find him in their quarters. he told mrs. moffat enough to let her understand that he had unwittingly seen something he was not intended to see, and she, knowing enough of boys in general and of that senior class in particular, to be sure that charlie would not go scot free, if the truth were known, hastened to comply with his request. charlie had faith enough in seabrooke to believe that he would not betray him if it were possible not to do so, and as no boy save he and flagg had been into the dormitory, he hoped that it would not be discovered that he had been there. and it was so; when the boys came up to make the final preparations for leaving, charlie was in his own room, all tokens of his presence in that of the senior class removed by mrs. moffat's willing hands, and no one suspected that the boy had slept off his headache in any other than his usual place. during the doctor's absence, and when he had time to collect his thoughts a little, lewis had made up his mind as to the course he would pursue. he was in a bad position, there was no doubt of that; but he resolved to brave it out and to treat the whole affair as a huge joke. he might be punished; there was little doubt but that he would be, and probably his misconduct would be reported at home, but he would make the best he could out of a bad business. as he did not know who it was that had seen him in the dormitory, he did not dare to deny having been there; his suspicions turned toward mrs. moffat, and as she was an old and trusted member of the household, he knew very well that her word would be taken at any time against his own, which had not too much credit with either teacher or scholars. he broke forth into a hoarse, forced laugh, looking around him with defiance and an assured contempt upon the circle of his schoolmates, who were, one and all, regarding him with suspicion and unconcealed scorn. the most careless and reckless among them were shocked at the enormity of the offence with which he stood charged, a theft of such magnitude, and then the scoundrelly attempt to make it appear that another had been guilty of it. "what a row about a small matter!" he exclaimed. "the whole thing was a joke; but i never thought it would be so successful as this, putting the whole school in a fever. see here; i did take that bank-note, of course. i wanted to see seabrooke and neville in a war over it, and then i was going to put it in some place here it would be found. i was going to throw it under seabrooke's bed or somewhere; but i saw his trunk standing there, and the chance was too good to be lost. i knew he would find it there, and send it to percy as soon as he reached home. if it hadn't been for old moffat it would all have worked right." utter silence met this tissue of impudence, defiance, truth and falsehood, and he saw plainly enough that he was believed to have committed the theft of percy's money for theft itself, pure and simple, and that fear of detection only had induced him to make the effort at restoration. "i say, neville," he continued, "you know i did not mean to keep the money, don't you?" but percy only turned contemptuously away without any reply in words. none were needed. lewis was answered. "i'm going to do my best not to be sent back here," said lewis, striving to continue his bravado, although his heart was sinking as he began to realize more and more in what a predicament he had placed himself. "such a set of muffs, teachers and scholars, i never met. no one can take a joke, or even see it." "i think it likely your efforts will be crowned with success," said raymond stewart, himself a boy of not too much principle, but who, in common with the rest of the school, had been inexpressibly shocked and revolted by lewis' conduct. "you are dismissed," said mr. merton, appearing at the door. "lewis flagg, you are to go to the doctor in his study." what sentence was meted out to lewis in that interview with the doctor the boys did not know until their return to school after the holidays, when he did not appear among them, and they were told on inquiry that he would not do so. he endeavored to brazen it out with dr. leacraft as he had with the boys, insisting that the whole affair, the abstraction of the money and the placing it in seabrooke's trunk, was "only a joke;" but the doctor altogether refused to look upon it in any other light than that of an unmitigated theft and an atrocious attempt to fasten it upon another when he feared detection for himself. no protestations to the contrary served lewis' turn, and from this day forth his evil influence was happily lost to the school. and this was the story which percy had to pour into the ears of his innocent young sister on his return home. on the first opportunity which presented itself the morning after his arrival at his uncle's he told her all, extenuating nothing of his own misconduct and weakness in the beginning, and acknowledging that he had almost wilfully suffered himself to be led into disobedience and wrong, and richly deserved all the shame and trouble which had fallen upon him. lena was inexpressibly shocked by the account of this last wickedness of flagg's, for she, in common with dr. leacraft and every one else who heard the tale, gave him credit only for the deliberate theft of percy's money and then of the effort to throw it upon seabrooke, either as an act of revenge or else because he feared that it would be found in his possession. he returned to her the hundred-dollar note which had such a story attached to it, and in his turn had to hear from lena her belief that the second sum sent for his relief had come from hannah, and that the old nurse had sacrificed the gold which she had destined for her own glorification to his rescue from his predicament. she reproached him for having appealed to hannah, a servant in his father's house, for aid; and in her turn had to hear his reproaches for believing that he would condescend to such a thing, and received an emphatic and solemn denial that he had been guilty of this, or that he had ever let hannah know of the straits he was in. he had never, he asseverated, spoken or written to any one concerning this, save herself; if he had done so it would have been to his indulgent uncle, colonel rush, to whom he would have applied. how then had hannah become possessed of his secret, was the question which the brother and sister now asked of each other and of themselves. here was a mystery, indeed; for that it had been hannah who sent that second hundred dollars could not be doubted after miss trevor's revelations. and why should she have sent the money unless she had known that percy was in sore need? "did you tell hannah anything about it?" he asked. "no!" answered lena, indignantly. "how could i tell her such a thing? and you know how you told me i must never, never tell." "and you did not show her my letter?" asked the puzzled percy, who was by no means pleased, as may be imagined, by the knowledge that one other, at least, must share the secret. "no," repeated lena, still more vexed that he should suppose her to be capable of such an evasion, which to her sense of uprightness would have been as bad as speaking a falsehood by word of mouth; "no, of course i did not, that would have been telling her, would it not? one can _do_ a falsehood as well as tell it," and although she had intended no reflection upon her brother, no thrust at him, percy was ashamed as he remembered how often, during the last few months, he had done this very thing; how he had shuffled and evaded, and thought it no great harm as long as he did not put his falsehood into actual words. "well, no one knows how thankful i am to you, lena, dear," he said. "what can i ever do for you?" "tell uncle horace. i wish, oh, i do _wish_ you would tell him," said his sister. "tell uncle horace; no, never!" exclaimed percy. "i couldn't. think of that look in his eyes when he hears of anything he thinks shabby or--well--dishonorable. he'd be ready to put me out of his house if he heard about that letter, even though we didn't know what was in it. i couldn't, lena; i couldn't." "i think it would be better for you," said his sister, "for aunt may knew about hannah and miss trevor, and she is sure to have told him. they have said nothing about it to me; but i know uncle horace will ask you, and then you must confess. it will be best to tell him without waiting till you must; he will not think so badly of you." but percy could not be persuaded to do this; he lacked the moral courage to follow his sister's advice and to confess all to his uncle before he should be obliged to do so, hoping that after all she might be mistaken and that he should still escape that humiliation. since colonel rush had not spoken at once upon the subject, percy believed that he would not do so at all, either because he had no knowledge of these money transactions or because he thought the matter of no importance. "why should uncle horace worry himself about hannah's money?" he said to his sister. "she is nothing to him, and what she chooses to do with it is no business of his. she is not his servant." "no," said the sensible and more far-sighted lena; "but she is in his house. and you are his nephew and under his care, and he must think it strange that a servant would send you so much money and in such a secret way, and he must know that something is wrong; he must suspect that you are in some very bad scrape." but percy was still immovable. easily swayed as he was in general, he was not to be influenced in the only right direction now, and all lena's arguments were thrown away. "but i say, lena," he said, with a sudden change of subject and with his usual, easy-going facility for putting aside for the time being anything which troubled him, "i say, isn't it queer that the girl you are all trying to win this prize for should be the sister of seabrooke? how things do come around, to be sure. i can tell you he's as uppish as the grand panjandrum himself about it, too; says his sister is not an object of charity, and her father and brother are able to look after her." "oh, did you tell him? how could you, percy?" exclaimed lena. "and now he'll tell her, and we meant it to be a surprise to her if any one gained it for her. what will the girls say, maggie and bessie, and the others who are trying for her!" "i let it out without intending to," said percy. "i was so taken by surprise myself when seabrooke told me what he intended to do with that money, that i just let it out without thinking. but afterwards i told him it was a secret, and he said he wouldn't say anything about it. but he was awfully high and mighty, i can tell you. you won't make the thing go down with him. but who is likely to win it,--you won't, of course, whatever your chances may have been in the beginning--any one of your chums? maggie bradford or bessie, or those?" "i don't know," answered lena. "maggie would, of course, if it were for the best composition written by the class; but it is not for that, you know, but for the greatest general improvement in composition. but so many of the girls are interested about gladys seabrooke that i think almost any of our class would give it to her. but it somehow seems as if maggie or bessie _ought_ to have the pleasure because we are the ones who found her out. the girls are all going to miss ashton's on saturday morning, when they will be told; and if any one gains the prize who will give it to gladys seabrooke, it will be sent to her as an easter present." chapter xiv. who wins. a damper had been thrown upon lena's satisfaction in the belief that gladys seabrooke would probably be the recipient of the gift of mr. ashton's trust, by the assurance of her brother percy that seabrooke would be high and mighty and oppose the acceptance of it. she did not reflect that, having a father and mother, it was not at all likely that her brother's fiat would decide the matter for gladys either one way or the other. her first thought and wish was to confide this doubt to maggie and bessie when she should next see them; but she presently felt that she could not well do this without in some measure, at least, betraying the heedless percy. she did not dare to speak of his connection with seabrooke, lest she should draw suspicion upon him after her confidences to bessie. so she must needs keep this little fretting worry to herself, too. there was the question about hannah, also: how the money was to be returned to her, in the uncertainty as to how much she knew, and how she had acquired any knowledge of percy's predicament; for that she knew something of it lena was convinced; and yet the child was equally sure that that letter had never been out of her own keeping. percy had at once put into her hand the hundred-dollar note, telling her that she must find means of conveying it to the old nurse. oh, what a puzzle and a tangle it all was! poor little lena! truly she was having a hard time with all the perplexities and anxieties which percy's worse than folly had brought upon her. but one source of worry, in fact two, were to be lifted before long. colonel rush, having waited for what he considered a sufficient length of time for percy to make a confession had he been disposed to do so, resolved to bring him to it whether he would or no. that percy had been in some serious difficulty, that he was in some way heavily involved, was very evident; likewise that hannah knew of this and had sacrificed her much prized savings to rescue him. at present he--the colonel--stood in the relation of parent to percy and master to hannah; he therefore felt that it was both his right and his duty to make inquiries and put matters straight, so far as he could. on saturday morning, therefore, he called the boy into his library and asked him if there were anything which he would like to tell him, and receive his counsel and perhaps help. he made no accusation; did not tell percy that he knew he had been involved in some trouble which had brought about the necessity--real or fancied--for him to free himself by the payment of this--for a boy--large sum. he put his question and offer kindly and freely, but in a way which showed his nephew he was not to be trifled with. and, indeed, his uncle was the last man in the world with whom percy would have chosen to trifle. not his father, not dr. leacraft, had half the influence over him that this hero-uncle had, the brave, distinguished soldier whose very name was a synonym for all that was honorable and daring. there was no one in the world whose good opinion could have influenced him so much; no one whose scorn and disapprobation he so dreaded, or from whose reproof he would have shrunk. he had shown this when he had pleaded with lena not to betray him to their uncle, of all people. he would really rather have borne some severe punishment at the hands of his parents or teacher than he would one contemptuous word or look from him who was regarded by all his young relations and friends as a chevalier _sans peur et sans reproche_. no prevarication, no shuffling would do here; if he said anything, if he answered at all, it must be the truth and nothing but the truth. he hesitated for a moment, not from any intention of refusing to give his uncle his confidence, or denying that he had been in trouble, but from a desire to frame his confession in the best manner possible; but nothing came to his aid other than the plain, unvarnished truth; nothing else, he felt, would serve his turn here with that steady, searching eye upon him; and in a moment he had taken his resolve, and the whole shameful tale was poured into colonel rush's ears. bad as it was, it was not as bad as colonel rush had feared. rebellion against lawful authority, rank disobedience and deception were to be laid at percy's door, not to speak of the pitiable weakness which had suffered him to be led into this wrong, and the enormity of his at least passive acquiescence when flagg had stolen seabrooke's letter; still worse his own destruction of it, almost involuntary though it was. what he had apprehended the colonel would hardly have confessed even to himself; but the truth was that he had suspected percy of nothing less than the appropriation of some sum which he was compelled to replace or to face open disgrace. and yet colonel rush was not a suspicious man or one ready to believe evil of others, but circumstances had looked very dark for percy, and there had seemed but one interpretation to place upon them. and now, by percy's confession, one part of the mystery was solved; but there still remained that of hannah's presumed knowledge that he was in trouble and had been in sore need of money. assuredly, hannah, devoted as she was to the interests of her nurslings, especially percy, would never have thought of making this sacrifice had she not felt that there was some pressing necessity; but how in the world had the old nurse acquired this knowledge. the nephew was as much puzzled as the uncle, and denied, with an indignation which seemed rather out of place in the light of past occurrences, any imputation that he had asked her to assist him. but now, percy inquired, could the colonel have the hundred-dollar note exchanged for gold so that it might be restored to faithful hannah in the form in which she had always kept it. it was easy enough to do this, the colonel said; but the trouble would be to make hannah confess that she had sent it, still more so why she had sent it. colonel rush would not say so to the children, seeing that no such idea had occurred to them, but it was his own opinion that hannah had in some way obtained unlawful possession of percy's letter to lena, had mastered its contents, and then taken steps for his relief which she believed could not be discovered. of the kindly advice and admonition given to percy by his uncle there is no need to speak further; but it resulted in making percy feel that he would do anything rather than again run the risk of forfeiting the good opinion which he now valued more than ever. meanwhile, during the time that percy was closeted with his uncle in the library, that portion of the members of the "cheeryble sisters' club" which constituted the choice band of "inseparables," namely maggie and bessie bradford, belle powers, lily norris, and fanny leroy, having joined forces on their way to miss ashton's, had called in to see lena. this had been done at the suggestion of the ever considerate maggie, who, although naturally heedless about the little everyday business of life, never forgot to do "nice things" for others. when she was much younger, extreme carelessness had been her besetting fault, and, as is the manner of this "little fox," had created much trouble for herself and for others; but having become convinced that it was her duty to cure herself of this, she had set to work to do it in such earnest that that which had been a burden and a care to her was fast becoming a settled habit, and it was but seldom now that any act or word of heedlessness could be laid to her charge, while her ever obliging disposition and loving heart prompted many a deed of kindness which she never failed to carry out if it were in her power to do so. "but we have to stop as we come back, to tell her that you have the prize," said bessie. "we will stop again and tell her who has gained it as we come back," answered maggie. "but i think she will like it if we stop now, so that she will know we are thinking about her and are so sorry that she cannot be with us. but, bessie, i think you are quite mistaken in believing so surely that i will have the prize. i know quite well that there are two or three who have improved in composition more than i have." bessie made no reply in words, but shook her head as if unconvinced. with lena neville and gracie howard out of the lists, she found it quite impossible to believe that any one but her own maggie could be the successful competitor. but all agreed that it would be well to call in and see lena for a moment and let her be sure that she was not forgotten. "and," said maggie, "there is the doctor's carriage at the door. we will wait till he comes downstairs and ask him how soon lena will be able to go about and have a little excitement, so that we can arrange about the fair. it is just a good chance for us. then we will tell lena what he says if he is encouraging." maggie and bessie were almost as much at home in colonel rush's house as they were in their own, and had they chosen to go in and out twenty times a day, they would always have been welcome; and the young friends who accompanied them were about as much at their ease, although not one among the quintette would ever have been obtrusive or troublesome. the doctor, who knew each one of them, being, as it happened, family physician to their respective households, was just about taking leave and was standing in the hall talking to mrs. rush. "hallo!" he said, his kindly face beaming upon the smiling flock who trooped in when starr opened the door for them. "hallo! what a bevy of birdlings! but how comes it that you are not at miss ashton's? i have just left my laura there, and she is in a state of frantic expectation over this composition prize the finest authoress among you is to gain this morning. are none of you interested?" "oh, yes, sir, all of us," answered lily norris, always ready to be spokeswoman; "we are going to miss ashton's in a few moments. but we are not to be there until twelve o'clock, and it is not that yet. and if the finest authoress is to have the prize, it will be maggie's." "so laura seems to think," said dr. middleton, and shy maggie, not caring to put forth in his presence any further disclaimer to the still undecided honors which her sister and friends seemed determined to put upon her head, smiled doubtfully. "doctor," she said, "would you mind telling me how soon you think lena will be able to bear a little excitement?" the doctor looked grave. "my child," he said, "i fear lena is under more excitement now than is good for her." then turning to mrs. rush, he added, "there is little use in expecting her to make rapid progress while she is fretting herself, as she is evidently doing, over some real or imaginary evil. do you think it possible," an idea occurring to him, "that she is troubled about losing the chance to win this prize?" "i scarcely think so," said mrs. rush. "she was even more than anxious for it at one time; but the principal object for which she wanted it is gained now, and she is not the child to fret herself over a disappointed ambition." "well," said the doctor, "find out the trouble if you can. you cure the mental ill and i will answer for the physical. but what is this excitement you are speaking of, maggie?" "we are going to have a fair, doctor," answered maggie. "we wanted to have it at easter, but put it off because lena is so lame and not strong enough, and we would like to know how soon she will be well enough." the doctor thought a moment. "perhaps," he said, presently, "if she were interested in this fair it might do her good and take her mind from whatever is troubling her. try it, maggie; set the time for your fair at no distant date, and see what it will do for her. good-morning, mrs. rush. good-by, my cheerybles." and the busy physician departed on his rounds. "i believe it is the prize," said lily, as the whole flock, bidden to do so by mrs. rush, mounted the stairs to lena's room. "i know that lena was perfectly crazy to have that prize so she could spite her father and mother--and i would be, too, if i were she--and i am sure she feels very badly about it." "why, lily!" said maggie. "well," said lily, "i'm sure it's perfectly natural if she does--_such_ a father and mother--specially mother. she's the kind that always think they're right, and she turned up her nose at miss ashton, and then she had to find out what a splendid teacher she is, and lena improved so much in composition and everything else before she was burned that i expect she could have taken the prize even before maggie. she just wanted her mother to _know_ that she couldn't do a better thing than to leave her with miss ashton to the end of her days. and if you mean, maggie, that i am not respectful in my speaking of mrs. neville, i know i am not, and i don't mean to be. such an unmothery mother don't deserve any respect, and i'm not going to give it to her." "hush!" said maggie, as they reached the door of lena's room. lily's strong impression that lena was unhappy because of her inability to compete for the prize was strengthened when she saw her, and the other children were inclined to agree with her, for lena seemed so little disposed to talk upon the subject that they were all convinced that it was a disagreeable one to her. the only voluntary allusion she made to it was when maggie bade her good-by with the promise of a return after the matter had been decided; then she drew her down to her and whispered, "i hope you will have it, maggie, i hope you will." maggie smoothed her cheek, smiled, and said: "thank you, dear; but i would rather have you well so that we may have our fair. the doctor says he thinks you will soon be well enough to come to it, and we are only waiting for that now." then the little party left with a renewed promise to return and let her know how the day had turned, and took their way to miss ashton's. all the "cheeryble sisters," save lena neville and gracie howard, were present, each one full of eager expectancy, although there was scarcely a doubt in any mind who would be the winner. it had been impossible to induce gracie to take any part or to show any interest in the competition, and she had resolutely refused to come with the rest of her classmates this morning, and there was no obligation upon her to do so, as it was now holiday time and this was something outside of the regular school duties. mr. ashton, fond as he was of giving prizes and of stimulating the emulation of his niece's pupils, was content to bring matters to a speedy conclusion when the time arrived, and never detained the little girls long or kept them in suspense by tiresome speeches. so now in a few words he praised them for their earnest and faithful efforts; said that he had been treated to a perusal of many of the compositions written during the last term in order that he might himself have an opportunity of judging whether miss ashton's verdict were just, and that he had been both surprised and gratified to observe the improvement made by almost every member of the class. "but," he said in conclusion, "in comparing the compositions written at the commencement of the term of trial and those last submitted to miss ashton, i had, from my own unbiassed judgment, and before i had learned the choice of your teacher, decided that the one best entitled to the prize and the bestowal of this art education is miss bessie bradford." "excuse me, sir; you mean _maggie_ bradford," said bessie, in her own quiet, demure little way, still unable to shake off her conviction that maggie and no one but maggie must be the winner, and believing that mr. ashton had merely mistaken the name of the sisters. "no," said mr. ashton, smiling at her, "while giving all due credit to your sister maggie's compositions, which i have read with much pleasure, i still repeat that no little girl in the class has made such manifest improvement as yourself, and to you both your teacher and myself award the prize." "thank you, sir," said bessie, simply, but with a sparkle in her eye and a flush of pleased surprise rising to her cheek, "thank you very much. but, miss ashton"--turning to her teacher, "do you not think that if lena had been able to try with the rest of us all the time, she would have been the one to gain this prize?" miss ashton smiled kindly at her. "well, yes, bessie," she said, with some seeming reluctance; "since you ask me so plainly, i must say that had lena been able to continue in competition with the rest, i think she would have distanced every one. i never saw such rapid improvement as she was making; her whole heart seemed to be in it. my uncle was astonished at her progress in that short time." "then," said bessie, rising, "i think she ought to have the prize. please excuse me, sir,"--quaintly--"for saying _ought_ to you and miss ashton, but it was not lena's fault that she could not go on trying with the rest of us, but only because she was so very brave and unselfish in the fire. and if she improved so much in that time, she would have improved a great deal more; and i think the prize ought to be given to her. i am very glad you liked my compositions, sir, but it would be a great deal more prize for me if lena had it. please let her, mr. ashton. she has a very good and excellent reason, too, for wanting it so much; it is so that her father and mother will think miss ashton the best teacher that ever was, and let her stay with her a very long time." in her earnestness to carry her point she had forgotten that she was saying so much; and she now stood looking from mr. ashton to his niece, quite unembarrassed, but evidently set in this purpose. mr. ashton looked at her, then turned to his niece; there was a moment's whispered conversation between them, and then the gentleman addressed himself to the class. "what do you all say?" he asked. "do you all agree that since lena neville has been providentially prevented from continuing her efforts, and since she made so much improvement while she was able to enter the lists, that bessie shall be permitted to resign this reward to her, and that she shall be the one to name the candidate for my trust?" "yes, sir; yes, sir," came without one dissenting voice from the young group. "then you shall have the pleasure of telling this to lena, bessie," said mr. ashton. "you have certainly fairly earned that right." "and," said bessie, looking round upon her classmates, "if everybody will be so kind as not to tell lena that she was not chosen first. it would be quite true, would it not, to say that she had done so well at the first that we all thought it fair for her to have it?" "it shall be as you say," said mr. ashton; then continued, "we all bind ourselves, do we not, to do as bessie wishes and to keep this little transaction a secret among ourselves, making no mention to lena neville that the prize was not awarded to her in the first instance?" "unless she asks any questions; but i do not think she will," said conscientious bessie. miss ashton came over to her with her eyes very suspiciously shining, and stooping down kissed bessie, saying, "you blessed child!" while maggie, always readily moved to tears or smiles, as befitted the occasion, put her arms about bessie's neck, and grasping her teacher's skirts with the other hand and laying her head against her, began to cry softly. but sentiment and lily norris could not long exist in the same atmosphere, and she now exclaimed: "how i wish we were all boys just for ten minutes, so we could give three cheers and a tiger for bessie and three more for lena. i suppose it wouldn't do, would it, miss ashton?" "hardly for little girls," said miss ashton, although she herself looked very much as if she were ready to lead a round of applause. "well, we can clap, anyway," said lily, "that's girly enough," and she forthwith set the example, which was speedily followed by the rest, mr. ashton himself joining in from his post at his niece's desk. "i'd like to give thirty-three groans for mrs. neville," said lily, in an undertone, "but i suppose we couldn't." there was little doubt that the whole class were even better pleased to have the decision given in favor of lena than they had been for bessie, favorite though she was, so strongly had their sympathies been aroused for the former. imagine the surprise and delight of lena when the news was brought to her by her jubilant little friends. she could hardly believe it, hardly believe that in spite of her enforced absence from school, in spite of her inability to hand in her compositions for so many weeks, she had been the one to receive this much coveted opportunity, and that she was not only free to bestow it upon her own little country-woman, but that her own credit would redound to that of miss ashton. of how gladys received the gift--for her parents set aside all harley's objections to her doing so--of how she became warm friends with nearly all of our "cheeryble sisters," and of what came of that may be read later on in "maggie bradford's fair." transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. amazing grace [illustration: i took up the first one] amazing grace _who proves that virtue has its silver lining_ by kate trimble sharber _author of_ the annals of ann, at the age of eve, etc. illustrated by r. m. crosby indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers copyright the bobbs-merrill company press of braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n. y. to laura norvell elliott who has the old letters-- contents chapter page i strained relations ii a glimpse of promised land iii nip and tuck iv the quality of mercy v et tu, brute! vi flag day vii straws point viii longest way home ix maitland tait x in the firelight xi two men and a maid xii an assignment xiii jilted! xiv the skies fall xv the journey xvi london xvii house of a hundred dreams amazing grace amazing grace chapter i strained relations some people, you will admit, can absorb experience in gentle little homeopathic doses, while others require it to be shot into them by hypodermic injections. certainly my dresden-china mother up to the time of my birth had been forced to take this bitter medicine in every form, yet she had never been known to profit by it. she would not, it is true, fly in the very face of providence, but she _would_ nag at its coat tails. "you might as well name this child 'praise-the-lord,' and be done with it!" complained the rich christie connection (which mother had always regarded as outlaws as well as in-laws), shaking its finger across the christening font into mother's boarding-school face on the day of my baptism. "of course all the world knows you're _glad_ she's posthumous, but--" "but with tom christie only six weeks in spirit-land it isn't decent!" cousin pollie finished up individually. "besides, good families don't name their children for abstract things," aunt hannah put in. "it--well, it simply isn't done." "a woman who never does anything that isn't done, never does anything worth doing," mother answered, through pretty pursed lips. "but, since you must be freakish, why not call her prudence, or patience--to keep oldburgh from wagging its tongue in two?" aunt louella suggested. oldburgh isn't the town's name, of course, but it's a descriptive alias. the place itself is, unfortunately, the worst overworked southern capital in fiction. it is one of the old south's "types," boasting far more social leaders than sky-scrapers--and you can't suffer a blow-out on _any_ pike near the city's limits that isn't flanked by a college campus. "oldburgh knows how i feel," mother replied. "if this baby had been a boy i should have named him theodore--gift of god--but since she's a girl, her name is _grace_." she said it smoothly, i feel sure, for her vere de vere repose always jutted out like an iceberg into a troubled sea when there was a family squall going on. "_all_ right!" pronounced two aunts, simultaneously and acidly. "all _right_!" chorused another two, but cousin pollie hadn't given up the ship. "just name a girl faith, hope or natalie, if you want her to grow up freckle-faced and marry a ribbon clerk!" she threatened. "grace is every bit as bad! it is indicative! it proclaims what you think of her--what you will expect of her--and just trust her to disappoint you!" which is only too true! you may be named fannie or bess without your family having anything up its sleeve, but it's an entirely different matter when you're named for one of the prismatic virtues. you know then that you're expected to take an a. b. degree, mate with a millionaire and bring up your children by the montessori method. "bet gwace 'ud ruther be ducked 'n cwistened, anyhow!" observed guilford blake, my five-year-old betrothed.--not that we were hindus and believed in infant marriage exactly! not that! we were simply southerners, living in that portion of the south where the principal ambition in life is to "stay put"--where everything you get is inherited, tastes, mates and demijohns--where blood is thicker than axle-grease, and the dividing fence between your estate and the next is properly supposed to act as a seesaw basis for your amalgamated grandchildren.--hence this early occasion for "enter guilford." "my daughter is not going to disappoint me," mother declared, as she motioned for guilford's mother to come forward and keep him from profaning the water in the font with his little celluloid duck. "don't be too sure," warned cousin pollie. "well, i'll--i'll risk it!" mother fired back. "and if you must know the truth, i couldn't express my feelings of gratitude--yes, i said _grat_itude--in any other name than grace. i have had a wonderful blessing lately, and i am going to give credit where it is due! it was nothing less than an act of heavenly grace that released me!" at this point the mercury dropped so suddenly that cousin pollie's breath became visible. only six weeks before my father had died--of delirium tremens. it was a case of "the death wound on his gallant breast the last of _many_ scars," but the christies had never given mother any sympathy on that account. he had done nothing worse, his family considered, than to get his feet tangled up in the line of least resistance. nearly every southern man born with a silver spoon in his mouth discards it for a straw to drink mint julep with! "calling her the whole of the doxology isn't going to get that christie look off her!" father's family sniffed, their triumph answering her defiant outburst. "she is the living image of uncle lancelot!" you'll notice this about in-laws. if the baby is like their family their attitude is triumphant--if it's like anybody else on the face of the earth their manner is distinctly accusing. "'lancelot!'" mother repeated scornfully. "if they had to name him for poetry why didn't they call him lothario and be done with it!" the circle again stiffened, as if they had a spine in common. "certainly it isn't becoming in you to train this child up with a disrespectful feeling toward uncle lancelot," some one reprimanded quickly, "since she gives every evidence of being very much like him in appearance." "my child like that notorious lancelot christie!" mother repeated, then burst into tears. "why she's a moore, i'll have you understand--from here--down to _here_!" she encompassed the space between the crown of my throbbing head and the soles of my kicking feet, but neither the tears nor the measurements melted cousin pollie. "a moore! bah! why, you needn't expect that she'll turn out anything like you. a lydia languish mother always brings forth a caryatid!" "a what?" mother demanded frenziedly, then remembering that cousin pollie had just returned from europe with guide-books full of strange but not necessarily insulting words, she backed down into her former assertion. "she's a moore! she's the image of my revered father." "there's something in that, pollie," admitted aunt louella, who was the weak-kneed one of the sisters. "look at the poetic little brow and expression of spiritual intelligence!" "but what a combination!" aunt hannah pointed out. "as sure as you're a living woman this mouth and chin are like uncle lancelot!--think of it--jacob moore and lancelot christie living together in the same skin!" "why, they'll tear the child limb from limb!" this piece of sarcasm came from old great-great-aunt, patricia christie, who never took sides with anybody in family disputes, because she hated them one and all alike. she rose from her chair now and hobbled on her stick into the midst of the battle-field. "let me see! let me see!" "she's remarkably like uncle lancelot, aunty," cousin pollie declared with a superior air of finality. "she's a thousand times more like my father than i, myself, am," poor little mother avowed stanchly. "then, all i've got to say is that it's a devilish bad combination!" aunt patricia threw out, making faces at them impartially. and to pursue the matter further, i may state that it was! all my life i have been divided between those ancient enemies--cut in two by a solomon's sword, as it were, because no decision could be made as to which one really owned me. you believe in a "dual personality"? well, they're mine! they quarrel within me! they dispute! they pull and wrangle and seesaw in as many different directions as a party of cook tourists in cairo--coming into the council-chamber of my conscience to decide everything i do, from the selection of a black-dotted veil to the emancipation of the sex--while i sit by as helpless as a bound-and-gagged spiritual medium. "they're not going to affect her future," mother said, but a little gasp of fear showed that if she'd been a roman catholic she would be crossing herself. "of course not!" aunt patricia answered. "it's all written down, anyhow, in her little hand. let me see the lines of her palm!" "her feet's a heap cuter!" guilford advised, but the old lady untwisted my tight little fist. "ah! this tells the story!" "what?" mother asked, peering over eagerly. "nothing--nothing, except that the youngster's a christie, sure enough! all heart and no head." mother started to cry again, but aunt patricia stopped her. "for the lord's sake hush--here comes the minister! anyhow, if the child grows up beautiful she may survive it--but heaven help the woman who has a big heart and a big nose at the same time." then, with this christening and bit of genealogical gossip by way of introduction, the next mile-stone in my career came one day when the twentieth century was in its wee small figures. "i hate grandfather moore and uncle lancelot christie, both!" i confided to aunt patricia upon that occasion, having been sent to her room to make her a duty visit, as i was home for the holidays--a slim-legged sorority "pledge"--and had learned that talking about the past, either for or against, was the only way to gain her attention. "i hate them both, i say! i wish you could be vaccinated against your ancestors. are they in you to stay?" i put the question pertly, for she was not the kind to endure timidity nor hushed reverence from her family connections. she was a woman of great spirit herself, and she called forth spirit in other people. a visit with her was more like a bomb than a benediction. "hate your ancestors?" at this time she was perching, hawk-eyed and claw-fingered, upon the edge of the grave, but she always liked and remembered me because i happened to be the only member of the family who didn't keep a black bonnet in readiness upon the wardrobe shelf. "i hate that grandfather and uncle lancelot affair! don't you think it's a pity i couldn't have had a little say-so in that business?" "yes--no--i don't know--ouch, my knee!" she snapped. "what a chatterbox you are, grace! i've got rheumatism!" "but i've got 'hereditary tendencies,'" i persisted, "and chloroform liniment won't do any good with my ailment. i wish i need never hear my family history mentioned again." "then, you shouldn't have chosen so notable a lineage," she exclaimed viciously. "your grandfather moore, as you know, was a famous divine--" "i know--and uncle lancelot christie was an equally famous infernal," i said, for the sake of varying the story a little. i was so tired of it. she stared, arrested in her recital. "what?" "well, if you call a minister a divine, why shouldn't you call a gambler an infernal?" "just after the civil war," she kept on, with the briefest pause left to show that she ignored my interruption, "your grandfather did all in his power--although he was no kin to me, i give him credit for that--he did all in his power to re-establish peace between the states by preaching and praying across the border." "and uncle lancelot accomplished the feat in half the time by flirting and marrying," i reminded her. she turned her face away, to hide a smile i knew, for she always concealed what was pleasant and displayed grimaces. "well, i must admit that when lancelot brought home his third ohio heiress--" "the other two heiresses having died of neglect," i put in to show my learning. "--many southern aristocrats felt that if the mason and dixon line had not been wiped away it had at least been broken up into dots and dashes--like a telegraph code." i smiled conspicuously at her wit, then went back to my former stand. i was determined to be firm about it. "i don't care--i hate them both! nagging old crisscross creatures!" she looked at me blankly for a moment, then: "grace, you amaze me!" she said. but she mimicked mother's voice--mother's hurt, helpless, moral-suasion voice--as she said it, and we both burst out laughing. "but, honest injun, aunty, if a person's got to carry around a heritage, why aren't you allowed to choose which one you prefer?" i asked; then, a sudden memory coming to me, i leaped to my feet and sprang across the room, my gym. shoes sounding in hospital thuds against the floor. i drew up to where three portraits hung on the opposite wall. they represented an admiral, an ambassador and an artist. "why can't you adopt an ancestor, as you can a child?" i asked again, turning back to her. "adopt an ancestor?" her voice was trembling with excitement, which was not brought about by the annoyance of my chatter, and as i saw that she was nodding her head vigorously, i calmed down at once and regretted my precipitate action, for the doctor had said that any unusual exertion or change of routine would end her. "i only meant that i'd prefer these to grandfather and uncle lancelot," i explained soothingly, but her anxiety only increased. "which one?" she demanded in a squeaky voice which fairly bubbled with a "bully-for-you" sound. "_which one_, grace?" "him," i answered. "they're all hims!" she screamed impatiently. "i mean the artist." at this she tried to struggle to her feet, then settled back in exhaustion and drew a deep breath. "come here! come here quick!" she panted weakly. "yes, 'um." she wiped away a tear, in great shame, for she was not a weeping woman. "thank god!" she said angrily. "thank god! that awful problem is settled at last! i knew i couldn't have a moment's peace a-dying until i had decided." "decided what?" i gasped in dismay, for i was afraid from the look in her eyes that she was "seeing things." "shall i call mother, or--some one?" "don't you dare!" she challenged. "don't you leave this room, miss. it's _you_ that i have business with!" "but i haven't done a thing!" i plead, as weak all of a sudden as she was. "it's not what you've done, but what you _are_," she exclaimed. "you're the only member of this family that has an idea which isn't framed and hung up! now, listen! i'm going to leave you something--something very precious. do you know about that artist over there--james mackenzie christie--our really famous ancestor--_my_ great-uncle, who has been dead these sixty years, but will always be immortal? do you know about him?" "yes--i know!" "well, i'm going to leave--those letters--those terrible love-letters to _you_!" i drew back, as if she'd pointed a pistol straight at me. "but they're the skeleton in the closet," i repeated, having heard it expressed that way all my life. she was angry for a moment, then she began laughing reminiscently and rocking herself backward and forward slowly in her chair. her face was as detached and crazy as ophelia's over her botany lesson, when she gets on your nerves with her: "there is pansies, that's for thoughts," and so forth. "yes, he left a skeleton--what was considered a skeleton in those days--uncle james--our family's great man--but such a skeleton! people now would understand how wonderful it is--with its carved ivory bones--and golden joints and ruby eyes! _you little fool!_" "why, i'm proud!" i denied, backing back, all a-tremble. "i'll love those letters, aunt patricia." "you'd better!" "i'll be sure to," i reiterated, but her face suddenly softened, and she caught up my hand in her yellow claw. she studied the palm for a moment. "you'll understand them," she sighed. "poor little, heart-strong christie!" and, whether her words were prophetic or delirious, she had told the truth. i have understood them. she gave them over into my keeping that day; and the next morning we found her settled back among her pillows, imagining that all her brothers and sisters were flying above the mantlepiece and that the chinese vase was in danger. another day passed, and on sunday afternoon all the wardrobe shelves yielded up their black bonnets. i was not distressed, but i was lonely, with an ultra-sabbathical repression over my spirits. "i believe i'll amuse myself by reading over those old letters," i suggested to mother, as time dragged wearily before the crowd began to gather. but she uttered a shriek, with an ultra-sabbathical repression over its tone. "grace, you amaze me!" she said. "she's really a most american child!" cousin pollie pronounced severely, having just finished doing the british isles. after this it seemed that years and years and years of the twentieth century passed--all in a heap. i awoke one morning to find myself set in my ways. most women, in the formation of their happiness, are willing to let nature take its course, then there are others who are not content with this, but demand a postgraduate course. i, unfortunately, belonged to this latter class. growing up i was fairly normal, not idle enough at school to forecast a brilliant career in any of the arts, nor studious enough to deserve a prediction of mediocre plodding the rest of my life; but after school came the deluge. i was restless, shabby and _single_--no one of which mother could endure in her daughter. so i was a disappointment to her, while the rest of the tribe gloated. the name, grace, with all appurtenances and emoluments accruing thereto, availed nothing. i was a failure. "my pet abomination begins with c," i chattered savagely to myself one afternoon in june, a suitable number of years after the above-mentioned christening, as i made my way to my own private desk in the office of _the oldburgh herald_, pondering family affairs in my heart as i went. "of course this is at the bottom of the whole agony! they just can't bear to see me turn out to be a newspaper reporter instead of mrs. guilford blake. and i hate everything that they love best--cities, clothes, clubs, culture, civilities, conventions, chiffons!" i was thinking of cousin pollie's comment when she first saw a feature story in the _herald_ signed with my name. "is the girl named grace or disgrace?" she had asked. "not since america was a wilderness has the name of any christie woman appeared outside the head-lines of the society column!" "the whole connection has raised its eyebrows," i laughed, when i met the owner and publisher of the paper down in his private office the next day. he was an old friend of the family, having fought beside my revered grandfather, and he had taken me into the family circle of the _herald_ more out of sympathy than need. "that's all right! it's better to raise an eyebrow than to raise hell!" he laughed back. but on the june afternoon i have in mind, when i hurried up-town thinking over my pet abominations beginning with c, i was still a fairly civilized being. i lived at home with mother in the old house, for one thing, instead of in an independent apartment, after the fashion of emancipated women--and i still wore guilford blake's heirloom scarab ring. "aren't your nerves a little on edge just now, grace, from the scene this morning?" something kept whispering in my ears in an effort to tame my savagery. it was the soft virtuous personality of my inner consciousness, which, according to science, was grandfather moore. "you'll be all right, my dear, as soon as you make up your mind to do the square thing about this matter which is agitating you. and of course you are going to do the square thing. money isn't all there is." "now, that's all rot, parson!" uncle lancelot, in the other hemisphere of my brain, denied stoutly. "don't listen to him, grace! you can't go on living this crocheted life, and money will bring freedom." "he's a sophist, grace," came convincingly across the wires. "he's a purist, grace," flashed back. "hush! hush! what do two old kilkenny cats of ancestors know about my problems?" i cried fiercely. then, partly to drown out their clamor, i kept on: "my pet abominations in several syllables are--checkered career--contiguous choice--just because his mother and mine lived next door when they were girls--circumscribed capabilities--" "and the desire of your heart begins with h," uncle lancelot said triumphantly. "you want happy humanness--different brand and harder to get than human happiness--you want a house that is a home, and above all else you want a husband with a sense of humor!" "but how could this letter affect all this?" i asked myself, stopping at the foot of the steps to take a message in rich vellum stationery from my bag. "how can so much be contained in one little envelope?" after all, this was what it said: "my dear miss christie: "while in oldburgh recently on a visit to mr. clarence wiley"--he was the author of blood-and-thunder detective stories who lived on waverley pike and raised pansies between times--"i learned that you are in possession of the love-letters written by the famous lady frances webb to your illustrious ancestor, james mackenzie christie. mr. wiley himself was my informer, and being a friend of your family was naturally able to give me much interesting information about the remaining evidences of this widely-discussed affair. "no doubt the idea has occurred to you that the love-letters of a celebrated english novelist to the first american artist of his time would make valuable reading matter for the public; and the suggestion of these letters being done into a book has made such charming appeal to my mind that i resolved to put the matter before you without delay. "to be perfectly plain and direct, this inheritance of yours can be made into a small fortune for you, since the material, properly handled, would make one of the best-selling books of the decade. "if you are interested i shall be glad to hear from you, and we can then take up at once the business details of the transaction. mr. wiley spoke in such high praise of the literary value of the letters that my enthusiasm has been keenly aroused. "with all good wishes, i am, "very sincerely yours, "julien j. dutweiler." there was an embossed superscription on the envelope's flap which read: "coburn-colt company, publishers, philadelphia." they were america's best-known promoters--the kind who could take six inches of advertising and a red-and-gold binding and make a mountain out of a mole-hill. "'small fortune!'" i repeated. "surely a great temptation _does_ descend during a hungry spell--in real life, as well as in human documents." chapter ii a glimpse of promised land "hello, grace!" i was passing the society editor in her den a moment later, and she called out a cheery greeting, although she didn't look up from her task. she was polishing her finger-nails as busily as if she lived for her hands--not by them. "hello, jane!" my very voice was out of alignment, however, as i spoke. "are you going to let all the world see that you're not a headstrong woman?" something inside my pride asked angrily, but as if for corroboration of my conscientious whisperings, i looked in a shamefaced way at the lines of my palm.--the head-line _was_ weak and isolated--while the heart-line was as crisscrossed as a centipede track! but a heart-line has nothing at all to do with a city editor's desk--certainly not on a day when the crumpled balls of copy paper lying about his waste-basket look as if a woman had thrown them! every one had missed its mark, and up and down the length of the room the typewriters were clicking falsetto notes. the files of papers on the table were in as much confusion as patterns for heathen petticoats at a missionary meeting. "what's up?" i had made my way to the desk of the sporting editor, who writes poetry and pretends he's so aerial that he never knows what day of the week it is, but when you pin him down he can tell you exactly what you want to know--from the color of the bride's going-away gown to the amount the bridegroom borrowed on his life insurance policy. "search me!" he answered--as usual. "but there's something going on in this office!" i insisted. "everybody looks as exercised as if the baby'd just swallowed a moth-ball." "huh?" he looked around--then opened his eyes wider. "oh, i believe i did hear 'em say--" "what?" "that they can't get hold of that story about the consolidated traction company." "--and damn those foreigners who come over here with their fool notions of dignity!" broke in the voice of the city editor--then stopped and blushed when he saw me within ear-shot, for it's a rule of the office that no one shall say "damn" without blushing, except the society editor and her assistants. "who's the foreigner?" i asked, for the sake of warding off apologies. that's why men object so strongly to women mixing up with them in business life. it keeps them eternally apologizing. "maitland tait," he replied. "maitland tait? but that's not foreign. that's perfectly good english." "so's he!" the city editor snapped. "it's his confounded john bullishness that's causing all the trouble." "but the traction company's no kin to us, is it?" the poet inquired crossly, for he was reporting a double-header in verse, and our chatter annoyed him. "trouble will be kin to us--if somebody doesn't break in on great britain and make him cough up the story," the city editor warned over his shoulder. "i've already sent clemons and bolton and reade." "--and it would mean a raise," the poet said, with a tender little smile. "a raise!" "are you sure?" i asked, after the superior officer had disappeared. "i'd like--a raise." he looked at me contemptuously. "you don't know what the consolidated traction company is, i suppose?" he asked. my business on the paper was reporting art meetings at the carnegie library and donation affairs at settlement homes because the owner and publisher drank out of the same canteen with my grandfather--and my fellows on the staff called me behind my back their ornamental member. "i do!" i bristled. "it's located at a greasy place, called loomis--and it's something that makes the wheels go round." he smiled. "it certainly does in oldburgh," he said. "it's the biggest thing we have, next to our own cotton mills and to think that they're threatening to take their doll-rags and move to birmingham and leave us desolate!" "where the iron would be nearer?" i asked, and he fairly beamed. _"sure!_ say, if you know that much about the company's affairs, why don't you try for this assignment yourself?" but i shook my head. "i've got relatives in alabama--that's how i knew that iron grows on trees down there," i explained. "well--that's what the trouble is about! oldburgh can't tell whether this fellow, maitland tait, is going to pack the 'whole blarsted thing, don't you know, into his portmanteau' and tote it off--or buy up more ground here and enlarge the plant so that the company's grandchildren will call this place home." i turned away, feeling very indifferent. oldburgh's problem was small compared with that letter in my hand-bag. "and he won't tell?" i asked, crossing over to my own desk and fitting the key in a slipshod fashion. "he seems to think that silence is the divine right of corporations. nobody has been able to get a word out of him--nor even to see him." "then--they don't know whether he's a human being or a cockney?" he leaned across toward me, his elbow flattening two tiers of keys on his machine. "say, the society's column's having fever and ague, too," he whispered. "the tale records that two of our 'acknowledged leaders' met him in pittsburgh last winter--and they're at daggers' points now for the privilege of killing the fatted calf for him.--the one that does it first is it, of course, and jane lassiter's scared to death! the calf is fat and the knife is sharp--but no report of the killing has come in." i laughed. it always makes me laugh when i think how hard some people work to get rid of their fatted calves, and how much harder others have to labor to acquire a veal cutlet. "of course he was born in a cabin?" i turned back to the poet and asked, after a little while devoted to my own work, in which i learned that my mind wouldn't concentrate sufficiently for me to embroider my story of an embryo michaelangelo the carnegie art club had just discovered. "a cabin in the cornish hills--don't you know?" the sporting editor pulled himself viciously away from his typewriter. "ty cobb--dry sob--by mob--" "oh, i beg your pardon!" "can't you see when a poem is about to die a-borning?" he asked furiously. "i am sorry--and perhaps i might help you a little," i suggested with becoming meekness. "how's this?--high job--nigh rob--" i paused and he began writing hurriedly. looking up again he threw me a smile. "bully! grace christie, you're the light o' my life," he announced, "and--and of course that blamed englishman was born in a cabin, if that's what you want to know." "it's not that i care, but--they always are," i explained. "they're born in a cabin, come across in the steerage amid terrific storms--why is it that everybody's story of steerage crossing is stormy?--it seems to me it would be bad enough without that--then he sold papers for two years beneath the cart-wheels around the battery, and by sheer strength of brain and brawn, has elevated himself into the proud privilege of being able to die in a 'carstle' when it suits his convenience." the sporting editor looked solicitous. "and now, if i were you, to keep from wearing myself out with talking, i'd get on the car and ride out to glendale park," he advised. but i shook my head. "i can't." "you really owe it to yourself," he insisted. "you are showing symptoms of a strange excitement to-day. you look as if you were talking to keep from doing something more annoying--if such a thing were possible." "i'm not going to weep--either from excitement or the effects of your rudeness," i returned, then wheeling around and facing my desk again i let my dual personality take up its song. "i can and i can't; i will and i won't; i'll be damned if i do-- i'll be damned if i don't!" the story goes that a queen of sweden composed this classic many years ago, but it's certainly the national song of every one who has two people living in his skin that are not on speaking terms with each other. then, partly to keep from annoying the poet again, partly because it's the thing a woman always does, i took out the letter and read it over once more. "coburn-colt--philadelphia!" the paper was a creamy satin, the embossing severely correct, the typing so neat and businesslike that i could scarcely believe the letter was meant for me when i looked at the outside only. "wonder what 'julien j. dutweiler' would call a small fortune?" i muttered. "five thousand dollars? ten thousand dollars!--good heavens, then mother could have all the crepe meteor gowns she wanted without my ever--_ever_ having to marry guilford blake for her sake!" but as i sat there thinking, grandfather took up the cudgels bravely--even though the people most concerned were christies and not moores. "think well, grace! that 'best-selling' clause means not only maine to california, but england, ireland, scotland, wales and berwick-on-the-tweed!" he warned. "everybody who had ever heard of either of these two unfortunate people will buy a copy of the book and read it to find out what really happened!" "but the letters are hers!" uncle lancelot reminded him. "if people don't want posterity to know the truth about them they ought to confine themselves to wireless communications." "and--what would your aunt patricia say?" grandfather kept on. "what would james christie say? what would lady frances webb say?" thinking is certainly a bad habit--especially when your time belongs to somebody else and you are not being paid to think! nevertheless, i sat there all the afternoon, puzzling my brain, when my brain was not supposed to wake up and rub its eyes at all inside the _herald_ office. i was being paid to come there and write airy little nothings for the _herald's_ airy little readers, yet i added to my sin of indecision by absorbing time which wasn't mine. "of course the possession of these letters in a way connects you with greatness," grandfather would say once in a while, in a lenient, musing sort of way. "but i trust that you are not going to let this fly to your head. anyway, as the family has always known, your uncle james christie didn't leave his letters and papers to his great-niece; he merely _left_ them! true, she was very close to him in his last days and he had always loved and trusted her--" "but there's a difference between trusting a woman and trusting her _with your desk keys_!" uncle lancelot interrupted. "uncle james ought to have known a thing or two about women by that time!" "yet we must realize that the value of the possession was considerable, even in those days," grandfather argued gently. "we must not blame his great-niece for what she did. james mackenzie christie had caught the whole fashionable world on the tip of his camel's-hair brush and pinioned it to canvases which were destined to get double-starred notices in guide-books for many a year to come, and the correspondence of kings and queens, lords and ladies made a mighty appeal to the young girl's mind." "then, that's a sure sign they'd be popular once again," said uncle lancelot. "of course there's a degree of family pride to be considered, but that shouldn't make much difference. the christies have always had pride to spare--now's the time to let some of it slide!" thus, after hours of time and miles of circling tentatively around the battlements of colmere abbey--the beautiful old place which had been the home of lady frances webb--i was called back with a stern suddenness to my place in the _herald_ office. "can _you_ think of anything else?" the poet's voice begged humbly. "i'm trying to match up just plain 'ty' this time--but i'm dry." i turned to him forgivingly. i welcomed any diversion. "rye, lie, die, sky,--why, what's the matter with your think tank?" i asked him. "they swarm!" but before he could thank me, or apologize, the voice of the city editor was in the doorway. he himself followed his rasping tones, and as he came in he looked backward over his shoulder at a forlorn dejected face outside. he looked at his watch viciously, then snapped the case as if it were responsible for his spleen. "get to work then on something else," he growled. "there's no use spending car fare again to loomis to-day that i can see! he's an englishman--and of course he kisses a teacup at this time of the afternoon." chapter iii nip and tuck when i reached home late that afternoon i was in that state of spring-time restlessness which clamors for immediate activity--when the home-keeping instinct tries to make you believe that you'll be content if you spend a little money for garden seeds--but a reckless demon of extravagance notifies you that nothing short of salary sacrificed for railroad fare is going to avail. grandfather and uncle lancelot, of course, came in with their gratuitous advice, the one suggesting nasturtium beds with geraniums along the borders--the other slyly whispering that a boat trip from savannah to boston was no more than i deserved. then, reaching home in this frame of mind, i was confronted with two very perplexing and unusual conditions. _mignon_ was being played with great violence in the front parlor--and all over the house was the scent of burnt yarn. "what's up?" i demanded of mother, as she met me at the door--dressed in blue. "everything seems mysterious and topsyturvy to-day! i believe if i were to go out to the cemetery i'd find the tombstones nodding and whispering to one another." "come in here!" she begged in a santa claus voice. i went into the parlor, then gave a little shriek. "mother!" i have neglected to state, earlier in the narrative, that the one desire of my heart which doesn't begin with h was a player-piano! it was there in the parlor, at that moment, shining, and singing its wordless song about the citron-flower land. "it's the very one we've been _watching_ through the windows up-town," she said in a delighted whisper. "but did you get it as a prize?" i inquired, walking into the dusky room and shaking hands with my betrothed, who rose from the instrument and made way for me to take possession. "how came it here?" "i had it sent out--on--on approval," she elucidated. that is, her words took the form of an explanation, but her voice was as appealing as a salvation army dinner-bell, just before christmas. "on approval? but why, please?" "because i want you to get used to having the things you want, darling!" then, to keep from laughing--or crying--i ran toward the door. "what _is_ that burning?" i asked, sniffing suspiciously. it was a vaguely familiar scent--scorching dress-goods--and suggestive of the awful feeling which comes to you when you've stood too close to the fire in your best coat-suit--or the comfortable sensation on a cold night, when you're preparing to wrap up your feet in a red-hot flannel petticoat. "what is it? tell the truth, mother!" but she wouldn't. "it's your brown tweed skirt, grace," guilford finally explained, as my eyes begged the secret of them both. they frequently had secrets from me. "my brown tweed skirt?" "it was as baggy at the knees as if you'd done nothing all winter but _pray_ in it!" mother whimpered in a frightened voice. "i've--i've burned it up!" for a moment i was silent. "but what shall i tramp in?" i finally asked severely. "what can i walk out the waverley pike in?" then mother took fresh courage. "you're not going to walk!" she answered triumphantly. "you're going to ride--in your very--own--electric--coupé! here's the catalogue." she scrambled about for a book on a table near at hand--and i began to see daylight. "oh, a player-piano, and an electric coupé--all in one day! i see! my fairy godmother--who was old aunt patricia, and she looked exactly like one--has turned the pumpkin into a gold coach! you two plotters have been putting your heads together to have me get rich quick and gracefully!" "we understand that this stroke of fortune is going to make a great change in your life, grace," guilford said gravely. he was always grave--and old. the only way you could tell his demeanor from that of a septuagenarian was that he didn't drag his feet as he walked. "'stroke of fortune?'" i repeated. "the coburn--" mother began. "colt--" he re-enforced, then they both hesitated, and looked at me meaningly. i gave a hysterical laugh. "you and mother have counted your coburn-colts before they were hatched!" i exclaimed wickedly, sitting down and looking over the music rolls. i did want that player-piano tremendously--although i had about as much use for an electric coupé, under my present conditions in life, as i had for a perambulator. "grace, you're--indelicate!" mother said, her voice trembling. "guilford's a man!" "a man's a man--especially a kentuckian!" i answered. "you're not shocked at my mention of colts and--and things, are you, guilford?" my betrothed sat down and lifted from the bridge of his nose that badge of civilization--a pair of rimless glasses. he polished them with a dazzling handkerchief, then replaced the handkerchief into the pocket of the most faultless coat ever seen. he smoothed his already well-disciplined hair, and brushed away a speck of dust from the toe of his shoe. from head to foot he fairly bristled with signs of civic improvement. "i am shocked at your reception of your mother's kind thoughtfulness," he said. he waited a little while before saying it, for hesitation was his way of showing disapproval. yet you must not get the impression from this that guilford was a bad sort! why, no woman could ride in an elevator with him for half a minute without realizing that he was the flower-of-chivalry sort of man! he always had a little way of standing back from a woman, as if she were too sacred to be approached, and in her presence he had a habit of holding his hat clasped firmly against the buttons of his coat. you can forgive a good deal in a man if he keeps his hat off all the time he's talking to you! "'shocked?'" i repeated. "your mother always plans for your happiness, grace." "of course! don't you suppose i know that?" i immediately asked in an injured tone. it is always safe to assume an injured air when you're arguing with a man, for it gives him quite as much pleasure to comfort you as it does to hurt you. "i didn't--mean anything!" he hastened to assure me. "guilford merely jumped at the chance of your freeing yourself of this newspaper slavery," mother interceded. "you know what a humiliation it is to him--just as it is to me and to every member of the--christie family." my betrothed nodded so violently in acquiescence that his glasses flew off in space. "you know that i am a kentuckian in my way of regarding women, grace," he plead. "i can't bear to see them step down from the pedestal that nature ordained for them!" i turned and looked him over--from the crown of his intensely aristocratic fair head to the tip of his aristocratic slim foot. "a kentuckian?" "certainly!" "a kentuckian?" i repeated reminiscently. "why, guilford blake, you ought to be olive-skinned--and black-eyed--and your shoes ought to turn up at the toes--and your head ought to be covered by a red fez--and you ought to sit smoking through a water-bottle of an evening, in front of your--your--" "grace!" stormed mother, rising suddenly to her feet. "i will not have you say such things!" "what things?" i asked, drawing back in hurt surprise. "h-harems!" she uttered in a blushing whisper, but guilford caught the word and squared his shoulders importantly. "but, i say, grace," he interrupted, his face showing that mixture of anger and pleased vanity which a man always shows when you tell him that he's a dangerous tyrant, or a bold don juan--or both. "you don't think i'm a turk--do you?" "i do." he sighed wistfully. "if i were," he said, shaking his head, "i'd have caught you--and _veiled_ you--long before this." i looked at him intently. "you mean--" "that i shouldn't have let you delay our marriage this way! why should you, pray, when my financial affairs have changed so in the last year?" i rose from my place beside the new piano, breaking gently into his plea. "it isn't that!" i attempted to explain, but my voice failed drearily. "you ought to know that--finances hadn't anything to do with it. i haven't kept from marrying you all these years because we were both so poor--then, last year when you inherited your money--i didn't keep from marrying you because you were so rich!" "then, what is it?" he asked gravely, and mother looked on as eagerly for my answer as he did. this is one advantage about a life-long betrothal. it gets to be a family institution. or is that a disadvantage? "i--don't know," i confessed, settling back weakly. "i don't think you do!" mother observed with considerable dryness. "well, this business of your getting to be a famous compiler of literature may help you get your bearings," guilford kept on, after an awkward little pause. "you have always said that you wished to exercise your own wings a little before we married, and i have given in to you--although i don't know that it's right to humor a woman in these days and times. really, i don't know that it is." "oh, you don't?" "no--i don't. but we're not discussing that now, grace! what i'm trying to get at is that this offer means a good deal to you. of course, it is only the beginning of your career--for these fellows will think up other things for you to do--and it will give you a way of earning money that won't take you up a flight of dirty office stairs every day. understand, i mean for just a short while--as long as you insist upon earning your own living." "and the honor!" mother added. "you could have your pictures in good magazines!" i stifled a yawn, for, to tell the truth, the conflict had made me nervous and weary. "at all events, i must decide!" i exclaimed, starting again to my feet. "somehow, the office atmosphere isn't exactly conducive to deep thought--and i've had so little time since morning to get away by myself and thresh matters out." mother looked at me incredulously. "will you please tell me just what you mean, grace?" she asked. "i mean that i must get away--i've imagined that i ought to take some serious thought, weigh the matter well, so to speak--before i write to the coburn-colt publishing company. in other words, i have to decide." "decide?" mother repeated, her face filled with piteous amazement. "_decide?_" "decide?" guilford said, taking up the strain complainingly. "if you'll excuse me!" i answered, starting toward the door, then turning with an effort at nonchalance, for their sakes, to wave them a little adieu. "suppose you keep on playing 'knowest thou the land where the citron-flower blooms,' guilford--for i am filled with _wanderlust_ right now, and this music will help out uncle lancelot's presentation of the matter considerably!" "what?" "i'm going to listen to the voices," i explained. "all day long grandfather and uncle lancelot have been busy making the fur fly in my conscience!" mother darted across the room and caught my hand. "you don't mean to say that you have scruples--_scruples_--grace christie?" she couldn't have hated smallpox worse--in me. "honest injun, i don't know!" i admitted. "of course, it does seem absurd to ponder over what a family row might be raised in the seventh circle of nirvana by the publication of these old love-letters, but--" "james mackenzie christie died in ," she declared vehemently. "absurd! it is _insane_!" "that's what the uncle lancelot part of my intelligence keeps telling me," i laughed. "but--good heavens! you just ought to hear the grandfather argument." "what does he--what does that silly _salem_ conscience of yours say against the publication of the letters?" she asked grudgingly. i sat down again. "shall i tell you?" i began good-naturedly, for i saw that mother was at the melting point--melting into tears, however, not assent. "whenever i want to do anything i'm not exactly _sure_ of, these two provoking old gentlemen come into the room--the council-chamber of my heart--and begin their post-mortem warfare. grandfather is white-bearded and serene, while uncle lancelot looks exactly as an italian tenor _ought_ to look--and never does." "and you look exactly like him," mother snapped viciously. "nothing about you resembles your grandfather except your brow and eyes." "i know that," i answered resignedly. "hasn't some one said that the upper part of my face is as lofty as a byronic thought--and the lower as devilish as a byronic _deed_?" neither of them smiled, but guilford stirred a little. "go on with your argument, grace," he urged patiently. he was always patient. "i'm going!" i answered. "all day grandfather has been telling me what i already know--that the coburn-colt company doesn't want those letters of james christie's because they are literary, or beautiful, or historical, but simply and solely because they are _bad_! they'll make a good-seller because they're the thing the public demands right now. lady frances webb was a _married_ woman!" "nonsense," mother interrupted, with a blush. "the public doesn't demand bad things! there is merely a craze for intimate, biographical matter--told in the first person." "i know," i admitted humbly. "this is what distinguishes a human from an inhuman document." "the craze demands a simple straightforward narrative--" guilford began, then hesitated. "in literature this is the period of the great '_i am_,'" i broke in. "people want the secrets of a writer's soul, rather than the tricks of his vocabulary, i know." "well, good lord--you wouldn't be giving the twentieth century any more of these people's souls than they themselves gave to the early nineteenth," he argued scornfully. "she put his portrait into every book she ever wrote--and he annexed her face in the figure of every saint--and sinner--he painted!" "well, that was because they couldn't _see_ any other faces," i defended. "bosh!" "but lady frances webb was a good woman," mother insisted weakly. "she had pre-victorian ideas! she sent her lover across seas, because she felt that she must! why, the publication of these letters would do _good_, not harm." "they would shame the present-day idea of 'affinity' right," said guilford. i nodded my head, for this was the same theory that uncle lancelot had been whispering in my ears since the postman blew his whistle that morning. and yet-- "maybe you two--don't exactly understand the import of those letters as i do," i suggested, sorry and ashamed before the gaze of their practical eyes. "but to me they mean so much! i have always _loved_ james christie and--his unattainable. i can feel for them, and--" "and you mean to say that you are going to give way to an absurd fancy now--a ridiculous, far-fetched, namby-pamby, quixotic fancy?" mother asked, in a tone of horror. "i--i'm--afraid so!" i stammered. "and miss this chance--for all the things you want most? the very things you're toiling day and night to get?" "and put off the prospect of our marriage?" guilford demanded. "i had hoped that this business transaction would satisfy the unaccountable desire you seem to have for independence--that after you had circled about a little in the realm of emancipated women and their strained notions of what constitutes freedom, you'd see the absurdity of it all and--come to me." "i am awfully sorry, guilford," i answered, dropping my eyes, for i knew that "freedom," "independence" and "emancipation" had nothing on earth to do with my delayed marriage--and i knew that i was doing wrong not to say so. "i am _awfully_ sorry to disappoint you." "then you have decided finally?" mother asked in a suspicious voice. "i believe i have," i answered. "oh, please don't look at me that way--and please don't cry! i can't help it!" "it is preposterous," guilford said shortly. "but you don't--understand!" i cried, turning to him pleadingly. "you don't know what it is to feel as i feel about those lovers--those people who had no happiness in this world--and are haunted and tormented by curiosity in their very graves!--don't you suppose i want to do the thing you and mother want me to do? of course, i do! i want this--this new piano--and another brown tweed skirt that doesn't bag at the knees--and i want--so many things!" "then why in the name of----" he began. "because i _won't_!" i told him flatly. "call it conscience--fancy, or what you will!--i have those two people in my power--their secrets are right here in my hands! and i'm not going to _give them away_!" "grace, you a-maze me!" mother sobbed. but guilford rose tranquilly and reached for his hat. "any woman who has a conscience like that ought to cauterize it--with a curling-iron--and get rid of it," he observed dryly. chapter iv the quality of mercy that night i went to my bedroom and pulled open the top of an old-fashioned desk standing in the corner. except for this desk there was not another unnecessary piece of furniture in the apartment, for i like a cell-like place to sleep. i consider that fresh air and a clear conscience ought to be the chief adjuncts--for a cluttered-up, luxurious bedroom always reminds me of camille--and tuberculosis. "and all this fuss about a few little faded wisps of paper!" i sat down before the desk, after i had loosed my hair--which is that very, very black, that is the hibernian accompaniment to blue eyes--and had slipped my slippers on. "you have put me to considerable trouble to-day, lady frances." her portrait was hanging there--a small, cabinet-sized picture, in a battered gold frame. her lover had succeeded in making her face on canvas very beautiful--with the exaggerated beauty of eyes and mouth which all portraits of that period show. her brow was fine and thoughtful, irradiating the face with intelligence, yet i never looked at her without having a feeling that i was infinitely wiser than she. isn't it queer that we have this feeling of superiority over the people in old portraits--just because they are dead and we are living? we open an ancient book of engravings, and say: "poor little mary shelley! simple little jane austen! naughty little nell gwynne!"--there's only one pictured lady of my acquaintance who smiles down my latter-day wisdom as being a futile upstart thing. i can't pity her! oh, no! nor endure her either, for she's mona lisa! i had always had this maternal protectiveness in my attitude toward lady frances webb, and to-night it was so keen that i could have tucked her in bed and told her fairy tales to soothe away the trembling fright she must have endured all that day. instead of doing this, however, i satisfied myself with reading some of the letters over again. isn't it a pity that above every writing-desk devoted to inter-sex correspondence there is not a framed warning: "beyond platonic friendship lies--alimony!" anyway, lady frances and james christie tried the medium ground for a while. over in a large pigeonhole, far away from the rest, was a packet of letters tied with a strong twine. they were the uninteresting ones, because they were _muzzled_. the handwriting was the same as that of the others--dainty, last-century chirography, as delicate and curling as a baby's pink fingers--but i never read them, for i don't care for muzzled things. gossip about lady jersey--marlborough house--the cold-blooded ire of william lamb--all this held but little charm--compared with the other. "not you--not to-night," i decided, pushing them aside quickly. "i've got to have good pay for my pains of this day!" i sought another compartment, where a batch huddled together--a carefully selected batch. they were as many, and as clinging in their contact with one another, as early kisses. i took up the first one. "dear big man"--it began. "it has been weeks and weeks now since i have seen you! if it were not that you lived in that terrible london and i in this lonely country, i should be too proud to remind you of the time, for i should expect you to be the one to complain. "surely it is because of this that i now hate london so! it keeps this knowledge of separation--this sense of dreary waiting--from burning into your heart, as it does into mine! "there you are kept too busy to think--but here i can do nothing else!--or perhaps i am quite wrong, and it is not a matter of london and lancashire, after all, but the more primal one of your being a man, and my being a woman! _do_ i love the more? i wonder? and yet, i don't think that i care much! i am willing to love more abjectly than any woman ever loved before--if you care for me just a little in return." (i always felt _very_ wise and maternal at this point.) "you were an awful goose, lady frances!" i said. "this is a mistake that _i_ have never made!" "still, i am tormented by thoughts of you in london," the letter kept on. "i think of you--there--as a lion. it presses down upon me, this recollection that you are james christie, the great artist, and the only release from the torture is when i go alone into the library and sit down before the fire. the two chairs are there--those two that were there that day--and then i can forget about the lion. 'jim--jim!' i whisper--'just my _lover_!' "then your face comes--it has to come, or i could never be good! your rugged face that speaks of great forests which have been your home--the fierce young freedom which has nurtured you--and the glorious uplift you have achieved above all that is small and weak! "you have asked me a thousand times why i love you, but i have never known what to say--because i love you for so many things--until now, when i have nothing but memories--and the ever-present sight of your absent face. and now i don't know why i love you, but i know what i love best about you. shall i tell you--though of course you know already! it is not your talent--wonderful as it is--for there have been other artists; nor your terrible charm with its power to lure women away from duty--for england is full of fascinating men; nor your sweetness--and i think the first time i saw you smile i sounded the depths of this--it is not any of these, dear heart! not any of these! i love best the strength of you which you use to control the charm--the untamed force of your personality which makes your talent seem just an incident--and the big, _big_ virility of you! "do you think for a moment that you look like an artist? half-civilized you? why, you are a woodsman, dear love--but not a hunter! you could never kill living things for the joy of seeing them die! "you look as if you had spent all your life in the woods, doing hard tasks patiently--a woodcutter, or a charcoal burner! ah, a charcoal burner! a man who has had to grip life with bared hands and wrest his bread from grudging circumstances. this is what you are, jim, to my heart's eyes. you are a primal creature--simple-souled, great-bodied, and your mind is given over to naked truth. "but all the time you are a famous artist--and london's idol! your studio in st. james's street is the lounging-place for curled darlings! the hardest task that your hands perform is over the ugly features of a fat duchess!--how can you, jim? why don't you come away? you are a man first, an artist afterward--and it is the man that i love! "and, jim, _do_ you know how much i love you? do you know how your face leads me on?--it is your face i must have now, darling. _portrait of the artist, by himself_, is a title i have often smiled over, wondering how a man could be induced to paint his own features, but now i know! it is always because some woman has so clamorously demanded it--a woman who loved him! what else can so entirely satisfy--and when will you send it to me?" when i came to the end i was sorry, for i had such a way of getting en rapport with her sentiments that i eyed the next express wagon i passed, eagerly, to see if it could possibly be bringing the _portrait of the artist, by himself_! and on this occasion i reread a portion of the letter. "your face--your rugged face--or i could never be good!" the picture of a rugged face was haunting me, and after a moment a sudden thought came to me. "why, that's what _i_ should like!" i had the grace to feel ashamed, of course, especially as i recalled how mother and guilford had tormented me that afternoon to know why i wouldn't marry--and i found the answer in this sudden discovery. still, that didn't keep me from pursuing the subject. "a rugged face--great forests--fierce freedom--glorious uplift!--oh, man! man! where are you--and where is your great forest?--that's exactly what i want!" i turned back to the desk, after a while, and still allowing my mind to circle away from the business at hand somewhat, i drew out another letter. it was short--and troubled. the dear, little, lady-like writing ran off at a tangent. "yes, i have seen the picture! next to murillo's _betrothal of st. catherine_,--the face is the loveliest thing i have ever seen on canvas. "of course it is idealized--yet so absurdly _like_ that they tell me all mayfair is staring! this talk--this stirring-up of what has been sleeping--will make it a thousand times harder for us ever to see each other, yet i am glad you did it! "they are saying--mayfair--that your 'making a pageant of a bleeding heart' is as indelicate as caroline lamb's _glenarvon_! if people are going to be in love wickedly at least they ought not to write books about it--nor paint pictures of it!... oh, beloved, let us pray that we may always keep bitterness out of our portraits of each other!" the letter burned my fingers, for the pen marks were quick and jagged--like electric sparks--and i felt the pain that had sent them out; so i turned back to others of the batch--others that i knew almost by heart, yet always found something new in. "i don't know that it's such an enviable state, after all, this being in love," i mused. "it seems to me it consists of--quite a mixture! but, of course, it will take heaven itself to solve the problem of a thornless rose!" i ran my finger over the edges of the improvised envelopes, heavily sealed and bearing complicated foreign stamping. there were dozens of them--many only the common garden variety of love-letters, long-drawn out, confidential, reminiscent or hopeful, as the case might be--and a few which sounded at times almost light-hearted. "when i say that i think of you all the time i am not so original as my critics give me credit for being, dear heart," she wrote in one. "nothing else in the annals of love-making is so trite as this, but when i explain how persistently your image is before me, how intricately woven with every thought of the future--how inseparably linked with every vision of happiness--you will know that mine is no light nor passing attachment. "if i give you one foolish example of this will it bore you? i've written you before, i believe, that this spring i have been outdoors all the time--riding or driving about the country, because the mad restlessness of thinking about you drives me out. in this house, in these gardens, _you_ are so constantly present that i can do nothing but remember--then i go away, hoping to forget--and what happens?--i go into a castle--a place where you have never been, perhaps--and before i can begin talking with any one, or think of any sensible thing to say the thought comes to me: 'how well the figure of my lover would fit in with all this grandeur! how naturally and easily he would swing through these great rooms!' "then, early some mornings i ride into the village--past cottages that look so humble and happy that i feel my heart stifling with longing to possess one of them--and _you_! 'how happy i could be living there,' i think, 'but--how tremendously tall and stalwart jim would look coming in through this low doorway, as i called him to supper!' "then i spend hours and hours planning the real home i want us to have, dear love of mine. i don't care much whether it is a castle or a cottage, just so it has you in it--and all around it must be the sight of distant hills! these for _your_ artist's soul! "you and a hundred distant hills, jim! then days--and nights, and nights and days--and summers and winters of joy! "some time this will come to pass--it must--and we shall call it heaven! and we shall rejoice that we were strong to keep the faith through the days of trial and longing so that we could reach it and be worthy of it. "and, when this shall come, i can never know fear again--fear that london will make you cease to love me--that some other woman may gain possession of you--that the artist in you may crush out and starve the lover. there will be but one thought of fear then, and that will be that you may die and leave me, but this will not be hopeless, for i too can die! "oh, do you remember that first day--that wonderful, anguished, bewildering first day--then that night when i kissed you? when i think of sickening fear i always remember that time. two weeks before the london newspapers had chronicled your visit to colmere abbey 'to paint the portrait of the novelist, lady frances webb,' but you were deceiving the newspapers, for you had lost your power to paint! "it was quite early in the morning of that eighth or ninth day of blessed dalliance, when the canvas still showed itself accusingly bare, that you threw down your brush and declared you were going back to london, 'because--because colmere abbey had robbed your hands of their power.' "and what did i do when you told me this terrible thing? i said, wickedly and without shame, 'would you go away and leave me all alone in idleness?' "'idleness?' you repeated, pretending not to understand. "'neither can i do any work--since you came to colmere!' "you stood quite still beside the easel for a breathless moment, then: "'do _i_--keep _you_--from working?' you asked. "your face tried to look sorry and amazed, but the triumph showed through and glorified your dear eyes. "'then certainly i must go away--at once--to-day,' you kept on, but you came straight across the room and placed your hands upon my shoulders. 'just this once--just one time, sweetheart, then i'll go straight away and never see you again!' "and that night, true to your promise, you did go away, but i followed you to the gates--and when i saw horses ready saddled there to take you away from me, the high resolves i had made came fluttering to earth. i put my hands up to your face and kissed you. during all the giddy joy of that day's confessional i had kept from doing this, but--not when i saw you leaving! "'i wish that this kiss could mark your cheek--and let all the world know that you are mine,' i whispered, shivering against you in that first madness of fear over losing you. "'you've made a mark!' you laughed fondly. 'a mark that i shall carry all the days of my life.' "but i was still fearful. "'you may know that you are marked, but how will the world--how will other women know that you are mine?' "'the world shall know it,' you declared, brushing back my hair and kissing me again. 'there will never be another woman in my life--and some day, when i can paint your portrait, it will certainly know then. to me you are so very beautiful.'" another letter was just a note, addressed to london, and evidently written in great haste to catch a delayed post-bag. "oh, my dear, that orange tree of ours--that you and i planted together that day--is putting out tiny blossoms! do you suppose it is a happy omen, jim? how i have worked with it through this dreary winter--and now to think that it is blooming! "your dear hands have touched it! it is a living thing which can receive my caresses and repay their tenderness by growing tall and strong and beautiful--like you. do you wonder that i love it? "when you come again i shall take you out to see it, and we shall walk softly up to the shelf where it stands--so carefully, to keep from jarring a single leaf--and we shall separate the branches, still very carefully, to look down at the little new stems. and, jim--jim--the blossoms will be like starry young eyes looking up at us! the pink, faintly-showing glow will be as delicate as a tiny cheek, when sleep has flushed it--and the petals will close over our fingers with all the clinging softness of a helpless little clutch! "we will be very happy for a little while, but, because i am savage and resentful over our delayed joy, i shall cry on your shoulder and say it's cruel--_cruel_--that you and i have only this plant to love together." after this came two or three more, like it, then i reached for one which brought a misty wetness to my eyes. the lover was gone--quite gone--and the woman had seemed to feel that they would meet no more. ... "at other times i remember all the months which have gone by since then--and the miles of dark water which roll between your land and mine. god pity the woman who has a lover across the sea! "_am_ i sorry that i sent you away? you ask me this--yet how can you! how many letters i have written, bidding you, nay _begging_ you to come back--how many times have i dropped them into the post-bag in the hall--then, after an hour's thought, have run in terror and snatched them out again! "i am trying so hard to be good! can i hold out--just a little while longer? i am going to die young, remember, and that is the one hope which consoles me! it used to be that i shrank from the medical men who told me this--who told me with their pitying eyes and grave looks--but now i welcome their gravity. sir humphrey davy has written a letter to my husband, advising him to send me off to italy for this incoming winter--but i shall not go! 'i fear that dread phthisis in the rigor of english cold,' he writes--but for me it can not come too soon! "... yet all the time the knowledge haunts me that our lives are passing! i can not bear it! i spend the hours out in the garden--where the sun-dial tells me--all _silently_--of the day's wearing on. "since you went away i can not listen to the sound of the clock in the hall. that chime--that holy trustful chime--'o lord, our god, be thou our guide,' shames the unholy prayer on my lips. "then the clock ticks, ticks, ticks--all day--all night--on, and on, and on--to remind me of our hearts' wearying beats! does this thought ever come to madden you? that our hearts have only so many times to throb in this life--and when we are apart every pulsation is wasted?" i thrust this letter back into its place--then hastily closed down the desk. the sensation of reading a thing like that is not pleasant. she had written with an awful, _awful_ pain in her heart--and she had lived before the days of anesthetics! "women don't feel things like that--now," i muttered, as i crossed the room and lowered the curtain. "they--they have too many other things to divert them, i suppose!" i knew, however, that i was judging everybody by myself, and certainly _i_ had never known an awful hurt like that. "why, i could listen to a _taximeter_ tick--for a whole year--while guilford was away from me, and i don't believe it would make me nervous for a sight of him." i was considerably disgusted with myself for my callousness as i came to this conclusion, however, and i sat down in the window, overlooking the tiny strip of rose-garden to think it out. presently i crossed the room again to the desk. _"i'm_ not going to jest at scars--even if i haven't felt a wound!" i decided, once and for always. i opened the desk then and gathered up the letters, packet by packet, tying them into one big bundle. "publish these--heart-throbs!" i was so furious that i could have gagged uncle lancelot if he had opened his mouth--which he didn't dare do! in this respect he and grandfather are very much like living relatives. they'll argue with you through ninety-nine years of indecision, but once you've made up your mind irrevocably they close their lips into a sullen silence--saving their breath for "i told you so!" "i don't see how anybody could have thought of such blasphemy!" i kept on. "it would be like a vivisection! that's what people want though, nowadays--they won't have just a book! they want to be present at a clinic!--they want to see others' hearts writhe--because they have no feelings of their own!" then, after my thoughts had had time to get away from the past up into the present and project themselves, somewhat spitefully, into the future, i made another decision, slamming the desk lid to accentuate it. "i shall not publish them myself--nor ever give anybody else a chance to publish them!" i declared. "by rights they are not really mine! i am just their guardian, because aunt patricia couldn't take them on her journey with her--and some day i shall take them on a journey with me. to colmere abbey--that dream-house of mine! that's the thing to do! and burn them on the hearth in the library, where she likely burned his--if she did burn them! of course i can't run the risk of what the next generation might do!" this last thought tormented me as i fell asleep. "no, i can not hand those letters down to my daughters," i decided drowsily, being in that hazy state where the mind traverses unheard-of fields--unheard-of for waking thought--and queer little twisting decisions come. "they would _never_ be able to understand!" i was aroused by this hypothesis into sudden wakefulness. "of course they could not understand--me or my feelings!" i muttered, sitting up in bed and facing the darkness defiantly. "they _could_ not--if--_if_ they were guilford's daughters, too!" chapter v et tu, brute! my first waking thought the next morning had nothing on earth to do with the dilemma of the day before. i stretched my arms lazily, then a little shrinkingly, as i remembered what the daily grind would be. there was to be a flag day celebration of the daughters of the american revolution--and i was to report major coleman's speech. that's why i shrank. i am not a society woman. "d. a. r.," i grumbled, jumping out of bed and going across to the window to see what kind of day we were going to have.--"_d-a-r-n!_" anyway, the day was all right, and after waving a welcome to the sun--whose devout worshiper i am--i rubbed a circle of dust off the mirror and looked at myself. every woman has distinctly pretty days--and distinctly homely ones; and usually the homely ones come to the front viciously when you're booked for something extraordinary. however, this proved to be one of my good-looking periods, and out of sheer gratitude i polished off the whole expanse of the mirror. incidentally, i am not an absolutely dustless housekeeper, in spite of my craze for simplicity. i consider that there are only two things that need be kept passionately clean in this life--the human skin and the refrigerator. "are you going to dress for the fête--before you go to the office?" mother inquired rebelliously, as she saw me arranging my hair with that look of masculine expectation later on in the morning. "why don't you get your other work off, then come back home and dress?" "well--because," i answered indifferently. "but the _sons_ of the revolution are going to meet with the daughters!" she warned. "i know that." as if to demonstrate my possession of this knowledge i turned away from the mirror and displayed my festive charms. a light gray coat-suit had been converted into the deception of a gala garment by the addition of irish lace; and mother, looking it over contemptuously, went into her own bedroom for a moment, and came back carrying her diamond-studded d. a. r. pin. she held it out toward me--with the air of a martyr. "but--aren't you going to wear it yourself?" i asked, with a little feeling of awe at the lengths of mother-love. she had been regent of her chapter--and loved the organization well enough to go to washington every year. "no." "then--then do you mean to say that you're not going to mrs. walker's to-day?" she shook her head. "why--mother!" i turned to her and saw that a tear had dropped down upon the last golden bar bridging the wisp of red, white and blue. there were ten bars in all, each one engraved for an ancestor--and when i wore the thing i felt like a foreign diplomat sitting for his picture. "what's the matter, honey?" i asked. she had always been my little girl, and i felt at times as if i were unduly severe in my discipline of her. "grace, you don't know how i feel!" the words came jerkily--and i knew that i was in for it. "does your head ache?" i asked hastily. "you'd better get on the car and ride out into the--" "my head _doesn't_ ache!" she denied stoutly. "it's my h-heart!--to see you--grace chalmers christie--racing around to such things as this in a coat-suit! you ought, by right of birth and charm, be the chief ornament of such affairs as this--the chief ornament, i say--yet you go carrying a _'hunk o' copy paper_!'" "in my bag," i modified. "and you get up and leave places before you get a bite of food--and race back to that office, like a wild thing, to _'turn it in_!'" this contemptuous use of my own jargon caused me to laugh. "and do you think that the wearing of this heavy pin will prove so exhausting that i'll have to stay at mrs. walker's to-day for a bite of food?" i asked. she looked at me in helpless reproach. "i want you to go to this thing as a d. a. r.," she explained, "not as a _herald_ reporter." "then i'll wear it," i promised, kissing her soothingly. "but you must go, too." she shook her head again. "i can't--i really can't!" she said. "i've got nothing fine enough to wear. this is going to be a magnificent thing, every one tells me--with all the local sons--and this wonderful major coleman to lecture on flags." she looked at me suspiciously as she uttered her plaint about the sons being present, and in answer, i thrust forward one gray suede pump. "but i'm ready for any son on earth--oldburgh earth," i protested. "don't you _see_ my exquisite lace collar--and the pink satin rose in my chapeau--and this silken and buskskin footgear? surely no true son would ever pause to suspect the 'hunk o' copy paper' which lieth beneath all this glory!" "isn't guilford going with you?" she called after me as i left the house a few minutes later. "will he meet you at the office?" "no--thank heaven--it's an awful thing to have to listen to two men talk at the same time--especially when you're taking one down in shorthand--and guilford is mercifully busy this afternoon." i had a bunch of pink roses, gathered fresh that morning from our strip of garden, and i stopped in the office of the owner and publisher when i had reached the _herald_ building. just because he's old, and drank out of the same canteen with my grandfather i made a habit of keeping fresh flowers in his gray rookwood vase. this spot of color, together with the occasional twinkle from his eyes, made the only break in the dusty newspapery monotony of the room. he looked up from his desk, and his face brightened as he saw my holiday attire. "well, grace?" he started up, big and shaggy--and wistful--like a st. bernard. i like old men to look like st. bernards--and young ones to look like greyhounds. "don't get up--nor clear off a chair for me," i warned, catching up the vase and starting toward the water-cooler. "i can't stay a minute." he collapsed into his squeaky revolving chair. when he was a lad a yankee minnie ball had implanted a kiss upon his left shoulder-blade, and he still carried that side with a jaunty little hike--a most flirtatious little hike, which, however, caused the distinguished rest of him to appear unduly severe. "ah! but you must explain the 'dolled-up' aspect," he begged. i laughed at the schoolgirl slang. "why, this is flag day!" i told him. "how can you have forgotten?--there will be a gigantic celebration at mrs. hiram walker's--and all the pedigreed world will be there." he smiled--slowly. "and you're writing it up?" "just major coleman's lecture! they say he is quite the most learned man in the world on the subject of flags. he knows them and loves them. he carries them about with him on these lecture tours in felt-lined steel cases." "cases?" he smiled. "certainly," i answered. "whatever a man esteems most precious--or useful--he has cases for! the commercial man has his sample cases--the medical man his instrument cases--the artistic man, his--" "divorce cases," he interrupted dryly. "alas, yes!" i sighed, my thoughts traveling back. he wheeled slowly, giving me a glance which finally tapered off with the pink rosebuds in my hands. "then," he asked kindly, "if you're going to a very great affair this afternoon, why don't you keep these flowers and wear them yourself?" i shook my head. "but i'm a newspaper woman!" i said with dignity. "i might as well wear a vanity-bag as to wear flowers." "bosh! you're not a newspaper woman, grace," he denied, still looking at me half sadly. "and yet--well, sometimes it is--just such women as you who do the amazing things." "mother thinks so, certainly!" i laughed. "but you meant in what way, for instance?" he hesitated, studying me for a moment, while i held still and let him, for there's always a satisfaction in being studied when there's a satin rose in your hat. "oh--nothing," he finally answered, with a look of regret upon his face. "but it is something!" i persisted, "and, even if i am in a big hurry, i shan't budge until you tell me!" "well, since you insist--i only meant to say that i'd been doing a little thinking on my own account lately--as owner and publisher of this paper, with its interests at heart--and i've wondered just how much a woman might accomplish, after a man had failed." "a woman?" "by the ill use of her eyes, i mean," he confessed, his own eyes twinkling a little. "women can gain by the ill use of their eyes what men fail to accomplish by their straightforward methods." "but that's what men hate so in women!" i said. he nodded. "ye-es--maybe! that is, they make a great pretense of hating a woman when she uses her eyes to any end save one--charming them for their own dear sakes!" "they naturally grudge her the spoils she gains by the ill use of those important members," i answered defensively. "oh," he put in quickly, "i wasn't going to suggest that you do any such thing--unless you wanted to! i was merely thinking--that was all!" "and besides," i kept on, "all the men who have ever done anything worth being interviewed for--nearly all of them, i mean--are so old that--" he interrupted me wrathfully. "old men are not necessarily blind men, miss christie," he explained. "but we'll change the subject, if you please!" "anyway, it doesn't happen once in twenty years that a newspaper woman gets a scoop just because she's a woman," i continued, not being ready just then to change the subject even if he had demanded it. "it does," he contradicted. "it's one of the most popular plots for magazine stories." "bah! magazine stories and life are two different propositions, my dear captain macauley!" i explained with a blasé air. "i should like some better precedent before i started out on an assignment." "yet you are a most unprecedented young woman," he replied in a meaning tone. "i've suspected it before--but recent reports confirm my worst imaginings." i glanced at him searchingly. "you've been talking with mother?" i ventured. for a moment he was inscrutable. "oh, i know you have!" i insisted. "she's told it to everybody who will listen." "the story of the coburn-colt that wasn't hatched?" his face was severe, but the little upward twist of his left shoulder was twitching as if with suppressed emotion. "she told you with tears in her eyes, i know," i kept on. "all the old friends get the tearful accompaniment." "well, miss, doesn't that make you all the more ashamed of your foolishness?" he demanded. "my foolishness?" something seemed to give way under me as he said this, for he was always on my side, and i had never found sympathy lacking before. "i mean that--that don quixote carried to an extreme becomes happy hooligan," he pronounced. i drew back in amazement. "why, captain horace macauley--of company a-- th kentucky infantry!" he tried hard not to smile. "you needn't go so far back--stay in the present century, if you please." "but ever since then--even to this good day and in a newspaper office, where the atmosphere is so cold-blooded that a mosquito couldn't fly around without getting a congestive chill, you know your reputation! why, you could give the don horse spurs and armor, then arrive a full week ahead of him at a windmill!" "tommy-rot." "supererogation is a prettier word," i amended, but he shook his head. "no! six syllables are like six figures-they get you dizzy when you commence fooling with them! besides, i was discussing _your_ right to commit foolish acts of self-sacrificing, grace, not mine." "but it didn't seem foolish to me," i tried to explain. "when you're working in this rotten newspaper office, where no woman could possibly feel at home, for the vigorous sum of seventy-five dollars a month?--then it doesn't seem idiotic?" "no!" "and your mother moping and pining for the things she ought to have?" "no-o--not much!" "and guilford blake standing by, waiting like a gentleman for this fever of emancipation to pass by and desquamation to take place?" this interested me. "what's 'desquamation?'" i asked. "i haven't time to get my dictionary now." "you couldn't find it in any save a medical dictionary, likely," he explained, with a pretense at patience. "anyway, it's the peeling off process which follows a high fever--especially such fevers as you girls of this restless, modern temperament so often experience!" i shivered. "ugh! it doesn't sound pretty!" i commented. "nor is it pretty," he assured me, "but it's very wholesome. once you've caught the fever, lived through it, peeled off and got a shiny new skin you're forever immune against its return. this, of course, is what guilford is waiting so patiently for. he is one of the most estimable young fellows i know, grace, and--" i looked wounded. "don't you suppose i know that?" i asked. then glancing quickly at the watch bracelet on my wrist, and seeing with a gasp of relief that the hands were pointing toward the dangerous hour of three, i turned toward the door. "i must hurry!" i plead. "you've really no idea what an interesting occasion a flag day celebration is, captain macauley!" "no?" he smiled, understanding my sudden determination to leave. "indeed, no! why, for three hundred and sixty-four days in the year you may have a gentle platonic affection for general washington, paul revere and the rest, but on the other day--flag day--your flame is rekindled into a burning zeal! you can't afford to be late! you must hurry!--especially if you have to go there on the street-car!" "it's a deuced pity you can't get up a zeal for a devoted _living_ man," he called after me in a severe voice as i reached the door. "it's a pity you can't see the idiocy of this determination of yours--before that publishing company revokes its offer." "well, who knows?" i answered, waving him a gay good-by. "i hate street-cars above everything, and i'm sorry my coupé isn't waiting at the door right now!" chapter vi flag day now, according to my ethics, there are two kinds of men who go to daylight parties--idiots and those that are dragged there by their wives. i had scarcely crossed the lawn of seven oaks and found for myself a modest place beside the speaker's stand--which was garlanded with as many different kinds of flags as there were rats in hamelin town--when i observed that this present congregation held a fair sprinkling of each kind. but these held my attention for only a moment--because of the house in the background, and the trees overhead. (to be candid, mrs. hiram walker's country place is not exactly a soothing retreat to visit when temptation is barking at your heels like a little hungry dog--and the desire of your heart begins with h.) "house that's a home" might have been written on the sign-board of the car-station much more truthfully than "seven oaks"--for only the immense patriarchal ones were included in the "seven" there being hordes of lesser ones which were no more mentioned than children are when they're getting big enough to be paying railroad fare. the grove was well cared for, but not made artificial, and even the luxuriousness of the house itself could not hurt the charm, for the hiram walkers were human beings before they were society column acrobats. our families had always been friends, so i happened to know that years and years ago, when mr. walker was a clerk in an insurance office--with a horse and buggy for business through the week and joy unconfined on sunday--they had been in the habit of haunting this spot, he and his slim young wife--bringing a basket full of supper and thrusting the baby's milk bottle down into the ice-cream freezer. then, there were more years, of longing and saving; they bought the hill, patiently enduring a period of blue-prints and architectural advice before the house was built. by this time mrs. walker's slimness was gone, and mr. walker had found out the vanity of hair tonics--but the house was theirs at last. it was big and very beautiful--roomy, rather than mushroomy--and thoughtful, rambling, old-timey, spreading out a great deal of portico to the kiss of the sun. brown-hooded monks and clanking beads ought, by rights, to have gone with that portico. then, the june sunshine was doing such wonders with the oaks, great and small, along the hillsides! it touched up, with a tinge of glory, even the shining motor-cars in the driveway. there were dozens of them--limousines, touring cars, lady-like coupés--with their lazy, half-asleep attendants, and the regularity of their unbroken files, their dignity, their quietness, and the glitter of the sun against their metal gave them something of a martial aspect. the silver sheen of the lamps and levers was brought out in a manner to suggest a line of marching men, silent, but very potent--and enjoying more than a little what they offered to view, the dazzle of helmet, sword and coat-of-mail. the beauty of it all--the softened glory of the shade in which i sat making me feel that i was a spectator at a tournament--cast a spell over me, for i never find it very hard to fall spellbound. isn't it funny that when you're possessed of an intelligence which has fits of st. vitus' dance they call it imagination?--that's the kind mine is--jerky and unreliable. it is the kind of imagination which can take a dried-up acorn and draw forth a medieval forest; or gaze upon a rusty old spur and live over again the time when knights were bold. but to get back to "those present." first of all, i noted oldburgh's best-known remittance man. i noted him mentally, mind you, not paragraphically, for they never made me do the real drudgery of the society page. he was sitting beside his mama, swinging her gauze fan annoyingly against her lorgnette chain. his divorce the year before had come near uniting church and state, since it's a fact that nothing so cements conflicting bodies like the uprising of a new common foe; and he had sinned against both impartially. after him came two or three financial graybeards; three or four yearling bridegrooms, not broken yet to taking the bit between their teeth and staying rebelliously at the office; a habitual "welcomer to our city"--major harvey coleman, a high officer in the sons of the american revolution, and the pièce de résistence of this occasion--then--then--! well, certainly the impassive being next him was the most unsocial-looking man i had ever had my eyes droop beneath the gaze of! he was sitting in the place of honor--in the last chair of the first row--but despite this, he so clearly did not belong at that party, and he so clearly wished himself away that i--well, i instantly began searching through the crowds to find a woman with handcuffs! i felt sure that, whoever she might be--she hadn't got him there any other way! and yet--and yet--(my thoughts were coming in little dashing jerks like that) he _was_ rather too big for any one woman to have handled him! i decided this after another look and another droop of my own eyes, for he was still looking--and that was what i decided about him first--that he was very _big_! then misbehaving brown hair came next into my consciousness. it came to top off a picture which for a moment caused me to wonder whether he was really a flesh-and-blood man at mrs. walker's reception, or the spirit of some woodsman--come again, after many years, to haunt the grove of the seven oaks. his new york clothes didn't make a bit of difference--except to spoil the illusion a little. they were all light gray, except for a glimpse of blue silk hose, and their perfection only served to remind you that it was a pity for a man who looked like _that_ to dress like _that_! modern man has but one artistic garment--a bathrobe; yet it wouldn't have relieved my feelings any if this man had been dressed in one. for he wasn't artistic--and certainly he wasn't modern! still, i felt the pity of it all, for he ought to have had better perceptions. he ought to have had his clothes and cosmic consciousness match! he ought to have been dressed in a coat of goatskin--and his knees ought to have been bare--and the rawhide thongs of his moccasins ought to have been strong and firm! i had just reached this point in my plans for the change in his wardrobe, when our hostess bustled up and shooed me out of my quiet corner. "grace," she whispered, "move out a bit, will you, and let me crowd a man in over there--" "in here?" she nodded. "where he can't _escape_!" she explained. i gathered up my opened sheet of copy paper and moved obediently into the next chair, which she had indicated. "that's right--thank you! i've found out by experience that if you let certain suspicious characters linger on the ragged edges of a crowd like this they're sure to disappear." then she turned and beckoned to my fifth-avenue-looking backwoodsman--with a smile of triumph. "_him?_" i asked in surprise. she was looking in his direction, so failed to see the expression of my face. "it's no more than he deserves--having this american revolution rubbed in on him," she observed absently. "i have never worked so hard in my life over any one man as i have over this identical maitland tait!" i saw him rise and come toward her--then i began having trouble with my throat. i couldn't breathe very easily. "maitland tait!" i gasped. "yes--_the_ maitland tait!" her voice sounded with a brass-band echo of victory. "but how did you--" "by outwitting pollie kendall--plague take her!" the man was coming leisurely, stopping once to speak to one of the graybeard financiers. "have you met him?" mrs. walker asked carelessly, as he approached. "no." she turned to him. "i'm going to put you in here--where you'll have to stay," she laughed, her big, heavy frame looking dwarfed beside his own towering height. "i wasn't going to run away." "no? you can't always tell--and i thought it safe to take every precaution, for this lecture may be long, and it's certain to be irritating to one of your nationality.--in this location you'll be in the clutches of the press, you see, and--by the way, you must meet miss christie!--mr. tait, miss christie!" his face was still perfectly impassive, and he bowed gravely--with that down-to-the-belt grace which foreigners have. i nodded the pink satin rose on my hat in his direction. this was all! neither made any further demonstration than that!--and to think that since creation's dawn--the world over--the thing is done just as idly and carelessly as that! "mr. tait, miss christie!"--these are the words which were said--and, dear me, all the days of one's life ought to be spent in preparation for the event! "you are a daughter of the revolution, i presume?" his voice finally asked me--a deep clear voice, which was strong enough to drown out the wagnerian processionals beating at that moment against my brain, and to follow me off on the mother-of-pearl cloud i had embarked upon. it was a glorious voice, distinctly un-american, but with the suggestion of having the ability to do linguistic contortions. he looked like a man who had traveled far--over seas and deserts--and his voice confirmed it. it proclaimed that he could bargain with equal ease in piasters and pence. still, it was a big wholesome voice. it matched the coat of goatskin, the bare knees and the moccasins i had planned for him. "yes, i am," i answered. our eyes met for an instant, as he disengaged his gaze from that ten-barred insignia on my coat. far, far back, concealed by his dark iris, was a tinge of amused contempt. "then i dare say you're interested in this occasion?" he inquired. i shouldn't say that he inquired, for he didn't. his tone held a challenge. "no, indeed, i'm not!" i answered foolishly. "i came only because i have to write up major coleman's speech for my paper. i am a special writer for the _herald_." and it was then that he smiled--really smiled. i saw a transformation which i had never seen in any other man's face, for with him a smile escapes! there is a breaking up of the ruggedness, an eclipse of the stern gravity for a moment, and--no matter how much you had cared for these an instant before--you could not miss them then--not in that twinkling flood of radiance! "oh--so you're not an ancestor-worshiper?" "no." "but i thought americans were!" he insisted. "americans?" i repeated loftily. "why, of course, that's an english--religion." "not always," he answered grimly, and the italian band stationed behind the clump of boxwood cut short any further conversation. i was glad, for i did not want to talk to him then. i merely wanted to stand off--and look at him--and tell myself what manner of man he must be. to do this i glanced down at my copy paper, with one eyelid raised in favor of his profile. an ancestor-worshiper? absurd! ancestors were quite out of the question with him, i felt sure. there was something gloriously _traditionless_ about his face and expansive frame. but his hands? those infallible records of what has gone before?--i dropped my eyes to their normal position. his hands were _good_! they were big and long and brown--that shade of brownness that comes to a meerschaum pipe after it has been kissed a time or two by nicotine. and his hair was brown, too light by several shades to match with his very dark eyes, but it likely looked lighter on account of its conduct, standing up, and away, and back from his face. his complexion spoke of an early-to-bed and early-to-tub code of ethics. his nose and mouth were well in the foreground. "you are a man who cares nothing at all for your ancestors--but you'll care a great deal for your descendants!" was the summing up i finally made of him. at the close of the band's hungarian rhapsody he leaned over and whispered to me. "did you say the _herald_?" he asked. "yes." "i have had my--attention called to your paper recently," he said, in so serious a tone that i was compelled to look up and search for the smile which i felt must lurk behind it. and when i saw it there i felt reassured, and smiled in response. "so they told me at the office," i said with great cordiality. "is it three or four of our reporters you've thrown down your front steps?" "oh, i haven't got close enough to them to throw them down the steps," he disclaimed quickly. "that's one thing you have to guard against with reporters. they've got you--if they once see the whites of your eyes!" i felt it my duty to bristle, in defense of my kind. "not unless your eyes _talk_," i said. then, when he stared at me in uncertainty for a moment, i dropped my own eyes again, for i felt that they were proclaiming their convictions as loudly as a hyde park suffragette meeting. the band at that moment struck up _the star-spangled banner_ in a manner to suggest the president's advent into the theater, and i searched in my bag for my pencil. i had seen the lecturer cough. "i say--how long is this convocation supposed to last?" maitland tait inquired in a very inconspicuous whisper, as the white-flanneled lion of the affair arose from his chair and became the cynosure of lorgnettes. "well, this talk will absorb about forty-five minutes, i should hazard," i said. already i had had the forethought to jot down the usual opening: "ladies and gentlemen--daughters and sons of the american revolution: it is with a feeling of profoundest pleasure that i have the privilege of being with you to-day," etc. so for the moment my attention was undivided. "and there will be other talks?" "yes." "and a walk through the gardens, i believe mrs.--mrs. walker said?" "probably so. the seven oaks gardens are very lovely in june." at the mention of gardens his eyes wandered, with what i fancied was a tinge of homesickness, toward the colorful flowering spaces beyond the box hedges. there were acres and acres of typical english gardens back there; and the odor of the sweet old-fashioned shrubs came in on gentle heat waves from the open area. he looked as if he would like to be back there in those english-looking gardens--with all the people gone. chapter vii straws point "and are you going to write up the whole thing?" he inquired, during a little commotion caused by one of the large flags slipping from its stand and threatening to obscure the speaker. "you mean make a society column report of it?" "yes." "no. i'm a sort of special feature writer on the _herald_, and i am to get only this speech of major coleman's to put in my sunday page." the lecture had commenced in good earnest by this time, and i was scribbling away in shorthand as i talked. "not one among us is insensible to the visions of patriotic pride and affection which the very name of 'old glory' conjures up within us, but at the same time we may do well to review, quite dispassionately, once in a while the wonderful chain of historical changes which came about in evolving this flag to its present form.... for we all realize that there is no perfect thing in this world which has not been an evolution from some imperfect thing.... when pope gregory, the"--somethingth, i quite failed to catch his number--"granted to scotland the white cross of st. andrew, and to england the red cross of st. george, he faintly surmised what a tempest in a teapot he was stirring up!" he paused, and the man at my side got in a word, edgewise. "all of it?" he asked, looking aghast at the pages of long-tailed dots and dashes under my hand. i laughed. "i'm paid to do it," i answered. "i don't disfigure my handwriting this way for nothing." "but--but--you must be very clever," he commented, so appalled at the thought that he forgot he was talking to a stranger. i like that faculty. i like a man who dares to be awkwardly sincere. "not clever--only very needy," i replied, turning over the page as i saw the lecturer replace the white flag of st. andrew into its stand and take up the thread of his talk. "and i don't know that i need get every word of the discourse. the women who read my page don't care a rap about flags--but they do care to see a picture of major coleman and his wife and their dog on the piazza of their winter home, just out from tampa!--i've got to have enough of this lecture to carry that picture." he nodded gravely. "i see. but after you get this report?" "i'm going back to the city," i answered. "i have to catch the five o'clock car in." "... the jealousy became so fierce between the two nations--the absurd jealousy over which should first salute the flag of the other--st. george claiming great superiority in the way of godliness over st. andrew, and st. andrew, with the true scotch spirit, stiffening his neck to the breaking point, while waiting for st. george to take off his hat to him, that when the story of this dissension reached the ears of pope gregory, he--" i never knew what he did until afterward, for at that moment i saw maitland tait slip his watch out carefully, guarding the action with an outspread left hand. "i've an engagement at five, too," he said. "... he determined to lose no time," was the next sentence i found myself jotting down on paper, and wondering whether major coleman had really said such a thing or whether it had been born in my mind of the stress of the moment.... "he was a man of the most impulsive, sometimes of the most erratic, actions." "of course!" my heart said between thumps. "i shouldn't like him if he were not." "i can make my excuses to mrs. walker at the same time you make yours," the deep voice said, in a surprisingly soft tone. "... for he saw in such a course protection and peace," major coleman announced. "all the world suspected that his ultimate aim was union, but--" "an international alliance," my heart explained, as i jotted down the words of the lecturer. "mayn't i take you back to town in my car?" "... and all the world knew that he was a man absolutely untrammeled by tradition," the white-flanneled one proclaimed. "thank you, that would be lovely, but i'm afraid mrs. walker won't consent to your going so soon," i said between curlicues. "i'm going, however," he answered. "i've an important engagement, and--i'm not going to stay at this--this," he closed his lips firmly, but the silence said "_cussed_," that dear, fierce, american adjective. "i'm not going to stay at this party one minute after you're gone. i don't like to talk to just any woman." "... yet i would have you understand that he was a temperamental man," was thundered in a warning tone from the speaker's stand. "he was quick in judgment and action, but he was fine and sensitive in spirit. i've never a doubt that he disliked and feared the occasion which caused this precipitate action. he was quaking in his boots all the time, but he was courageous. he decided to make brief work of formalities and take a short cut to his heart's desire." "what was it he did?" i asked of mr. tait, startled at the thought of what i'd missed. "do you know what this thing was that pope gregory did?" "no-o--listen a minute!" he suggested. "... can't you just imagine now that he was afraid of what people might say--or do?" asked the major encouragingly. "it was absolutely unprecedented in the annals of history--such a quick, rash and sudden decision. if england and scotland were going to be eternally bickering over their flags, they should have _one_ flag! they should be united! they should--" "the _union jack_!" whispered the deep voice close at my side, while the grave dark eyes lighted, as--as they should have lighted, or i'd never have forgiven him. "he created the union jack, by george!" and the speaker on the stand demonstrated the truth of this conclusion by displaying a big british flag, which caught in its socket as he attempted to lift it and occasioned another pause in the speech. "this enthusiasm makes me hungry," maitland tait observed, as the audience courteously saluted the ancient emblem of hostility, and the echoes of applause died away. "since we're going to get no tea here, can't we drive by some place up-town? there's a good-looking place in union street--" "but that would make you very late for your engagement, i'm afraid," i demurred. "it will take some little time to drive in." he looked at me wonderingly for a moment. "my engagement? oh, yes--but it can wait." "then, if it can, i'm afraid mrs. walker will not let you off. i happen to know that--" he cut short my argument by motioning me to pay attention to the speaker, who at the moment had replaced the flag of pope gregory's cunning, and was talking away at a great rate. "... yet, who can say that the hastiest actions do not often bring about the best results? certainly when a decision is made out of an excessive desire to bring happiness to all parties concerned, its immediate action can not fail to denote a wholesome heartiness which should always be emulated.... different from most men of his native country, possessing a genuinely warm heart, a subtle mentality, coupled with a conscience which impelled him always toward the right, he was enabled, by this one impetuous act, to become a benefactor of mankind! what he longed for was harmony--a harmonious union; and what he has achieved has been the direct outcome of a great longing. he created a union--wholesome, strengthening and permanent," i took down in shorthand. * * * * * i have a confused impression--i suppose i should say post-impression, for i didn't remember anything very clearly until afterward--that betsy ross, pope gregory, the somethingth, and mrs. hiram walker were all combining to tie my hands and feet together with thongs of red, white and blue. it seemed hours and hours before that lecture ended, then more hours before the tall restless man and i could make our way through a sea of massaged faces to a distant point where our hostess stood giving directions to a white-coated servant. she turned to me, with a fluttering little air of regret, when i reached her side. "grace, surely you don't have to hurry off at this unchristian hour!" she insisted. "my dear, you really should stay! solinski has arranged the loveliest spread, and i'm not going to keep the company waiting forever to get to it, either!--the ices will be the surprise of the season." "i'm sorry," i began, but she interrupted me. "why _didn't_ your mother come?" already her vague regret over my own hasty departure had melted away, and as she saw the tall man following me, evidently bent upon the same mission as mine, she put her query in a perfunctory way to hide her chagrin. "mother couldn't come, mrs. walker. there is only one d. a. r. pin in the family, as you know--and i had to wear that." maitland tait, looking over my shoulder, heard my explanation and smiled. "it is a great deprivation to miss the rest of your charming party, mrs. walker," he began, but as he mentioned going, in a cool final voice, our hostess emitted a little terrified shriek. "what? not you, too!" his face was the picture of deep contrition. "i _am_ sorry," he said, as only an englishman can say it, and it always sounds as if he were digging regret up out of his heart with a shovel, "but i have an important engagement that really can not wait--" "and the general seth o'callen chapter fairly holding its breath to meet you!" she wailed, the despair in her voice so genuine that it was impossible to keep back a smile. "that is our chapter composed entirely of _young_ women, you know, and i'd given their regent my word of honor that you'd be here to-day!" "which the regent has entirely forgotten in the charm of that delightful lecture we've just heard, i'm sure," he answered, his tones regretfully mollifying. "if it were at all possible for me to get word to the man--the men--" the rest of the fabrication was cut short and drowned out by the shriek of a trolley-car, grinding noisily round a curve of the track at that instant. it was the five-o'clock car, and i had grown to watch for its shriek as fearfully as ever cinderella listened for the stroke of twelve from the castle clock. for me there was never a garden party without its trolley-car back to the city--its hateful, five-o'clock car--its hurried, businesslike, hungry summons--while ice in tea glasses tinkled to the echo. from force of long habit now that grinding sound of the car-wheels acted upon my nervous system like a fire alarm upon an engine horse--and i started to run. "charming party--so sorry to have to rush off this way--hope next time i'll not be so busy--yes, i'll tell mother!" i gathered the folds of copy paper close, having forgotten to thrust them away out of sight into my bag, and made a break for the front gate. then, as i reached the line of waiting motor-cars, i remembered--and stopped still with a foolish little feeling. looking back i saw mrs. walker shaking hands in an injured fashion with her troublesome lion--who, after the manner of lions, proved that he could afford anxiety as well after being caught as before,--and turning her back resolutely upon his departing glory.--the whole of the general seth o'callen chapter was before her, i knew she was thinking bitterly. "thank goodness she won't see this!" i volunteered to myself, as the tall gray figure came hastily down the line and caught up with me. "she has troubles enough of her own, and--and she won't stop to wonder over whether i went back to the city by trolley, motor, or chariot of fire!" chapter viii longest way home "you hadn't forgotten?" he inquired, coming up behind me with an expression of uneasiness as i passed the first two or three cars in the line. "no--that is, i forgot for only a moment! i'm so used to going to town on this trolley-car." "then--ah, here we are--" the limousine to which i was conducted was a gleaming dark-blue affair, with light tan upholstery, and the door-knobs, clock-case and mouth-piece of the speaking-tube were of tortoise-shell. the chauffeur touched something and the big creature began a softened, throbbing breathing. isn't it strange how we can not help regarding automobiles as _creatures_? sometimes we think of them as gliding swans--at other times as fiery-eyed dragons. it all depends upon whether _we're_ the duster, or the dustee. i gained the idea as i stepped into this present one--which of course belonged to the gliding swan variety--that its master must be rather ridiculously well-to-do--for a cave-man. his initials were on the panels, and the man at the wheel said, "mr. tait, sir," after a fashion that no american-trained servant, white, black, or almond-eyed, ever said. evidently the car had come down from pittsburgh and the chauffeur had made a longer journey. together, however, they spelled perfection--and luxury. still, strange to say, the notion of this man's possible wealth did not get on my throat and suffocate me, as the notion of guilford's did. i felt that the man himself really cared very little about it all. the idea of his being a man who could do hard tasks patiently did not fade in the glamour of this damask and tortoise-shell. "which is--the longest way to town?" he asked in a perfectly grave, matter-of-fact way as we started. "down this lane to the franklin pike, then out past fort christian to belcourt boulevard--and on to high street," i replied in a perfectly grave, matter-of-fact way, as if he were a tubercular patient, bound to spend a certain number of hours in aimless driving every day. "thank you," he answered very seriously, then turned to the chauffeur. "collins, can you follow this line? i think we drove out this way the day the car came?" "oh, yes, sir--thank you," the man declared, slipping his way in and out among the throngs of other vehicles. then as we whirled away down the pike i kept thinking of this man--this young englishman, who had come to america and elevated himself into the position of vice-president and general-manager of the consolidated traction company, but, absurdly enough, no thought of the limousine nor the traction company came into my musings. i thought of him as a spirit--a spirit-man, who had lived in the woods. he had dwelt in a hut--or a cave--and toiled with his hands, hewing down trees, burning charcoal, eating brown bread at noon. then, at dusk, he laid aside his tools, rumbling homeward in a great two-wheeled cart, whistling as he went, but softly--because he was deep in thought. the seven _ages_ of man are really nothing to be compared in point of interest with the different conditions of mind which women demand of them. very young girls seek about--often in vain--for a man who can compel; then later, they demand one who can feel; afterward their own expansion clamors for one who can understand--but the final stage of all is reached when the feminine craving can not be satisfied save by the man who can _achieve_. this, of course, indicates that the woman herself is experienced--sometimes even to the point of being a widow--but it is decidedly a satisfying state of mind when it is once reached, because it is permanent. and your man of achievement is pretty apt to be an uncomplicated human. his deepest "problem" is how to make the voices of the nightingale and alarm clock harmonize. for he is a lover between suns--and a _laborer_ during them. at solinski's japanese tea-room in union street, the limousine slowed up. the band was playing _the rosary_ as we went in, for it was the hour of the afternoon for the professional seers and seen of oldburgh's medium world to drop in off the sidewalks for half an hour and dawdle over a tutti-frutti. the ultra-sentimental music always gets such people as these--and the high excruciating notes of this love-wail were ringing out with an intense poignancy. "each hour a pearl--each pearl a prayer--" "which table do you prefer?" my companion asked me, but for a moment i failed to answer. i was looking up at the clock, and i saw that the hands were pointing to six. i had met maitland tait at four!--thus i had two pearls already on my string, i reckoned. "oh, which table--well, farther back, perhaps!" i came down to earth after that, for getting acquainted with the caprices of a man's appetite is distinctly an earthly joy. yet it certainly comes well within the joy class, for nothing else gives you the comfortable sense of possession that an intimate knowledge of his likes and dislikes bestows. just after the "each-hour-a-pearl" stage you begin to feel that you have a _right_ to know whether he takes one lump or two! and the homely, every-day joys are decidedly the best. you don't tremble at the sounds of a man's rubber heels at the door, perhaps, after you're so well acquainted with him that you've set him a hasty supper on the kitchen table, or your fingers have toyed with his over the dear task of baiting a mouse-trap together--but he gets a dearness in this phase which a pedestal high as eiffel tower couldn't afford.--it is this dearness which makes you endure to see prince charming's coronet melted down into ducats to buy certified milk! "and what are--those?" maitland tait asked, after the tea-service was before us, and i had poured his cup. he was looking about the place with a frank interest, and his gaze had lighted upon a group of marcelled, manicured manikins at a near-by table. they were chattering and laughing in an idly nervous fashion. i dropped in two lumps of sugar and passed him his cup. "they are wives," i answered. "what?" "just wives." being english, it took him half a second to smile--but when he did i forgave him the delay. "_just_ wives? then that means not mothers, nor helpmeets, nor--" "nor housekeepers, nor suffragettes, nor saints, nor sinners, nor anything else that the lord intended, nor apprehended," i finished up with a fierce suddenness, for that was what guilford wanted me to be. "they're _just_ wives." he stirred his tea thoughtfully. "that's what i find all over america," he said, but not with the air of making a discovery. "men must work, and women must _eat_." "and the sooner it's over the sooner to--the opera," i said. he looked at me in surprise. "then you recognize it?" he asked. "recognize it? of course _i_ recognize it--but i'm not a fair sample. i work for my living." he was silent for a moment, looking at the manikins with a sort of half-hearted pity. "if they could all be induced to work they'd not be what they are--to men," he observed. "to men?" "i find that an american wife is a tormenting side-issue to a man's busy life," he said, with a tinge of regret. "and i am sorry, too--for they are most charming. for my part, i should like a woman who could do things--who was clever enough to be an inspiration." i nodded heartily, forgetful of personalities. "i too like the workers in the world," i coincided. "my ideal man is one whose name will be made into a verb." he laughed. "like marconi, eh, and pasteur--and--" "and boycott, and macadam, and--oh, a host of others!" it was quite a full minute before he spoke again. "i don't see how i could make my name into a verb," he said quietly, "but i must begin to think about it. it is certainly a valuable suggestion." it was my turn to laugh, which i did, nervously. "in oldburgh, tait seems to stand for the opposite of dictate," i hazarded. "that means to _talk_, and you won't--talk." "but i am talking," he insisted. "i'm asking you questions as fast as ever i can." "however, your technique is wrong," i replied. "you shouldn't ask questions of a newspaper woman. you should let her ask the questions, and you should furnish the answers." "but you're not a newspaper woman now, are you?" he demanded in some alarm. "i hope not--and certainly i must ask you questions before i begin to tell you things. there are quite a few facts which i wish to find out now." "and they are, first--?" "where you live?" i told him, and he took from his pocket a small leather book with his name, maitland tait, and an address in smaller letters which i could not make out, on the inside lining. in a small, rather cramped hand, he wrote the address i gave him, " west clydemont place," then looked up at me. "next?" i laughed, in a flutter. "next i want to know when you will let me come to see you?" "when?" i repeated, rather blankly. he drew slightly back. "i should have said, of course, _if_ you will let me come, but--" "but i shall be very glad to have you come," i made haste to explain. "i--i was only thinking!" i was thinking of my betrothed--for the first time that afternoon. "the length of time i am to stay in the south is very uncertain," he went on to explain with a gentle dignity. "at first it appeared that i might have to make a long stay, but we are settling our affairs so satisfactorily that i may be able to get back to pittsburgh at any time now. that's why i feel that i can't afford to lose a single day in doing the really important things." "then come," i said, with a friendly show, which was in truth a desperate spirit of abandon. "come some day--" "to-morrow?" he asked. "to-morrow--at four." but during the rest of the meal grandfather and uncle lancelot came and took their places on either side of me. they were distinctly de trop, but i could not get rid of them. "this is--really the wrong thing to do, grace," grandfather said, so soberly that when i rose to go and looked in the mirror to see that my hat was all right, his own sad blue eyes were looking out at me in perplexed reproach. "--very wrong." then the sad blue eyes took in the lower part of my face. i believe i've neglected to say that there is a dimple in my chin, and uncle lancelot's spirit is a cliff-dweller living there. he comes out and taunts the thoughtful eyes above. "nonsense, parson!" he expostulated jauntily now. "look on the lips while they are red! she's _young_!" "youth doesn't excuse folly," said grandfather severely. "it exudes it, however," the other argued. i turned away, resolutely, from their bickering. i had enough to contend with besides them--for suddenly i had begun wondering what on earth mother _would_ say, after she'd said: "grace, you amaze me!" chapter ix maitland tait the only difference between the houses in west clydemont place and museums was that there was no admission fee at the front door. otherwise they were identical, for the "auld lang syne" flavor greeted you the moment you put foot into that corner of the town. you knew instinctively that every family there owned its own lawn-mower and received crested invitations in the morning mail. yet it was certainly not fashionable! indeed, from a butler-and-porte-cochère standpoint it was shabby. the business of owning your own lawn-mower arises from a state of mind, rather than from a condition of finances, anyway. we were poor, but aloof--and strung high with the past-tension. the admiral, the ambassador and the artist rubbed our aristocracy in on any stray caller who lingered in the hall, if they had failed to be pricked by it on the point of grandfather's jeweled sword in the library. i saw through a new vista as i came up to it in the late dusk, following the flag day reception, and i wondered what the effect of all this antiquity would be on the mind of a man who so clearly disregarded the grandfather clause in one's book of life. i hoped that he would be amused by it, as he had been by the long-tailed d. a. r. badge on my coat. "you'd better have a little fire kindled up in the library, grace," mother observed chillingly just after lunch that next afternoon. "it's true it's june, but--" "but the day _is_ bleak and raw," i answered, with a sudden cordial sense of relief that she was on speaking terms with me again. "certainly i'll tell cicely to make a fire." "the dampness of the day has nothing at all to do with it," she kept on with frozen evenness. "i suggested it because a fire is a safe place for a girl to look into while her profile is being studied." "mother!" her sense of outraged propriety suddenly slipped its leash. "it keeps her eyes looking earnest, instead of _eager_," she burst out. "and any girl who'd let a man--allow a man--to run away from a party whose very magnificence was induced on his account, and take her off to tea in a public place, and come to see her the very next afternoon--a stranger, and a foreigner at that--is--is playing with fire!" "you mean she'd better be playing with fire while he's calling?" i asked quietly. "we must remember to have the old andirons polished, then." she stopped in her task of dusting the parlor--whose recesses without the shining new player-piano suddenly looked as bare and empty as a shop-window just after the holidays. "you wilfully ignore my warning," she declared. "if this man left that party yesterday and comes calling to-day, of course he's impressed! and if you let him, of course _you're_ impressed. this much goes without saying; but i beg you to be careful, grace! you happen to have those very serious, _betraying_ eyes, and i want you to guard them while he's here!" "by keeping my hands busy, eh?" i laughed. "well, i'll promise, mother, if that'll be any relief to you." so the fire was kindled, as a preventative measure; and at four o'clock he came--not on the stroke, but ten minutes after. i was glad that he had patronized the street railway service for this call, and left the limousine in its own boudoir--you couldn't imagine anything so exquisite being kept in a lesser place--or i'm afraid that our little white-capped maid would have mistaken it for an ambulance and assured him that nobody was sick. gleaming blue limousines were scarce in that section. "am i early?" he asked, after we had shaken hands and he had glanced toward the fire with a little surprised, gratified expression. "i wasted a quarter of an hour waiting for this car." now, a woman can always forgive a man for being late, if she knows he started on time, so with this reassurance i began to feel at home with him. i leaned over and stirred the fire hospitably--to keep my eyes from showing just how thoroughly at home i felt. "no--you are not early. i was expecting you at four, and--and mother will be down presently." he studied my profile. "i was out at the golf club dance last night," he said, after a pause, with a certain abruptness which i had found characterized his more important parts of speech. i stood the tongs against the marble mantlepiece and drew back from the flame. "was it--enjoyable?" i asked politely. "extremely. mrs. walker was there, and she had very kindly forgiven me for my defection of the afternoon. in fact, she was distinctly cordial. she talked to me a great deal of you and your mother." my heart sank. it always does when i find that my women friends have been talking a great deal about me. "oh, did she?" "she is very fond of you, it seems--and very puzzled by you." "puzzled because i work for the _herald_?" i spoke breathlessly, for i wondered if mrs. walker had told of the guilford blake puzzle, as well; but after one look into the candid half-amused eyes i knew that this information had been withheld. "well, yes. she touched upon that, among other things." "but what things?" i asked impatiently. at the door i heard the maid with the tea tray. "i suppose, however, just the usual things that people tell about us. that we have been homeless and penniless--except for this old barn--since i was a baby, and that, one by one, the pomps of power have been stripped from us?" he looked at me soberly for a moment. "yes, she told me all this," he said. "and that our historic rosewood furniture was sold, years ago, to mrs. hartwell gill, the grocer's wife who used the chair-legs as battering-rams?" he smiled. "against oldburgh's unwelcoming doors? yes." "and that--" "that you belonged to the most aristocratic family in the whole state," he interrupted softly. "so aristocratic that even the possession of the rosewood furniture is an open sesame! and of course this state is noted for its blooded beings, even in my own country." "really?" i asked, with a little gratified surprise. "indeed, yes!" he replied earnestly. "and mrs. walker told me something that i had not in the least thought to surmise--that you are a descendant of the famous artist, christie. i don't know why i happened not to think about it, for the name is one which an englishman instantly connects with portrait galleries. he was very favorably known on our side." "yes. he had a very remarkable--a very pathetic history," i said. turning around, he glanced at a small portrait across the room. "is--is this james christie?" he asked. "yes. there is a larger one in the hall." he walked across the room and examined the portrait. after a perfunctory survey, which did not include any very close examination of the strong features--rugged and a little harsh, and by no means the glorious young face which had been a lodestar to lady frances webb--he turned back to me. for a moment i fancied that he was going to say something bitter and impulsive--something that held a tinge of mass-hatred for class, but his expression changed suddenly. i saw that his impulse had passed, and that what he would say next would be an afterthought. "do you care for him--for this sort of thing?" he asked, waving his hand carelessly toward the other portraits in the room and toward the sword, lying there in an absurd sort of harmlessness beneath its glass case. "i imagined that you didn't." he spoke with a tinge of disappointment. evidently he was sorry to find me so pedigreed a person. "i do--and i don't," i answered, coming across the room to his side and drawing back a curtain to admit a better light. "i certainly care for--him." "the artist?" "yes." "but why?" he demanded, with a sudden twist of perversity to his big well-shaped mouth. "to me it seems such a waste of time--this sentiment for romantic antiquity. but i am not an unprejudiced judge, i admit. i have spent all the days of my life hating aristocracy." "oh, my feeling for him is not caused by his aristocracy," i made haste to explain. "and indeed, the christies were very commonplace people until he elevated them into the ranks of fame. he was not only an artist of note, but he was a very strong man. it is this part of his history that i revere, and when i was a very young girl i 'adopted' him--from all the rest of my ancestors--to be the one i'd care for and feel a pride in." he smiled. "of course you don't understand," i attempted to explain with a little flurry. "no _man_ would ever think of adopting an ancestor, but--" he interrupted me, his smile growing gentler. "i think i understand," he said. "i did the selfsame thing, years ago when i was a boy. but my circumstances were rather different from yours. i selected my grandfather--my mother's father, because he was clean and fine and strong! he was--he was a collier in wales." "a collier?" i repeated, wondering for the moment over the unaccustomed word. "a coal-miner," he explained briefly. "he was honest and kind-hearted--and i took him for my example. he left me no heirlooms that--" i turned away, looking at the room's furnishings with a feeling of reckless contempt. "heirlooms are--are a nuisance to keep dusted!" i declared quickly. "yet you evidently like them," he said, as we took our places again before the fire, and the little maid, in her nervous haste, made an unnecessary number of trips in and out. the firelight was glowing ruddily over the silver things on the tea-table, and looking up, i caught his eyes resting upon the ring i wore--guilford's scarab. "that ring is likely an heirloom?" "yes--the story goes that mariette himself found it," i elucidated, slipping the priceless old bit of stone off my hand and handing it to him to examine. but as i talked my head was buzzing, for grandfather was at one ear and uncle lancelot was at the other. "grace, you ought to tell him!" grandfather commanded sharply. "tell him this minute! say to him: 'this ring is an heirloom in the family of my betrothed.'" "_rot_, parson!" came in uncle lancelot's dear comforting tones. "shall a young woman take it for granted that every man who admires the color of her eyes is interested in her entire history?--why, it would be absolutely indelicate of grace to tell this man that she's engaged. it's simply none of his business." "you'll see! you'll see!" grandfather warned--and my heart sank, for when a member of your family warns you that you'll see, the sad part of it is that you _will_ see. "it's a royal scarab, isn't it?" maitland tait asked, turning the ancient beetle over and viewing the inscription on the flat side. "yes--perhaps--oh, i don't know, i'm sure," i answered in a bewildered fashion. then suddenly i demanded: "but what else did mrs. walker tell you? surely she didn't leave off with the mention of one illustrious member of my family." "she told me about your great-aunt--the queer old lady who left james christie's relics to you because you were the only member of the family who didn't keep a black bonnet in readiness for her funeral," he laughed, as he handed me back the ring. "they were just a batch of letters," i corrected, "not any other relics." "yes--the letters written by lady frances webb," he said. it was my turn to laugh. "i knew that mrs. walker must have been talkative," i declared. "she didn't tell you the latest touch of romance in connection with those letters, did she?" he was looking into the fire, with an expression of deep thoughtfulness; and i studied his profile for a moment. "late romance?" he asked in a puzzled fashion, as he turned to me. "a publishing company has made me an offer to publish those letters! to make them into a stunning 'best-seller,' with a miniature portrait of lady frances webb, as frontispiece, i dare say, and the oftenest-divorced illustrator in america to furnish pictures of colmere abbey, with the lovers mooning 'by norman stone!'" he was silent for a little while. "no, she didn't tell me this," he finally answered. "then it is because she doesn't know it!" i explained. "you see, mother is still too grieved to mention the matter to any one by telephone--and it happens that she hasn't met mrs. walker face to face since the offer was made." "and--rejected?" he asked, with a little smile. "yes, but how did you know?" the smile sobered. "there are some things one _knows_," he answered. "yet, after all, what are you going to do with the letters? if you don't publish them now how are you going to be sure that some other--some future possessor will not?" "i can't be sure--that's the reason i'm not going to run any risks," i told him. "i'm going to burn them." he started. "but that would be rather a pity, wouldn't it?" he asked. "she was such a noted writer that i imagine her letters are full of literary value." "it would be a cold-blooded thing for _me_ to do," i said thoughtfully. "i've an idea that some day i'll take them back to england and--and burn them there." "a sort of feeling that they'd enjoy being buried on their native soil?" he asked. "i'll take them to colmere abbey--her old home," i explained. "to me the place has always been a house of dreams! she describes portions of the gardens in her letters--tells him of new flower-beds made, of new walls built--of the sun-dial. i have always wanted to go there, and some day i shall bundle all these letters up and pack them in the bottom of a steamer trunk--to have a big bonfire with them on the very same hearth where she burned his." chapter x in the firelight again there was a silence, but it was not the kind of silence that gives consent. on the other hand his look of severity was positively discouraging. "if i may inquire, what do you know about this place--this colmere abbey?" he finally asked. "i mean, do you know anything of it in this century--whether it's still standing or not--or anything at all save what your imagination pictures?" it was a rather lawyer-like query, and i shook my head, feeling somewhat nonplused. "no--nothing!" "then, if you should go to england, how would you set about finding out?" "oh, that wouldn't be so bad. in fact, i believe it would be a unique experience to go journeying to a spot with nothing more recent than a washington irving sketch as guide-book." he looked at me half pityingly. "you might be disappointed," he said gently. "for my part, i have never taken up a moment's time mooning about people's ancestral estates--i've had too much real work to do--but i happen to know that residents often fight shy of tourists." i had a feeling of ruffled dignity. "of course--tourists!" i answered, bridling a little. "because," he hastened to explain, "the owners of the places can so often afford to live at home only a short season every year. many of them are poor, and the places they own are mortgaged to the turrets." "and the shut-up dilapidation would not make pleasant sight-seeing for rich americans?" he nodded. "i happen to have heard some such report about this colmere abbey--years ago," he said. "are you sure it was the same place?" i asked, my heart suddenly bounding. "colmere, in lancashire?" "quite sure! i was brought up in nottingham, and have heard of the estate, but have never seen it." "then it's still there--my house of dreams?" for a moment i waited, palpitatingly, for him to say more, but he only looked at me musingly, then back into the fire. after a second he leaned forward, shaking his unruly hair back, as if he were trying to rid himself from a haunting thought. "i--i can't talk about 'landed gentry,'" he said, turning to me with a quick fierceness. "i grow violent when i do! you've no idea how hateful the whole set is to a man who has had to make his own way in the world--against them!" then, after this burst of resentment, his mood seemed to change. "but we must talk about england," he added, with a hasty gentleness. "there are so many delightful things we can discuss! tell me, have you been there? do you like it?" i nodded an energetic affirmative. "i have been there and--i love it! but it was a long while ago, and i wasn't old enough to understand about the things which would interest me most now." "a long while ago?" "yes--let me see--ten years, i believe! at all events it was the summer after we sold the rosewood furniture--and the piano. mother was so amazed at herself for having the nerve to part with the grand piano that she had to take a sea-voyage to recover herself." "but what a happy idea!" he commented seriously, as he looked around. "a grand piano would really be a nuisance in this cozy room." for a long time afterward i wondered whether my very deepest feeling of admiration for him had been born at the moment i looked at him first, or when he made this remark. but i've found it's as hard to ascertain love's birthday as it is to settle the natal hour of a medieval author. "how long have you been in america?" i next asked, abruptly; and he looked relieved. "ten years--off and on," he answered briskly. "most of the time in pittsburgh, for my grandfather had chosen that place for me. he would not have consented to my going back to england often, if he had lived, but i have been back a number of times, for i love journeying over the face of the earth--and, strange as it may seem, i love england. some day--when things--when my affairs--are in different shape over there i shall go back to stay." the tea things were finally arranged by cicely's nervous dusky hands, and with a cordial showing of the letter-but-not-spirit-hospitality, mother appeared, in the wake of the steaming kettle. her expression said more plainly than words that she would do the decent thing or die. "i was--" she began freezingly, as we both arose to greet her, "i was--" she took in at a glance maitland tait's gigantic size, and shrank back--a little frightened. then his good clothes reassured her. a giant who patronizes a good new york tailor is a _cut_ above an ordinary giant, she evidently admitted. "--detained," she added, with the air of making a concession. she accepted the chair he drew up for her, and his down-to-the-belt grace began making itself conspicuous. she looked him over, and her jaundiced eye lost something of its color. "--_unavoidably_," she plead, with a regretful prettiness. then she made the tea, and when she saw how caressingly the big man's smooth brown hands managed his cup, the remaining thin layer of ice over her cordiality melted, and she became the usual charming mother of a marriageable daughter. while she was at all times absolutely loyal to guilford, still she knew that a mother's appearance is a daughter's asset, and she had always laid up treasures for me in this manner. "you were at mrs. walker's flag day reception yesterday grace tells me?" she inquired as casually as if a bloody battle of words had not been waging over the occurrence all morning. "and mrs. kendall was talking with me this morning on the telephone about her dance friday night--" she paused, looking at him interrogatively, because that had been mrs. kendall's own emotion when mentioning the matter. mr. tait glanced toward me. "ah, yes--i had forgotten! you will be there?" "yes," i answered hastily, and mother came near scalding the kitten on the rug in the excess of her surprise. all morning, through the smoke of battle, i had sent vehement protestations against having my white tissue redraped for the occasion, declaring that nothing could induce me to go. "i find that one usually goes to no less than three social affairs on a trip like this--and i--well, i'm afraid i'm rather an unsocial brute! i select the biggest things to go to, for one has to talk less, and there is a better chance of getting away early," he explained. mother left the room soon after this--the sudden change of decision about the dance had been too much for her. even perfect clothes and well-bred hands and a graceful waist-line could not make her forgive this in me. she made a hasty excuse and left. then our two chairs shifted themselves back into their former positions before the fire and we talked on in the gloaming. somehow, since that outburst of anger against the present-day owners of colmere abbey, the vision of the big man--the cave-man--in the coat of goatskins, with the bare knees and moccasins, had come back insistently. yet it was just a vision, and after a few minutes it vanished--after the manner of visions since the world began. he looked out the window at the creeping darkness and rose to go. "then i'm to see you friday night?" he asked at parting. "yes." "i'm--i'm glad." there had been a green and gold sunset behind the trees in the park across the way, and after a moment more he was lost in this weird radiance; then he suddenly came to view again, in the glow of electric light at the corner. a car to the city swung round the curve just then, and a dark figure, immensely tall in the shadows, stepped from the pavement. i heard the conductor ring up a fare--a harsh metallic note that indicated _finality_ to me--then silence. "he's gone--gone--gone!" something sad and lonesome was saying in my heart. "what if he should be suddenly called back to pittsburgh and i shouldn't see him again?" to see the very last of him i had dropped down beside the front door, with my face pressed against the lace-veiled glass, and so intent was i upon my task that i had entirely failed to hear mother's agitated step in the hall above. i was brought to, however, when i heard the click of the electric switch upon the stair. the lower hall was suddenly flooded with light. i scrambled to my feet as quickly as i could. mother's face, peering at me from the landing, was already pronouncing sentence. "grace, i was just coming down to tell you that--well, i am compelled to say that you _amaze_ me!" she emitted first, with a tone of utter hopelessness struggling through her newly-fired anger. "down on your knees in your new gown--and gowns as scarce as angels' visits, too!" "ah--but--i'm sorry--" "what on earth are you doing there?" she kept on. i turned to her, blinking in the dazzling light. "i was--let me see?--oh, _yes_!" a brilliant thought had just come to me. "--i was looking for the _key_!" now, i happen to hate a liar worse than anything else on earth, and i hated myself fervently as i told this one. "the key?" she asked suspiciously. "it--it had fallen on the floor," i kept on, for of course whatever you do you must do with all your might, as we learn in copy-book days. "and it never occurred to you to turn on the light?" she demanded, coming up and looking at me as if to see the extent of disfigurement this new malady had wrought. "down on your knees searching for a key--and it never occurred to you to turn on the light?" "no," i answered, thankful to be able to tell the truth again. "no, it never once occurred to me!" chapter xi two men and a maid have you ever thought that the reason we can so fully sympathize with certain great people of history, and not with others, is because we are occasionally granted a glimpse of the emotion our favorites enjoyed--or endured? for instance, no man who has ever knocked the "t" out of "can't" stands beside napoleon's tomb without a sensation which takes the form of: "_we_ understand each other--don't we, old top?" and every year at spring-time, romeo is patted on the back condescendingly by thousands of youths--so susceptible that they'd fall in love with anything whose skirt and waist met in the back. the night of the kendalls' dance _i_ knew what cleopatra's cosmic consciousness resembled--exactly. i knew it from the moment she glanced away from the glint of her silver oars of the wonderful nile barge (because the glint of antony's dark eyes was so much more compelling) to the hour she recklessly unwrapped the basket of figs in her death chamber! i ran the whole gamut of her emotions--'twixt love and duty--and i came out of it feeling that--well, certainly i felt that a conservatory is a room where eavesdroppers hear no good of themselves! "is everybody crazy to-night?" i whispered to guilford, as we paused for a moment before the dancing commenced just outside one of the downy, silky reception rooms--quite apart from the noisy ballroom farther back--and i saw two people inside. the girl was seated before the piano, and was singing softly, while the man stood at her side, listening with a rapt expression. "who would ever have thought that _that_ girl would be singing _that_ song to _that_ man?" i asked, with a quivery little feeling that the world was going topsyturvy with other people besides me. the singer was the careless, rowdy golf champion of the state, and the man listening was oldburgh's astonishing young surgeon--the kind who never went anywhere because it was said he laid aside his scalpel only when he was obliged to pick up his fork. "what is the song?" guilford inquired, looking in, then drawing back softly and dropping the curtain that screened the doorway. "_caro mio ben!_" "a love song?" i smiled. "well, rather!" then somebody crowded up and separated guilford and me. i stood there listening to the lovely italian words, and wondering if the night were in truth bewitched. guilford, under the impulse induced by a white tissue gown and big red roses, had suffered an unusual heart-action already and had spent half an hour whispering things in my ear which made me feel embarrassed and ashamed. the only thing which can possibly make a lifelong engagement endurable is the brotherly attitude assumed by the lover in his late teens. "come in," he said, elbowing his way back to me through the chattering throng of the autumn's débutantes, after a few minutes. "i hear the violins beginning to groan--and say--_haven't_ they got everybody worth having here to-night?" "i don't--know," i replied vaguely, looking up and down the length of the room that we were entering. "but--there's mrs. walker, and there are the chester girls, and dan hunter, just back from africa--and--" "certainly they've got a fine selection of oldburgh's solid, rolled-gold ornaments," i commented dryly, as my eyes searched the other side of the room. "oh, besides local talent in plenty to create some excitement, there's an assortment of imported artists," he went on. "that french fellow, d'osmond, has been teaching some of the kids a new figure and they're going to try it to-night. have you met him?" "yes, indeed--oh, no, of course i haven't met him, guilford!" i answered impatiently. "how could i meet a stray french nobleman? the society editor is _his_ boswell." he turned away, hurt at my show of irritation, but i didn't care. i was in that reckless mood that comes during a great fire, or a storm at sea, or any other catastrophe when the trivialities of living fade into pygmy proportions before the vast desire for mere life. "and there's that consolidated traction company fellow," he said humbly, calling my attention to a bunch of new arrivals at the doors of the ballroom. "what's his name?" "maitland tait." "have you met him?" he inquired. now usually guilford is not humble, nor even very forgiving, so that when he turned to me again and showed that he was determined to be entertaining, i glanced at a mirror we happened to be passing. how easy it would be to keep men right where we wanted them if life could be carried on under frosted lights, in white tissue gowns, holding big red roses! "yes, i've met him," i answered giddily. "he was at mrs. walker's flag day reception tuesday--and he brought me to town in his car, then came calling wednesday afternoon, and--" guilford had stopped still and was looking at me as if anxious to know when i'd felt the first symptoms. "oh, it's true," i laughed desperately. "then why----" "didn't i tell you?" "yes--that is, you might have mentioned it. of course, it really makes no difference--" he smiled, dismissing it as a triviality. gentle reader, i don't know whether your sympathies have secretly been with guilford all the time or not--but i know that mine were distinctly with him at that moment. if there is ever a season when a woman's system is predisposed toward the malady known as sex love, it is when some man is magnanimous about another man. and guilford's manner at that instant was magnanimous--and i already had fifty-seven other varieties of affection for him! i decided then, in the twinkling of my fan chain, which i was agitating rather mercilessly, that if guilford were the kind of a man i _could_ love, he'd be the very man i should adore. --but he wasn't. and the kind i could love was disentangling himself from the group around the door and coming toward me at that very moment. "have you met him?" i asked of my companion, trying to pretend that the noise was my fan chain and not my heart. "no." in another instant they were shaking hands cordially. "you'll excuse me a moment?" guilford asked, turning to me--after he and maitland tait had propounded and answered perfunctory questions about oldburgh. "i wanted to speak to--delia ramage." i had never before in my life heard of his wishing to speak to delia ramage, but she was the nearest one to him, so he veered across to her side, while i was left alone with the new arrival. this is called heaping coals of fire. "i was glad to see you--a moment ago," maitland tait said in that low intimate tone which is usually begotten only by daily or hourly thought. take two people who have not seen each other for a week, nor thought of each other, and when they meet they will shrill out spontaneous, falsetto tones--but not so with two people whose spirits have communed five minutes before. they lower their voices when they come face to face, for they realize that they are before the sanctum. "you're looking most--unusually well." he was not, but i refrained from telling him so. most thoughtful men assume a look of constraint when they are forced to mingle with a shallow-pated, boisterous throng, and he was strictly of this type--i observed it with a thrill of triumph. yet the festive appearance of evening dress was not unbecoming to him. his was that kind of magnificent plainness which showed to advantage in gala attire, and i knew that even if i could get him off to live the life of a cave-man, occasionally a processional of the tribe would cause him to thrust brilliant feathers into his goatskin cap and bind his sandals with gleaming new thongs. but then the martial excitement of a processional would cause his eyes to light up with a brilliancy to match the feathers in his cap, and a dance could not do this. "of course you're engaged for the first dance?" he asked, as the music began and a general commotion ensued. "i knew that i'd have to miss that--when i was late. but"--he came a step closer and spoke as if acting under some hasty impulse--"i want to tell you how very lovely i think you are to-night! i hope you do not mind my saying this? i didn't know it before--i thought it was due to other influences--but you are beautiful." it was at this moment that the silver oars of the nile barge were dimmed under the greater resplendence of dark eyes--and the purple silk sails closed out the sky, but closed in heaven. cleopatra and i might have cut our teeth on the same coral ring, for all the inferiority _i_ felt to her in that instant. "i--i'm afraid--" i began palpitatingly, for you must know that palpitations are part of the egyptian rôle--the sense of danger and wrong were what raised--or lowered--the flitting space of time out of the ordinary lover thrills. "i am afraid----" "but you must not say that!" he commanded, his deep voice muffled. "this is just the beginning of what i wish to say to you." i wrenched my eyes away from his--then looked quickly for guilford. grandfather moore's warnings in my ear were choking the violin music into demoniac howls. i don't believe that any woman ever really enjoys having two men love her at the same time--and this is not contradicting what i've said in the above paragraph about cleopatra. i never once said that i had _enjoyed_ feeling like her--you simply took it for granted that i had! "aren't you going to dance--with some one?" i asked, turning back quickly, as guilford's arm slipped about me and we started away into a heartless, senseless motion. maitland tait stood looking at me for an instant without answering, then swept his eyes down the room to where mrs. charles sefton--a sister-in-law of the house of kendall--and her daughter anabel were standing. mrs. sefton was a pillar of society, and, if one _must_ use architectural similes, anabel was a block. they caught him and made a sandwich of him on the spot. i whirled away with guilford. at the end of the dance i found myself at the far end of the ballroom, close to a door that opened into a small conservatory. the dim green within looked so calm and uncomplicated beside the glare of light which surrounded me that i turned toward it--thirstily. "i'm going in here to rest a minute, guilford," i explained, setting him free with a little push toward a group of girls he knew. "you run along and dance with some of them. men aren't any too plentiful to-night." "no-o--i'll go with you," he objected lazily, slipping his cigarette case from his pocket. "you're too darned pretty to-night to stay long in a conservatory alone." "but i'll not be alone," i replied, with a return of that frightful recklessness which tempted me to throw myself on his mercy and say: "i'm in love with this englishman--madly in love! i have never been in love before--and i hope i shall never be again if it always feels like this!" instead of saying this, however, i said, with a smile: "don't think for a moment that i shall be alone. grandfather and uncle lancelot will be with me." he looked disgusted. "what's going on in your conscience now?" he asked, with slightly primped lips. "something--that i'll tell you about later." "but has it got to be threshed out to-night?" he demanded irritably. "i had hoped that we might spend this one evening acting like human beings." "still, it seems that we can't," i answered, with a foolish attempt to sound inconsequential. "please let me sit down in here by myself for a little while, guilford." he turned on his heel, with an unflattering abruptness, and left me. i entered the damp, earthy-smelling room, where wicker tables held giant ferns, and a fountain drizzling sleepily in the center of the apartment, broke off the view of a green cane bench just beyond; i made for this settee and sank down dejectedly. how long i sat there i could not tell--one never can, if you've noticed--but after a little while i heard the next dance start, and then three people, still in the position of a sandwich, entered. "how warm it is to-night!" i heard maitland tait's voice suddenly proclaim, in a fretful tone, as if the women with him were responsible for the disagreeable fact. but he drew up a chair, rather meekly, and subsided into it. "this is the first really warm night we've had this summer." "it seems like the irony of fate, doesn't it?" anabel sefton asked with a nervous little giggle. there are some girls who can never talk to a man five minutes without bringing fate's name into the conversation. "we had almost no dances during april and may, when one really needed violence of some sort to keep warm," her mother hastened to explain. "and now, at this last dance of the season, it is actually hot." "the last big dance, mother." "of course!" mrs. sefton leaned toward the other two chairs confidentially. "a crush like this is too big," she declared. "oh, but i like the big affairs," anabel pouted. "you never know then who you're going to run across! just think of the unfamiliar faces here to-night! i happened up on gayle cargill and doctor macdonald down in the drawing-room a while ago--where they'd hidden to sing italian, sotto voce!" "then dan hunter is here--for a wonder," her mother agreed, as if a recital of oldburgh's submerged tenth were quite the most interesting thing she could think up for a foreigner's delectation, "and grace christie! have you met miss christie, mr. tait?" "yes," he replied. "she's gone in for newspaper work," anabel elucidated. "just a pose," her mother hastily added. "she really belongs to one of our best families, and is engaged to guilford blake." "but she won't marry him," anabel said virtuously. "i'm sure _i_ can't understand such a nature. they've been engaged all their lives and----" "she doesn't deserve anything better than to lose him," her mother broke in. "if he should chance to look in some other direction for a while she'd change her tactics, no doubt." "oh--no doubt," echoed a deep male voice, the tones as cool as the water-drops plashing into the fountain beside him. "anyway, it's her kind--those women who would be sirens if the mythological age hadn't passed--who cause so much trouble in the world," mrs. sefton wound up. at fifty-two women can look upon sirens dispassionately. after a while the music began throbbing again, and a college boy came up to claim anabel. the trio melted quietly away. i rose from my chair and started toward the door when i saw that maitland tait had not left with the others. he was standing motionless beside the fountain. i came up with him and he did not start. evidently he had known all the while that i was in the room. "well?" he said, with a certain aloofness that strangely enough gave him the appearance of intense aristocracy. "well?" "well--" i echoed, feebly, but before i could go away farther he had drawn himself up sharply. "i was coming to look for you--to say good-by," he said. "good-by?" i repeated blankly. "you mean good night, don't you?" "no." our eyes met squarely then, and mine dropped. they had hit against steel. "and this is--good-by?" i plead, while i felt that wild wind and waves were beating against my body and that the skies were falling. "of course!" he answered harshly. "what else could it be?" i think that we must have stood there in silence for a minute or more, then, without speaking another word, or even looking at me squarely in the face again, he moved deliberately away and i lost all trace of him in the crowd. chapter xii an assignment the next afternoon the city editor again said "damn" and blushed. "you needn't blush," i said to him wearily. he glanced around in surprise. "no?" "no! i quite agree with you!" it was late in the afternoon, but i made no apology for my tardiness, as i hung my hat on its nail and started toward my desk. "oh, you feel like saying it yourself, eh?" he questioned. "i do." he turned then and looked at me squarely. it was very seldom that he did such a thing, and as some time had elapsed since his last look he was likely able to detect a subtle change in my face. "what's wrong with you?" he asked gruffly. "if you had _my_ job, now, there'd be something to worry over! what's the matter?" "nothing." he turned away, precipitately. "gee! let me get out of here! that's what women always say when they're getting ready to cry." "but i'm not going to cry!" i assured him, as he dashed through the doorway and i turned with some relief to my desk, for talking was somewhat of an effort. i raised the top, whistling softly--one can nearly _always_ manage a little sizzling whistle--then shrank back in terror from what i saw there.--such chaos as must have been scattered about before sunrise on the morning of the first day! was it possible that i had been excited yesterday to the point of leaving the mucilage bottle unstopped? i set to work, however, with a little sickening sense of shame, to making right the ravages that had taken place. "a woman may fashion her balloon of anticipation out of silver tissue--but her parachute is _always_ made of sack-cloth!" i groaned. my desk was really in the wildest disorder. the tin top of the mucilage bottle had disappeared, the bottle had been overturned, its contents had been lavished upon the devoted head of a militant suffragette, and she was pinioned tightly to my blotting-pad. "the elevator to success is not running--take the stairs," grinned a framed motto above the desk. "you take a--back seat!" i said, jumping up and turning the thing to the wall. "what do i care about success, if it's the sort of thing connected with typewriters, offices, copy paper and a pot of paste? i'm--i'm _des-qua-mat-ing_!" never before in my experience had the life of journalistic devotion looked quite so black as the ink that accompanies it. "mottoes about success ought to belong to men, anyhow!" i said again, looking up furiously at the drab back of the frame. "i'm not a man, nor cut out for man's work. i'm just a woman, and my head aches!" i looked again at the militant suffragette, for it was a tragedy to me. i had spent a week of time and five honest dollars in the effort to get that photograph from a new york studio. she wasn't any common suffragette, but a strict head-liner. "i'm not even a woman--i'm a child to let a little thing like this upset me," i was deciding a while later, when the door of the room opened again and some one entered. "you're a big baby!" the city editor pronounced disgustedly, coming up to my desk and lowering his voice. "i knew you were going to cry." "i--i think i may be coming down with typhoid," i said coldly, to keep from encouraging him in conversation. "and i've got a terrible lot of work to do before it gets quite dark. really, an awful lot." he dropped back a few paces, then circled nearer once more. "got anything--special?" he asked aimlessly. his manner was so entirely inconsequential that i knew he had the most important thing for a month up his sleeve. "do you call this--mess anything special?" i asked. "i've got to do a general house-cleaning, and i wish i had a vacuum machine that would suck the whole business up into its mouth, swallow it and digest it--so i'd never see a scrap of it again." have i said before that he was a middle-aged man, named hudson, and had scant red hair? it doesn't make any special difference about his looks, since i hadn't taken any rash vow to marry the first unfortunate man who crossed my path, but he looked so ludicrously insignificant and unlike an instrument of fate as he stood there, trying to break the news to me by degrees. "hate your ordinary work this afternoon?" he asked. "i hate everything." "then, how would you like to change off a little?" "i'd like to change off from breathing--if that would accommodate you any," i replied. he made a "tut-tut" admonition with the tip of his tongue. "you might not find blowing red-hot coals any pleasanter," he warned, "and angry little girls like you can't hope to go to heaven when they die!" i rose, with a great effort after professional dignity. "mr. hudson, evidently you have an assignment for me," i said. "will you be so good as to let me know what it is?" but even then he looked for a full thirty seconds into the luscious doors of a fruit stand across the street. "i want _you_ to get--that consolidated traction company story for me," he then declared. i jumped back as i had never jumped but once in my life before--the time when aunt patricia announced that she was going to leave james christie's love-letters to me. "you were at that dance last night!" i cried out accusingly, then realizing the absurdity of this i began stammering. "i mean, that i'm a special feature writer!" i kept on before he had had time to send me more than a demon's grin of comprehension. "you are and this story is devilish special," he returned. "i want you to get it." his tone, which all of a sudden was the boiled-down essence of business, sent me in a tremor over toward the nail where my hat hung. it was getting dark and i remembered then that i had heard fragments of telephonic conversation earlier in the evening anent "catching him there about seven." "well?" he looked at me--with almost a human expression. "i wasn't at the ball last night--but grapevines have been rustling, i admit," he said. "i hate like the very devil to ask you to do it, if you want to know the truth, but there's no other way out. i hope you believe me." "a city editor doesn't have to be believed, but has to be obeyed," i responded, rising again from my chair where i had dropped to lock my desk. "now, what is it i must do?" "well, i have a hunch that you will succeed where clemons and bolton and reade have failed," he said. "and the foolish way the fellow acts makes it necessary for us to use all haste and strategy!" "the fellow?" "maitland tait. a day or two ago it was understood that he might remain in this town for several days longer--then to-day comes the news that he's straining every nerve to get away to-morrow!" "oh, to-morrow!" "it appears that all the smoke in pittsburgh is curling up into question marks to find out when he's coming back--" "he's so important?" "exactly! but to-night he's going to hold a final conference at loomis, and you can catch him before time for this if you'll go right on now." "very well," i answered, feeling myself in profound hypnosis. "and, say! you'll have to hurry," he said, pressing the advantage my quiet demeanor offered. "here! take this hunk o' copy paper and hike!" i accepted the proffered paper, still hypnotized, then when i had reached the door i stopped. "understand, mr. hudson, i'm doing this because you have assigned it to me!" i said with a cutting severity. "please let that be perfectly plain! i shouldn't go a step toward loomis--not even if it were a matter of life and death--if it were _not_ a matter of urgent business!" he looked at me blankly for a moment, then grinned. afterward i realized that he knew this declaration was being made to my own inner consciousness, and not to him. "don't ask him for a photograph--for god's sake!" he called after me, from the head of the steps. "remember--you're going out there on the _herald's_ account and the _herald_ doesn't need his picture, because it happens that we've already got a dandy one of him!" i turned back fiercely. "i hadn't _dreamed_ of asking him for his photograph!" i fired. "i hope i have some vestige of reasoning power left!" at the corner a car to loomis was passing, and once inside i inspected every passenger in the deadly fear of seeing some one whom i knew. there was no one there, however, who could later be placed on the witness-stand against me, so i sat down and watched the town outside speeding by--first the busy up-town portion, then the heavy wholesale district, with its barrels tumbling out of wagon ends and its mingled odor of fruit, vinegar and molasses, combined with soap and tanned hides. after this the river was crossed, we sped through a suburban settlement, out into the open country, then nearer and nearer and nearer. all the time i sat like one paralyzed. i hated intensely the thought of going out there, but the very speed of the car seemed to furnish excuse enough for me not to get off! i didn't have will power enough to push the bell, so when the greasy terminal of the line was reached i rose quietly and left the car along with a number of men in overalls and a bevy of tired dejected-looking women. "they ought to call it 'gloom-is,'" i muttered, as i alighted at the little wooden station, where one small, yellow incandescent light showed you just how dark and desolate the place was. "and these people live here!--i'll never say a word against west clydemont place again as long as i live!" without seeming to notice the gloom, the people who had come out on the car with me dispersed in different directions, two or three of the men making first for the shadow of a big brick building which stood towering blackly a little distance up from the car tracks. i followed after them, then stopped before a lighted door at this building while they disappeared into a giant round-house farther back. the whir of machinery was steady and monotonous, and it served to drown out the noise my heart was making, for i was legitimately frightened, even in my reportorial capacity, as well as being embarrassed and ashamed, independent of the _herald_. it was a most unpleasant moment. "this must be the office!" the big door was slightly ajar, so i entered, rapping with unsteady knuckles a moment later against the forbidding panels of another door marked "private." "well?" "well" is only a tolerant word at best--never encouraging--and now it sounded very much like "go to the devil!" "i don't give a rap if he _is_ the vice-president and general manager of the consolidated traction company," i muttered, the capital letters of his position and big corporation, however, pelting like giant hailstones against my courage. "i'm special feature writer for _the oldburgh herald_!" "if you've got any business with me open that door and come in!" was the further invitation i received. "if you haven't, go on off!" the invitation wasn't exactly pressing in its tone, but i managed to nerve myself up to accepting it. "but i have got some--business with you!" i gasped, as i opened the door. mr. tait turned around from his desk--a worse-looking desk by far than the one i had left at the _herald_ office. "good lord--that is, i mean to say, _dear_ me!" he muttered, as he wheeled and saw me. "miss christie!" [illustration: "this must be the office"] "are you so surprised--then?" "surprised? of course, a little, but--no-o, not so much either, when you come to think of it!" the room was bare and barn-like, with a couple of shining desks, and half a dozen chairs. a calendar, showing a red-gowned lady, who in turn was showing her knees, hung against the opposite wall. mr. tait drew up one of the chairs. "thank you--though i haven't a minute to stay!" i stammered a little, then sat down and scrambled about in my bag for a small fan i always carried. "a minute?" "not long, really--for it's getting late, you see!" my fingers were twitching nervously with the fan, trying to stuff it back into the bag and hide that miserable copy paper which had sprung out of its lair like a "jack-in-the-box" at the opening of the clasp. he smiled--so silently and persistently that i was constrained to look up and catch it. he had seemed not to observe the copy paper. "if you're in such a hurry your '_business_' must be urgent," he said, and his tone was full of satire. "it is, but--" i looked at him again, then hesitated, my voice breaking suddenly. somehow, i felt that i was a thousand miles away from that magic spot on the nile where the evening before had placed me. he looked so different! "you needn't rub it in on me!" i flashed back at him. his chair was tilted slightly against the desk, and he sat there observing me impersonally as if i were a wasp pinned on a cardboard. he was looking aloof and keenly aristocratic--as he was at the entrance of the conservatory the evening before. "rub it in on you?" "i mean that i didn't want to come out here to-night!" my face was growing hot, and try as i would to keep my eyes dry and professional-looking something sprang up and glittered so bewilderingly that as i turned away toward the lady on the calendar, she looked like a dozen ladies--all of them doing the hesitation waltz. he straightened up in his chair, relieving that impertinent tilt. "oh,--you didn't want to come?" "of course not!" i blinked decisively--and the red-gowned one faded back to her normal number, but my eyelids were heavy and wet still. "but--but--" "please don't think that i came out here to-night because i wanted to see you, mr. tait!" i was starting to explain, when he interrupted me, the satire quite gone. "but, after all, what else was there to do?" he asked, with surprising gentleness. "what else?" "yes. certainly it was _your_ next move,--grace!" my heart out-did the machinery in the round-house in the way of making a hubbub at that instant, but he seemed not to hear. "i mean to say--i--i expected to hear from you in some manner to-day. that is, i _hoped_ to hear." i gave a hysterical laugh. "but you didn't expect me to board a trolley-car and run you down after night in your own den--surely?" i demanded. he half rose from his chair, hushing my mocking word with a gesture. his manner was chivalrously protecting. "you shan't talk that way about yourself!" he said insistently. "whatever you have chosen to do is--is--all right!" i felt bewildered. "i just wanted to let you know--" i began, when he stopped me again, this time with an air of finality. "please don't waste this _dear_ little hour in explaining!" he begged. "i want you to know--to feel absolutely that nothing you might ever do could be misunderstood by me! i feel now that i _know_ you--your impulsive, headstrong ways--" "'heart-strong,' aunt patricia used to say," i modified softly. he nodded. "of course--'heart-strong!' i understand you! i understand why you refrained from telling me of your engagement, even." my eyes dropped. "i didn't--know then." "you didn't know how i felt--what an unhappy complication you were stirring up." there was a tense little silence, then he spoke again. "if you are not in love with your fiancé--never have been in love with him--why do you maintain the relationship?" he asked, in as careful and businesslike a manner as if he were inquiring the price of pig-iron. "because--because that's the way we do things down here in this state," i answered. "what we _never_ have done before, we have a hard time starting--and mother idolizes him!" he smiled--his own particular brand of smile--for the first time. "little--goose!" he said. "then--last night, when you pretended that you were going straight away--" "i _am_ going away," he broke in with considerable dignity. "that is, i have my plans laid that way now." "plans?" "yes. it's true that my resolution to get away from this town was born rather precipitately last night; however, i have been able to make my plans coincide." "oh!" i began with a foolish little quiver in my voice, then collected myself. "i'm glad that you could arrange your affairs so satisfactorily." he looked across at me, his mouth grim. "why should i stay?" he demanded. "to-night will see the finishing up of the business which brought me to oldburgh!" then, and not until then, i'm afraid, did i really recall the face of my city editor--and the fact that he had sent me out to obtain an interview, not a proposal. "your business with the macdermott realty company?" i inquired. maitland tait looked at me with an amused smile. "what do you know about that?" he asked. "nothing except what all the world knows!" i managed to inject some hurt feeling into my voice, as if i had a right to know more, which in truth i felt. "and how much does the world know?" "merely that you've either planned to shut down this plant here and move the whole business to birmingham, or you've bought up acres and acres more of oldburgh's suburbs and will make this spot so important and permanent that the company's grandchildren will have to call it home." "but you--_you_ don't know which i've done, eh?" i shook my head. "then shall i tell you? are you interested?" "i'm certainly interested in knowing whether or not you'll--ever come back to oldburgh--but i don't want you to tell _me_ anything you'd rather i shouldn't know." "i believe i want to tell you," he replied, his face softening humorously. "we have bought acres and acres more of oldburgh's suburbs, and we're going to have quite a little city out here!" "there's room for improvement," i observed, looking out through the window into the greasy darkness. "there is and i'm going to see to it that the improvement's made! there will be model cottages here in place of those miserable hovels that i'm glad you can't see from here to-night--and each cottage will have its garden spot--" "that's good!" i approved. "i love gardens." "wait until you see some english ones i have seen," he said patriotically. "i shall--then pattern my own by them! but--these loomis plans?" "model cottages, with gardens--then a schoolhouse, with well-kept grounds--a club-room for men--" "and a _sewing_ circle for their wives," i added contemptuously. he looked taken aback. "don't you like that?" he asked anxiously. "why shouldn't they sew?" "but why should they--just because they're women?" i asked in answer, and after a moment he began to see light. "of course if you prefer having them write novels, model in clay and illumine parchments we'll add those departments," he declared, with a generous air. "we're determined to have everything that an altruistic age has thrust upon the manufacturer to reduce his net income." "and--occasionally--_you'll_ be coming back to oldburgh to see that the gardens grow silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row?" i suggested, but after a momentary smile his face sobered. "i don't know! there are things--in england--that complicate any arrangements, i mean _business_ arrangements, i might wish to make just now." "and loomis will have to get along without you?" i had put the question idly, with no ulterior motive in the world, but he leaned forward until the arm of his revolving chair scraped against my chair. "loomis _can_ get along without me," he said, in a low tone, "and therefore must--but if i should find that i am needed--_wanted_ here in oldburgh--" the shriek of the city-bound trolley-car broke in at that instant upon the quiet of the room, interrupting his slow tense words; and i sprang up and crossed to the window, for i felt suddenly a wild distaste to having maitland tait say important things to me then and there! something in me demanded the most beautiful setting the world could afford for what he was going to say! "i ought--i ought to catch that car!" he followed me, his face gravely wondering. "my motor is here. i'll take you back to town," he said, looking over my shoulder into the noisy, dimly-lit scene. "but--weren't you going to be busy out here this evening?" "yes--later. i'll go with you, then return to a meeting i have here." he rang the bell beside his desk and a moment later the face of collins appeared in the doorway. outside the limousine was breathing softly. i don't remember what we talked about going in to town, or whether we talked at all or not; but when the machine slowed up at the _herald_ building and maitland tait helped me out, there was the same light shining from his eyes that shone there the night before--the light that made the glint of the silver oars on cleopatra's nile barge turn pale--and the radiance half blinded me. "grace, you don't want me to say anything to-night--i can see that," he said. "and you are right--if you are still bound to that other man! i can say nothing until i know you are free--" he whispered the words, our hands meeting warmly. "but, if you are going away!--you'll come and say good-by?" "if it's to say good-by there'll be no use coming," he answered. "you _know_ how i feel!" "but we must say good-by!" i plead. he leaned forward then, as he made a motion to step back into the car. his eyes were passionate. "what matters where good-by is said--if we can do nothing but say it?" he demanded. "it's _your_ next move, grace." chapter xiii jilted! when a tempest in a teapot goes out at the spout it is always disappointing to spectators! one naturally expects the vessel to burst--or the lid to fly off, at least--and when neither takes place one experiences a little collapsed feeling of disappointment. the barest thought of the pain i was going to inflict upon guilford blake when i broke my lifelong engagement to him had been sending shivers up and down my backbone ever since four o'clock on the afternoon of mrs. hiram walker's reception--_then_, when i turned away from maitland tait's motor-car the night i went to loomis on urgent business, and came face to face with my betrothed standing in the shadow of the office door waiting for me--the unexpected happened! mr. blake broke his engagement with me! "grace, you amaze me!" he said. he said it so quietly, with so icy an air of disapproval that i looked up quickly to see what the trouble was. then i observed that he had told the truth. i hadn't crushed, wounded, nor annihilated him. i had simply amazed him. "oh, guilford! i didn't know you were here!" "i suppose not." "but, how does it happen--?" he motioned me to silence. "have the goodness to let me ask the questions," he suggested. "oh, certainly!" "will you, first of all, tell me what this means?" was the opening query, but before i could reply he went on: "not that _i_ have any right to pry into your affairs, understand!" "guilford!" "it's true! my right to question you has ceased to exist!" "you mean that you have washed your hands of me?" i gasped. after all, it was most unusual for guilford and me to be talking to each other like this. i was bewildered by the novelty of it. he caught the sound of the gasp and interpreted it as a plea for quarter. it settled him in his determination. "i must," he declared. "by all means--if that's the way you feel about it," i said courteously, as if granting a request. he looked down at me, in a manner that said: "it hurts me more than it does you, my child." "i've endured--things from you before this, grace," he reminded me, "but to-night--why, this out-herods-herod!" now, if he had looked hurt--cruelly wounded or deeply shocked--i'd have been penitent enough to behave decently to him. but he didn't. he was simply angry. he looked like the giant when he was searching around for jack and saying: "fee! faw! fum! i smell the blood of an englishman!" "but what have i done?" i demanded indignantly. "mayn't a man come to see me, and--" "certainly he may!" "and mayn't i--" "and you may go to see him, too--if you like!" "what do you mean?" "i mean--i mean," he answered, stammering a little with wrath, "of course _you_ may do such things--grace christie may--but my future wife may not." for a moment i had a blinded angry paralysis descend upon me. i had a great desire to do something to relieve the situation, but i didn't know what to do--rather as you feel sometimes at the breakfast table when your morning grapefruit hits you squarely in the eye. "suppose you try to calm yourself a little and tell me just what the trouble is," i said, struggling after calmness for my own individual use. he took off his hat and mopped his brow. "your mother suspected last night that something had gone wrong with you at that dance," he began explaining, the flash of the street light at the corner showing that he had gone quite pale. "well?" "she said that you came in looking wild-eyed and desperate." "i am not willing to admit that," i said with dignity. "and, then she knew you didn't sleep!" he kept on. "all day she has been feeling that something was amiss with you." "i see! and when i didn't show up to-night at dinner--" "she called the office--naturally." "naturally!" i encouraged. "and the fool who answered the telephone consoled her by telling her that you had--gone--out--to--_loomis_!" he paused dramatically, but i failed to applaud. "well, what next?" i inquired casually. he drew back. "then you don't deny it?" i gave a little laugh. "why should i attempt to deny it?" i asked. "haven't you just caught me in the act of coming back in mr. tait's car?" "i have!" he answered in gloating triumph, "that is, i have caught you leaving his car--while he made love to you at the curb! this, however, doesn't necessarily confirm the loomis rumor!" he waited for me to explain further, but i simply bowed my head in acquiescence. "yes," i said serenely. "he was making love to me." "and you acknowledge this, too?" i made a gesture of impatience. "i acknowledge everything, guilford!--that you and i have been the victims of heredity, first of all, and--" he drew back stiffly. "victims? i beg pardon?" "i mean in this engagement of ours--that we had nothing to do with!" "but i assure you that i have never looked upon myself in the light of a victim!" he said proudly. "and--although i know that it will not interest you especially--i wish to add that i have never given a serious thought to any other woman in my life." "yet you have never been in love with me!" i challenged. he hesitated. "i have always felt very close to you," he endeavored to explain. "we have so many things in common--there is, of course, a peculiar congeniality--" "congeniality?" it struck me that the only point of congeniality between us was that we were both caucasians, but i didn't say it. "our parents were friends long before we were born! this, of itself, certainly must bring in its wake a degree of mutual affection," he explained, and as the words "mutual affection" came unfeelingly from his lips i suddenly felt a thousand years further advanced in wisdom than he. "but real love may be--is, i'm sure--a vastly different thing from the regard we've had for each other," i ventured, trying not to make a display of my superiority in learning, but he interrupted me contemptuously. "'real love!' what could you possibly know about that?" he asked chillingly. "you, who are ready to flirt with any stray foreigner who chances to stop over in this city for a week! but for me--why, i have never glanced at another woman! i have always understood my good fortune in being affianced to the one woman in the whole country round who was best fitted to bear the honored name which has descended to me." when he said this i began to feel sorry for him. i was not sorry for his disappointment, you understand, but for his view-point. "i was never fitted for it, guilford!" i said humbly. "it's true i come of the same sort of stock that produced you--but i am awkwardly grafted on my family tree! at heart i am a barbarian." "what do you mean?" "i mean--the things you love most i simply forget about." "i think you do!" he coincided heartily. "you have certainly forgotten all about ordinary propriety to-night." at this i waxed furious again. "how i hate that word propriety!" i said. "and there's another one--a companion word which i never mean to use until i'm past sixty! it's _platonic_!--those two words remind me of tarpaulins in a smuggler's boat because you can hide so much underneath them!" "i'm not speaking of hiding things," he fired back, as angry as i was. "and, if you want to know the truth, i rather admire your honesty in not trying to pretend that your flirtation with this englishman _is_ platonic!--yet that certainly doesn't throw any more agreeable light upon this happening to-night.--you _did_ go to loomis!" i could scarcely keep from laughing at this, for his anger seemed to be centered in one spot--like an alderman's avoirdupois! he was thinking far less of losing me than of the indelicacy of my going to loomis. "yes," i answered, trying to make my words inconsequential. "old man hudson sent me!" his hat, which he had held deferentially in his hand all this time, suddenly fluttered to the ground. "what!" "didn't you and mother _know_ that?" i asked. "that--that it was a business proposition?" he panted. "certainly--or i should never have gone! how little you and mother know about me, after all, guilford." he looked crestfallen for a moment, then his face brightened once more into angry triumph. "but i saw him making love to you!" he summed up hastily, as an afterthought. "yes--you did," i assured him exultantly. "and you met him for the first time--let me see? what day was it?" i ignored the sarcasm. "tuesday," i answered. "at four o'clock in the afternoon." "and not a soul in this town knows a thing about him!" "except myself," i protested. "i know a great deal about him." "then, do you happen to know--i heard it from a fellow in pittsburgh who has followed his meteoric career as captain of industry--do _you_ happen to know that he makes no secret of having left england because he was so handicapped by disadvantages of birth?" i hesitated just a moment--not in doubt as to what i should say, but as to how i should say it. "that's all right, guilford," i answered complacently. "if his ancestors all looked like 'gentlemen of the jury' it doesn't lessen his own dignity and grandeur." now, if you've never been in a circuit court room you can't appreciate the above simile, but guilford was a lawyer. he looked at me in a dazed fashion for an instant. "grace, you don't feel ill--nor anything--do you?" he asked anxiously. "oh, no!" "but i can't believe that you're exactly right in your mind!" "well--maybe--" "i can't believe that to-morrow morning will actually dawn and find us asunder," he kept on quickly. "it must be some sort of fantastic dream." "it will seem very--queer, at first, guilford," i confessed, with a preliminary shrinking at the thought of facing mother. "queer's no word to use in connection with it," he answered crossly, then i heard heavy footsteps in the corridor above, and i took a quick step toward him. "i must go up-stairs," i whispered. "old man hudson is making night hideous, i know!--but all this is really true, guilford! and--and you must wear _this_ in your vest pocket now!" i slipped the scarab ring into his hand. "you are determined?" he asked dully. "i am--awakened," i replied. "what do you mean?" "i mean that you are not really in love with me--never have been in love with me, and never could be except upon certain occasions when i was dreadfully dressed-up--where there were red roses and the sound of violin music." "grace, you are--unkind," he said, with a groping look on his face. "i confess that i don't in the least understand you!" "then how lucky we are!" i exclaimed. "so many people don't find this out until after they've got their house all furnished! we're going to be friends always, guilford." then, without waiting for him to say more i turned away and ran breathlessly up the steps into the office. the brilliant light in the city news room met me squarely as i opened the door. i blinked a little--then raised my left hand and examined it closely. it looked--_awful_! i had worn that same ring ever since i was seventeen years old--and i felt as i might feel if i'd just had my hair cut off or suffered some other unprecedented loss. the city editor looked up from his desk. "well?" he inquired. "have you got it?" i was still gazing at that left hand. "no," i answered stupidly. "it's _gone_!" he jumped to his feet. "here!" he commanded sharply. "sit down here!" i sat down, letting my bag slide to the floor. "you don't feel sick--do you?" "no." "you didn't fall off the street-car--did you?" "no." "you haven't happened to any sort of trouble--have you?" "no." the "no--no--no--" was in the monotonous tone a person says "ninety-nine" when his lungs are being examined. mr. hudson looked at me closely. "then--the story!" he said. i blankly reached for my bag, opened it and took out the blank copy paper. "oh--damn--" he began, then swallowed. this awakened me from my trance. "but he _does_!" i exclaimed in triumph. he _is_--and he's _going to be_!" "here?" the editorial voice called out sharply and joyously. "here in oldburgh?" my head bobbed a concise yes. "bigger and better than ever?" my questioner tormented. "a thousand times! happiness for everybody!--where there's a family there'll also be a house that's a home--" the old fellow began scribbling. "i reckon he means model cottages," he observed sourly. "they all make a great pretense of loving their neighbor as themselves in this day and time." "yes--even if it's a cottage it will certainly be a model one--and what more could one desire?" i asked, rambling again. "then--what else?" "and--oh! gardens! gardens--gardens!" he held up his hand. "wait--you go too darn fast!" "i'm sorry! maybe i have gone too fast!" i answered, as i settled back in my chair and my face reddened uncomfortably. "maybe i have gone too fast!" "you have! you confuse me--talking the way you do and looking the way you do! by rights i ought to make you write the story out yourself--but you don't look as if you could spell 'unprecedented good fortune in the annals of oldburgh's industrial career,' to-night!" "i'm sure i couldn't," i admitted readily. "please don't ask me to." "well--go on with your narrative. what else?" "acres and acres! acres and _acres_!" i impressed upon him. "that's what i've always wanted! i love acres so much better than neighbors--don't you?" he paused in his writing. "of course the macdermott realty company did the stunt?" he asked, scratching his head with his pencil tip and leaving a little black mark along the field of redness. "we mustn't forget to mention each individual member of the firm.--and then--?" "a schoolhouse," i remembered. he glared. "a schoolhouse?" he questioned. "what for?" "for the children!" i answered, lowering my eyes. "did you think there wouldn't be any children? how could there be a house that was a home without them?" "oh, and this fellow, tait, is going to see to it that they're educated, eh? they're going to have advantages that he didn't have--and all that sort of thing? very praiseworthy, i'm sure!" i sprang up from my chair. "i'm going home, mr. hudson, please!" i begged. "there _is_ something wrong with my head." he smiled. "it's different from any other woman's head i ever saw," he admitted half grudgingly. "it's _level_!" "but indeed you're mistaken!" i plead. "right this minute i'm--i'm seeing things!" then, when i said this a gentle light stole over his face--such a light i'm sure that few people ever saw there--perhaps nobody ever had except mrs. hudson the day he proposed to her. "visions?" he asked kindly. "a house that's a home--and _english_ gardens." "that's not fair!" i warned. "i really ought not to have gone out there to-night--and i don't know whether he'll want all this written up or not--for i didn't mention the _herald's_ name in our conversation, and--" "bosh!" he snapped. "rot! and piffle! you had a right to go out there if i sent you--and of course he can't object to the public knowing _now_! why, i expect any one of the reporters could have got as much out of him to-night as you did!" "do you really think so?" i asked, from the doorway. "good night, mr. hudson. you can easily make two columns out of that, by drawing on your--past experience." he waved me crossly away, without once looking up or saying "thank you" and i caught a car home. half an hour later, when the curve was turned into the full face of west clydemont place i still thought i was "seeing things." a big motor-car stood before our door, but my heart changed its tune when i got closer. it was not a limousine. it was a doctor's coupé. mother had suffered a violent chill. "grace, i--have no words!" she moaned, as i came into the room. chapter xiv the skies fall before morning words began coming to her--gradually. first she moaned, then muttered, then raged. the chill disappeared and fever came on. by daybreak, however, they had both been left with the things that were, and mother slipped into her kimono. "go bring me the morning paper," she condescended, after the passing of the creamery wagon announced that busy life was still going on. i rushed out into the front yard. the tree-tops were misty with that white fog which looks as if darkness were trailing her nightrobe behind her; and already on the neighboring lawns the automatic sprinklers were caroming across the green as if they had st. vitus' dance. "on a day like this _nothing_ is too good to be true!" i decided, as i picked up the paper and scurried back into the house. "and got _your_ name to it--grace chalmers christie!" mother wailed in despair, as she opened the sheet and saw two columns, broken by a face that could do much more sensible things than "launch a thousand ships and burn the topless towers of ilium." "let's--see," i suggested, peering over her shoulder and watching the words dancing up and down on either side of this face. i couldn't read anything, but i managed to catch an occasional "macdermott" as it pranced along in front of an occasional "model cottage." "take it!--burn it!" mother commanded, after she had read enough to realize that the thing was entirely too dull to prove interesting to any feminine creature. she thrust it into my hand, and i took it into my bedroom, where i began a frenzied search for the scissors. "i'd rather have you by yourself--away from all suggestions of macdermotts and enlarged traction companies," i whispered, snipping the picture from the page and laying it caressingly in the drawer of the old-fashioned desk. there it lay all morning--and i whispered to it and caressed it. "a picture in a drawer is worth two on the wall," i said once, as i pushed it away quickly to keep mother from seeing it. but the fun of the secret was not at all times uppermost. "you are so beautiful--so beautiful," i wailed, as i looked at it another time. "i almost wish you were not--so beautiful." for you must know that no woman in love ever _enjoys_ her man's good looks! she loves him for so many other things besides beauty that she feels this demand is a needless cruelty--adding to her torture and making her love him the more. the only male beauty she can ungrudgingly adore is that which she cradles in her arms--the miniature of the big good looks which have lured her and tormented her! then--just for the sake of keeping away from this drawer--i did different things to pass away the morning. i said good-by to the picture, then went into the library and looked up a word in the dictionary. i looked at the picture again after that--to make sure that it was still there--then i decided to wash my hair. but i changed my mind, for i was afraid the water might drip on the picture and ruin it. i looked up a bodkin and some blue baby ribbon--and forgot to gear up the corset-cover whose eyelets were gaping hungrily before my eyes. while i was trying to remember what one usually does with a bodkin and blue ribbon i looked at the picture again--and, well, if you have ever been there you can understand; and if you haven't no words could ever explain. then the telephone in the hall! i tried to keep away from it as hard as they say a murderer tries to keep away from the scene of his crime. "i won't call him until afternoon," i kept telling myself. "it would be perfectly outrageous. i'll call him from the office--just about dusk, and----" then i began seeing things again--houses and english gardens, with children and schoolhouses in the background, and a smile on the face of pope gregory, the somethingth, when he saw the union jack and old glory flying in peace above this vision--until i came to the office in time for the one o'clock staff meeting. the first thing i saw there was a note lying on my desk. it bore no post-mark, so i knew that it must have come by messenger. "what can he have said?" i thought, catching it up and weighing it in my hands. "and i wonder why he sent it here to the _herald_ office, instead of out home--and why he addressed it to miss g. c. christie, as if it were a business communication instead of to miss grace chalmers christie, and why----" i looked at it again. it was surely from him, for it was written on traction company paper. i was glad of this, for i can forgive a man for anything--if he doesn't use fancy note-paper with his monogram in the corner. i weighed it, and turned it over several times, and found a vague "habana" fragrance about it--before i ran a hairpin under the flap and opened it. it ran as follows: "my dear miss christie-- "i have no doubt that you already know every man to be an achilles--who welds a heel protector out of his egotism. now, it happens that my most vulnerable spot is a distaste to being made a fool of; and to-day i can realize what a heavy coating of self-importance lay over this spot yesterday to blind me to your real motive. "my apology for being such an easy-mark is that it was a case of mistaken identity. i want you to know that, as an actress, you are amazing! i firmly believed that an unusually fair and charming woman was doing me a great honor--but i awoke this morning from my trance to find that a clever newspaper reporter had outwitted me. "i understand now why american woman must be kept as a tormenting side-issue in a man's busy life. he can't afford to let her come to the front or she throws dust in his eyes. "of course the words i said to the vision of my own fancy and the promises i exacted, do not hold good with the reporter. i am leaving oldburgh at noon to-day, and even if i were not, you would not care to see me again, since i know nothing more that would serve as a front-page article for the _herald_." "very sincerely yours, "maitland tait." now, do you know what happens when a woman receives such a letter as this--a letter that starts seismic disturbances? well, first she blames her eyesight. she thinks she hasn't read the thing aright! then she carries it off into some dark corner where she hopes she can see better, for the strong glare of day seems to make matters worse. if there's an attic near, so much the better! but there was no available attic to the _herald_ office, so i walked into the society editor's private room and slammed the door. i had thrust the note into my blouse, so that i'd have a little breathing-spell while i was getting it out, and as i tugged with a contrary belt pin i breathed very hard and fast. but the second reading disclosed few details that had not been sent over the wires at the first report. likewise the third, fourth and fifth. after that i lost count, and when i regained consciousness there was a heavy knock at the door--a knock in the possessive case. i rose wearily and admitted the rightful owner. "say, grace," she commenced excitedly, "the old man's asking for you--captain macauley! he wants you to come down to his den at once for an interview. how does it feel to be the biggest thing on the _herald_--for a day?" i put my hand up to my forehead. "it feels like----" she laughed. "then try to look like it," she suggested. "why, you look positively seasick to-day." i didn't stop to explain my bearing false witness, but dashed past her to the head of the stairs. captain macauley's office was on a lower floor, and by the time i had gone leisurely down the steps i had quieted my eyelids somewhat. "well, grace--how about the illegitimate use of weapons?" the old man laughed, lifting his shaggy head from the front page of the day's _herald_, as i entered. "sit down! sit down--i want to talk with you." but for a moment he failed to talk. he looked me over quizzically, then turned to his desk and drew a yellow envelope from a pigeonhole. it was a telegram. i opened it wonderingly. "pauline calhoun met with a serious motor-car accident yesterday and will be compelled to cancel her contract with you." i read. i looked at the old man. "to go abroad this summer for the _herald_?" i asked. he nodded. "we've _advertised_ her going," he said mournfully. "and the transportation is here." "she was to have sailed saturday week?" i asked, wondering at the cunning machinery of my own brain, which could keep on working after it was cold and dead! every inch of my body was paralyzed. "on the _luxuria_," he said cheeringly, as he saw my expression. "the _luxuria_, mind you, young lady!" "and to miss it? how tragic!" i kept on absently, wishing that the whole cunard line was at the bottom of the sea if he meant to keep me there chattering about it all day. "but it's tragic for the _herald_," he snapped. "don't you see we're up against it? here, every paper in the south is doing stunts like this--getting out special stuff with its individual brand--and pauline calhoun can deliver the goods." "not with her arm broken," i mused aloud. he looked at me impatiently. "the thing is, we've got to send _somebody_ abroad next week--somebody whose leg is not broken!" "oh!" "and hudson and i have been discussing you. this job you roped in last night was more than we'd given you credit for, and--so--well, can't you speak?" i couldn't speak, but i could laugh. i felt as if my fairy godmother had taken me to a moving-picture show--where one scene was from dante's _inferno_ and the next one was from a novel by the duchess. "there'd be italy----" captain macauley began, but i shrank back. "not italy!" i begged. "i couldn't go to italy now." "why?" "because you'd want me to write a lot of sentimental stuff from there--and i'm not sentimental--now." he smiled. "italy is the land of lovers," he whispered, his eyes twinkling over some recollection. "you must be in love with _somebody_ when you're in italy--and you can no more hide it than you can hide nettle-rash." "i don't want to go there," i said stiffly. [illustration: "well, can't you speak?"] "well, you wouldn't have to!" he answered readily. "this steamer ticket reads from new york to liverpool." "liverpool?" i repeated, as blankly as if geography hadn't been my favorite book at school--to eat apples behind. "and hudson suggested, since you showed last night that you were keen on getting the news of the hour, that you'd likely succeed in a new line in england. we've been surfeited on westminster abbey and the lakes, so we want _news_! coal strikes and suffragettes--and other curses!" "news?" "instead of mooning around hampstead heath listening to the newest scandal about george romney and his lady friend, stay strictly in the twentieth century and get in line with the militants. describe how they address crowds from cart-tails." "i see," i said slowly. but in my attempts to see i think i must have passed my left hand across my forehead. at all events, he caught sight of its ringless state. "grace!" he exclaimed, catching my fingers roughly and scrutinizing the little pallid circle left by the ring's long contact--sometimes the healthiest, sometimes the deadliest pallor that female flesh is heir to! "does this mean that you've broken off with guilford blake?" "yes." his face grew grave. "then, child, i beg your pardon for talking so glibly about your going away!--i didn't know." "but it isn't that--it's not that i'm worrying over now," i explained forlornly. "and guilford's not hurt! please don't waste sympathy on him. he'll be glad, when the first shock gets over, for i've tormented him unmercifully." "then--what is it?" he asked, very gently. i drew away my hand. "it's--something _else_! and please don't change your mind about sending me abroad! i'd like very much to go away from here. anywhere except to italy." he reached over and patted my bereft hand affectionately. "so the something else is the same sort of something, after all?" "perhaps." "then run along and begin getting ready," he said. "get clothes in your head--and salt-sprayed decks on moonlight nights, and wild adventures." i smiled. "that's right! smile! i _can't_ send out a representative with a broken leg--and i'd prefer not sending out one with a broken heart." i turned away then, struggling fiercely with something in my throat, but just for an instant. "broken heart!" i repeated scornfully. "it's not that bad. you mustn't think i'm such a fool." "well," he said briskly, "whatever it is, cut it out! and, believe me, my dear, a steamer trunk is the best possible grave for unrequited love." chapter xv the journey personally, i am of such an impatient disposition that i can't bear to read a chapter in a book which begins: "meanwhile----" life is too short for meanwhiles! but, since the oldburgh epoch of my career has passed, and the brilliant new epoch has a sea-voyage before it--and crossing the ocean is distinctly a "meanwhile" occupation--i have decided to mark time by taking extracts from my green leather voyage book, with the solid gold clasp and the pencil that won't write. (the city editor gave me the book.) the first entry was made at the breakfast table in an unnecessarily smart new york hotel. that's one bad feature about having a newspaper pay your traveling expenses! you can't have the pleasure of indulging the vagabondage of your nature--as you can when you're traveling on your hook. the lonely little entry says: "_hate_ new york! always feel countrified and unpopular here!" but the next one was much better. it reads: "_love_ the sea, whose principal charm is the sky above it! the one acceptable fact about orthodox heaven is that it's up in the sky. you couldn't endure it if it were in any closer quarters." yet between new york and heaven there lay several unappreciated days--days when i sat for long hours facing strange faces and hearing a jumbled jargon about "barth" hours, deck chairs and miscarried roses. by the way, a strange trick of fate had filled my own bare little stateroom with flowers. i say a trick of fate, because some of them were for pauline calhoun, whose new york friends had heard of her proposed journey, but not of her accident, and some of them were addressed to me. i could understand the pauline blossoms, but those directed to miss grace christie were mystifying--very. but i accepted them with hearty thanks, and the time i spent wondering over them kept me from grieving over the fact that the statue of liberty was the only person on the horizon whose face i had ever seen before; and they kept me feeling like a prima donna for half a week. "henry walker couldn't have sent them," i pondered the first day, as the big, big box was deposited inside my door. "he's not such a close friend, even though he is the hiram walkers' son--and then, new york law students never have any money left over for orchids." i enumerated all the other people i happened to know in new york at that time, all of them there for the purpose of "studying" something, and not for the purpose of buying vast quantities of the highest-priced flower blown, and the mystery only loomed larger. still, the question could not keep me entirely occupied between meals, and on the very day we sailed, before we had got into the space where the union of the sea and sky seem to shut out all pettiness, i got to feeling very sorry for myself. thinking to get rid of this by mingling with humanity, i went down into the lounge, where i was amazed to find dozens of other women sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. it was not an inspiring sight, so after a vain attempt to read, i curled my arms round a sofa cushion in the corner of the big room and turned my face away from the world in general. the next communication i received was rather unexpected. i heard a brisk voice, close beside me exclaim: "my word! a great big girl like you crying!" it was an english voice--a woman's, or rather a girl's, and as i braced up indignantly i met the blue-gray eyes of a fresh-faced young amazon bent toward my corner sympathetically. "i'm not crying," i denied. she turned directly toward me then, and i saw a surprised smile come over her face. "oh, _you_! no--i supposed that you were ill; but the little kid over there----" i saw then that there was a tiny girl tucked farther away into the corner, her shoulders heaving between the conflict of pride and grief. "cheer up, and i'll tell you a story," the english girl encouraged, and after a few minutes the small flushed face came out of its hiding-place. "so you thought i was talking to _you_?" she turned to me laughingly after the smaller bunch of loneliness had been soothed and sent away. "i was--mistaken----" "but i'm sure i should have offered to tell you a story--if i had supposed that it would do you any good," she continued. "almost anything--any sound of a human voice would do me good now," i answered desperately, and with that sky-rocket sort of spontaneity which you feel you can afford once or twice in a lifetime. "you're alone?" "yes--and miserable." her blue eyes were very frank and friendly, and i immediately straightened up with a hope that we might discover some mutual interest nearer and dearer than the boston tea-party. that's one good thing about a seafaring life--the preliminaries that you are able to do without in making friends. if you meet a nice woman who discovers that her son went to princeton with your father's friend's nephew you at once take it for granted that you may tell her many things about yourself that are not noted down in your passport. "you're american--of course?" this english girl asked next. i acquiesced patriotically, but not arrogantly. "yes--i'm american! my name's grace christie, and i'm a newspaper woman from--from----" i hesitated, and she looked at me inquiringly. "i didn't understand the name of the state?" she said. "because i haven't told you yet!" i laughed. "i remember other experiences in mentioning my native place to you english. you always say, 'oh, the place where the negro minstrels come from!'" she smiled, and her face brightened suddenly. "the south! how nice! i _love_ americans!" she exclaimed, confiding the clause about her affection for my countrymen in a lowered voice, and looking around to make sure that no one heard. then, after this, it took her about half a minute to invite me out of my corner and to propose that i go and meet her father and mother. "we'll find them in the library," she ventured, and we did. "the south! how nice! we _love_ americans!" they both exclaimed, as we unearthed them a little while later in a corner of the reading-room. and before they had confided to me their affection for my countrymen they lowered their voices and glanced at their daughter to make sure that she was not listening. they made their observations in precisely the same tone and they looked precisely alike, except that the father had side-whiskers. they were both small and slight and very durably dressed. "miss christie is a newspaper woman--traveling alone!" the daughter, whom they addressed as "hilda" made the announcement promptly, and her manner seemed to warn them that if they found this any just cause or impediment they were to speak now or else hereafter forever hold their peace. "indeed?" said the mother, looking over my clothes with a questioning air, which, however, did not disapprove. "indeed?" "my word!" said the father, also taking stock of me, but his glance got no further than my homesick face. "my _word_!" but you are not to suppose from the tone that anything had gone seriously wrong with his word. he said it in a gently searching way, as an old grandfather, seeking about blindly on the mantlepiece might say, "my spectacles!" so realistic was the impression of his peering around mildly in search of something that i almost jumped up from my chair to see if i could, by mistake, be sitting on his word. "isn't she young?" his twinkling little gray eyes sought his wife's as if for corroboration, and she nodded vigorously. "indeed, yes, herbert! but they shed their pinafores long before our girls do, remember!" then he turned to his daughter. "my dear, the american women _are_ so capable!" he said, and she threw him a smile which would have been regarded as impertinent--on english soil. "well, i'm sure i've no objections to being an american woman myself," she said. "and you do not mind the loneliness of the trip you're taking?" the mother put in hastily, as if to cover her daughter's remark. "i didn't--until to-day." "but we must see to it now that you're not too lonely," she hastened to assure me. "where have they put you in the dining-room, my dear?" i mentioned my table's location. "oh, but we'll get the steward to change you at once!" they chorused, when it had been pointed out to them that my position in the salon was isolated and far away from the music of the orchestra. "we're just next the captain's table," hilda explained. "we happened to know him and----" "and it's inspiring to watch the liberties he takes with the menu," the father said. "i'd best write down our number, though i'll see the steward myself." from his pocketbook he produced a card, scribbling their table number upon the back and handing it to me. i took it and glanced at the legend the face of it bore, first of all, for figures are just figures, even though they do radiate out from the captain's table. "mr. herbert montgomery, bannerley hall, bannerley, lancashire," was the way it read. "lancashire?" i asked, looking up so quickly that hilda mistook my emotion for dismay. "yes, we live in lancashire, but----" "but we're going on to london first," mrs. montgomery assured me. "we'll see to it that you're put down, safe and sound, at charing cross," mr. herbert montgomery finished up. i looked up again, this time in sheer bewilderment. "liverpool's in lancashire," hilda explained. "i thought perhaps you were afraid we would desert you as soon as we docked." i laughed in some embarrassment. "i'm sure i never before heard that liverpool had any connection with lancashire," i explained. "but i was thinking of--something else." "something else--how curious! why, what else is lancashire noted for in america, pray?" they were all three looking at me in some excitement, for my eyes were betraying the palpitations i was experiencing. "do you--does it happen that you have ever heard of colmere abbey?" i asked. they drew a deep breath, evidently relieved. "do we!" they chorused again, as they had a habit of doing, i learned, whenever they were surprised or amused. "well, _rather_!" "surely you don't mean to tell me that it's your own home?" i demanded, wondering if coincidence had gone so far, but they shook their heads. "no! just next-door neighbors." "next-door neighbors to the place, my dear young lady," mr. montgomery modified, glancing at his wife rather reproachfully. "not to the--owner of colmere!" but i scarcely heard him. i was trying to place an ancient memory in my mind. "'bannerley hall!'" "that's our place." "but i'm trying to remember where i have heard of it," i explained. "of course! they all mentioned it at one time or another." "they?--who, my dear? why herbert--isn't this interesting?" "why, washington irving--and lady frances webb--and uncle james christie." their questions and my half-dazed answers were tumbling over one another. "james christie--grace christie?" mrs. montgomery asked, connecting our names with a delighted opening of her eyes. "why, my _dear_!" "how fortunate i was!" observed hilda. "i knew, though, from the moment i saw the back of your head that you were no ordinary american tourist!" "they all 'rode over to bannerley hall--the day being fine!'" i quoted, from one of the letters written by lady frances webb. "that was in my great-grandfather's time," mr. montgomery elucidated. "and james christie was your----" "uncle--with several 'greats' between." "he was even more famous in england than in his own country," mrs. montgomery threw in hastily, as she saw her husband's eyes twinkling--a sure sign, i afterward learned, that he was going to say something wicked. "he painted all the notable people of the age." "he made many pictures of the lady frances webb," mr. montgomery succeeded in saying, after a while. "i don't know whether it's well known in america or not, but--there was--_talk_!" "herbert!" he stiffened. "it's true, my dear." "we don't know whether it's true or not!" she contended. "well, it's tradition! i'm sure miss christie wouldn't want to come to england and not learn all the old legends she might." then, partly because i was bubbling over with excitement, and partly because i wished to ease mrs. montgomery's mind on the subject, i began telling them my story--from the day of aunt patricia's sudden whim, three days before her death, down to the packet of faded letters lying at that moment in the bottom of my steamer trunk. "i thought perhaps the present owner of colmere might let me burn them there!" i explained. "i have pictured her as a dear and somewhat lonely old dowager who would take a great deal of interest in this ancient affair." the three looked at me intently for an instant, but not one of them laughed. "and you're carrying them back to colmere--instead of selling them!" mrs. montgomery finally uttered in a little awed voice, as i finished my story. "how extraordinary!" "very," said hilda. "most un-american--if you'll not be offended with me for saying so, miss christie," mr. montgomery observed. then he turned to his wife. "my dear, only _think_ of lord erskine!" he said. she shook her head. "but i mustn't!" she answered, with a sad little smile. "i really couldn't think of lord erskine while listening to anything so pretty." i caught at the name, curiously. "lord erskine?" "yes--the present owner of the abbey." "but--what a beautiful-sounding name! lord erskine!" i looked at them encouragingly, but a hush seemed to have fallen over their audible enthusiasm. mrs. montgomery's lips presently primped themselves up into a signal for me to come closer to her side--where her husband might not hear her. "lord erskine is, my dear--the most--notorious old man in _england_!" she pronounced--so terribly that "and may the lord have mercy on his soul" naturally followed. her verdict was final. "but what has he done?" i started to inquire, the journalistic tendency for the moment uppermost, but her lips showed white lines of repression. "he is never _mentioned_!" she warned briefly, and i felt constrained to wish that the same punishment could be applied to america's ancient sinners. "oh, so bad as that?" she leaned closer. "my dear miss christie, it would be impossible--quite impossible--to enumerate the peccadillos of that wretched old creature!" "yet you women are always ready to attempt the impossible!" her husband interposed, after his noisy attempt at lighting a cigarette had failed to drown out our voices. she looked up at him. "herbert, i don't understand you, i'm sure." he laughed. "well, i don't understand you, either!" he replied. "for twenty years now i have noticed that when two or three women in our part of the country are gathered together the first thing they say to each other before the men have come into the room is that lord erskine's recent escapades are positively unmentionable--then they fly at each other's throats for the privilege of retailing them." she continued to stare at him, steadily and with no especial unfriendliness in her gaze. "and the men--over their wine?" she asked casually. he squared his shoulders. "that's a very different matter," he declared. "with us he is as honest and open a diversion as hunting! the first thing we say in greeting, if we meet a neighbor on the road is: 'what's the latest news from lord erskine?'" their eyes challenged each other humorously for another moment, when hilda broke in. "don't you think we've given miss christie a fairly good idea that she mustn't expect to be invited down to colmere abbey--and that if she is invited, she mustn't go?" she inquired, with gentle sarcasm. "but, before we get away from the subject--what of the webb family?" i begged forlornly. "is there no one living who might take an interest in the story of lady frances?" i am sure my voice was as sad with disappointment as old joe jefferson's used to be when he'd plead: "does _no one_ know rip van winkle?" "lord erskine's mother was a webb," mrs. montgomery explained. "the one fact which can be stated about the old gentleman which need not be blushed for," her husband added. "in truth, he has always been vastly proud of his lineage." "about all that he's ever had to be proud of! his own performances in social and family life have been--well, what i have outlined to you. i happened to know details of some earlier happenings, and all i can say is that my own attitude toward lord erskine is rather unchristian." "but i believe miss christie was asking about the family history further back than the present lord," hilda reminded them again, and her mother took the cue. "ah, yes! to be sure! it's the failing of later years, my dear, to wish to discuss one's own memories! but of course your interest lies in the traditions of the novelist." "her history has always held a peculiar interest for me," i replied, "first, naturally, on account of the connecting link--then on account of the--tragic complication----" she nodded her head briskly. "yes--poor lady frances! she was not very happy, if the ancient reports be true." "i judge not--from her letters." "but her memory is held in great reverence by the educated people around in the country," she hastened to assure me. "and there is a lovely memorial tablet in the church--quite aside from the tomb! a literary club of london had it placed there!" "and every birthday there are wreaths," mr. montgomery threw in, evidently hoping to make it up to me for the disheartening gossip of the present age; but my dreams were rapidly fading--and i saw my chances for having a bonfire on the library hearth at colmere go up in something far more unsubstantial than smoke. "well, i'm sure we've told miss christie quite enough about our neighbors--for a first sitting," hilda montgomery broke in at this point, as she rose and made a reckless suggestion that we go out and walk a little while. "_i_ don't wish to spend the whole afternoon talking about a villainous old englishman!" she confided, when we were well out of ear-shot. "one might spend the time talking about 'americans--don't you know?'" "americans?" "yes--charming, handsome, young americans! you remember the first thing i told you was that i loved americans?" "yes--and your father and mother said they did, too--when you weren't listening." she nodded her blond head, in energetic delight. "they are trying to pretend that it will be a difficult matter to win their consent--but it won't." we steered our course around a group of people who were disputing, in wabash tones, over a game of shuffleboard. "consent?" i repeated. "his name is john mcadoo carpenter--and he lives at south bend, indiana--did you ever hear of the place? did you ever hear of him?" she caught me by the arm and we walked precipitately over to the railing--out of the sound of the wabash tones. "if i don't talk to somebody before that sun goes down i'll jump right over this railing," she explained. "here's his picture!" i took the small blue leather case and looked at the honest, rather distinguished face it held. "but why should your parents disapprove of _him_?" i asked in such genuine surprise that she gave me a smile which sealed forever our friendship. "they don't--really! it's just that they like to torment me because he happened not to be born in either new york or kentucky. an englishman's knowledge of america's excellence extends no further than that." night was coming on--and the sea looked pretty vast and unfriendly. it was the lonesome hour, when any feminine thing far away from home has to wax either confidential or tearful. hilda was determined to be confidential, and i let her have her say. i went down, after a while, and dressed for dinner--listlessly and without heart, but when i went into the dining-room a little later and found my place at the table next the captain's, the geniality of the family atmosphere i found there was vastly cheering. mrs. montgomery was a rather magnificent little gray-haired lady in gray satin and diamonds, and her husband had made the evolution from the chrysalis state into that of the butterfly by donning his dress clothes and putting up a monocle in place of the comfortable reading glasses he had worn in the afternoon. hilda was wholesome and sweet-looking but quite secondary to her parents, in a soft blue gown. the subject under discussion when i arrived was evidently the points of superiority of one american locality over another and they took me into their confidence at once. "i appeal to you, miss christie, as an american," mr. montgomery said, after the steward who had acted as my pilot was out of hearing. "shouldn't you think now--if you didn't know the difference--_shouldn't_ you think now that a 'south _bender'_ was a species of acrobat?" * * * * * then, try as hard as i might to keep all physical signs of my mental infirmity from cropping out in my log-book, the second evening out found an entry like this showing itself--written almost entirely without effort on my part--like "spirit writing": "to-night the orchestra is playing _the rosary_, and i had to get away from all those people in the lounge! "i have come down here--away from it, as i thought, but, no! those same high, wailing notes that we heard that first day--_that first day_--are ringing in my ears this minute. "how they sob--sob--sob! and over the hours they spent together! that's the foolish part of it! i am sobbing over the hours i _might_ have spent with him--and didn't! "'are like a string of pearls to me!' "bah! the hours i spent with him wouldn't make pearls enough for a stick-pin--much less a rosary! "to me _caro mio ben_ is a much more sensible little love plaint! i wonder if _he_ knows it? i wonder if he heard that girl singing in the parlor the night of the kendalls' dance--and if it still rings--rings--rings in his mind every time he thinks of me? or if he ever thinks of me at all?" i have inserted this not so much to show you how very critical my case was, as to demonstrate how valuable a thing is diversion. without hilda and the elder montgomerys i should no doubt have tried to emulate lady frances webb in the feat of writing heart-throbs. the third day's observation was a distinct improvement. "the men on shipboard are rather better than the women--just as they are on dry land. true, there are some who have sold chicago real estate, and are now bent upon spending the rest of their lives running over to europe to criticize everything that they can not buy. nothing is sacred to them--until after they have paid duty on it. they revere and caress their own italian mantlepieces, their cases of majolica, and their collection of wedgwood--when these are safely decorating their lake-shore homes--but what europe keeps for herself they scorn. "'bah! i don't see anything so swell about st. mark's--nor st. doge's either!' i heard one emit this morning. 'but, old man, you just ought to see the champagne glasses i bought last year in venice. the governor dined with me the other night, and he said----' etc. "then, there's another sort of philistine, who goes all over the old world eating his lunch off places where men have suffered, died, or invented pendulums. "'that confounded leaning tower _does_ feel like it's wiggling as you go up, but pshaw! it's perfectly safe! why, i stayed on top long enough to eat three sandwiches and drink a bottle of that red ink you get for half a dollar in florence!' "this doesn't create much of a stir, however, because there's always one better. "'nice little tower down there in pisa--and you really have to have something like that to relieve your constitution of the pictorial strain in florence--but you see, after you've eaten hard-boiled eggs on top of _cheops_, climbing the leaning tower is not half so exciting as riding a sapling was when you were a boy!' "'and oh, speaking of hard-boiled eggs--have you ever been to banff, mr. smith?' one of the women in the crowd speaks up. 'yes, the scenery in the canadian rockies is all right, of course, but just to _think_ of having your eggs perfectly hot and well done in the waters of banff!' "there are other women on board, however, whose thoughts are not on food. they are more amusing by far to watch than the innocent creatures who love banff. they manage to stay well out of view by strong daylight, then come into the lounge at night, dressed in plumes and diamonds like cinderella's stepsisters, and select the husbands of sea-sick wives to ask advice about focusing a kodak or going to gibraltar to buy a mandarin coat! "but, as i have said, the men for the greater part are much more interesting than the women--still i have never aspired to a nautical flirtation, for a month after one is past you can't recall the principal's name. you do well if you can remember his nationality." the entry broke off with this piece of sarcasm, which, after all, is actual truth. a friend of mine had such an experience. a month after a bitter parting on a moonlit deck one night she came face to face with the absent one in a church in rome--and all she could stammer was: "oh--you _canadian_!" the fourth day--after the last vestige of the gulls had been left behind--i began to grow impatient. the "meanwhile" aspect of life in general was beginning to press down. "i wish mother had named me 'patience,' for i love a joke!" i wrote frantically--with the same feeling of suffocation which caused lady frances webb to rush out to the rose garden where the sun-dial stood, to keep from hearing the clock tick. "to me, the inertia which a woman is supposed to exhibit is the hardest part of her whole earthly task! and i don't know what it's for, either, unless to prepare her for a future incarnation into a camel! "yet, if you're a woman, you just must stay still and let your heart's desire slip through your fingers--even if you have to lock yourself up into your bedroom closet to accomplish it!" and yet, even as i wrote, i wondered what i'd do when i should be back in america. somehow, i didn't exactly fancy myself getting a ticket home from new york with stop-over privileges at pittsburgh--where i could spend an exciting time looking up a city directory! and so the remaining days of the voyage passed. the montgomery family planned to have me go home with them, after a day in london, and declared that i could find as much interesting news to write home for the _herald_ from lancashire as from any other portion of the united kingdom, since one never knew where a fire would be started or a bomb discovered through the playful antics of the women who have changed the "clinging" sex into the _flinging_ sex; and i had accepted fervently--when, on the trip from liverpool down to london, these arrangements were abruptly upset. we were a little late in landing, and rushed straight to the train, where a tea-basket, operated in the compartment which we had to ourselves, was giving me the assurance that surely, next to a hayloft on a rainy morning, a private compartment in a british train is the coziest spot on the face of the earth, when mr. montgomery suddenly dropped the sheet of newspaper he had been eagerly scanning. "my _word_!" he said. his exclamation was so insistent that i immediately felt in my pocket to see if i had his word, and his wife glanced up from the lamp which she was handling lovingly. "yes, herbert?" "but i say--lord erskine is dead!" "herbert!" her tone was accusing, but her husband nodded, with a pleased look of assurance. "you may read it for yourself, i'm sure--if you don't believe me!" he handed the paper over to her, and she received it gingerly, after looking to the tea-basket with a housewifely air, and placing the lamp quite to one side, out of harm's way. then she turned to the article indicated, reading slowly, while her daughter looked over her shoulder. "why, he's _been_ dead!" she glanced up suddenly, toward me, with a shamefaced look. "he was dead at the very time you were telling grace all those atrocious things about him!" hilda reminded her, smiling at the look of discomfiture which had crept over the kindly, wrinkled little face. "yes! it's--extraordinary!" "and it makes us both feel--a little uncomfortable, eh?" her husband's tone was tormenting, but she turned on him seriously. "i'm sure, herbert, dear, you said quite as much as i did!" she declared, evidently finding relief in the knowledge. "still--this news does rather make one--think." the girl rattled the sheet of paper excitedly. "i'm thinking!" she announced, her eyes wide. "i'm thinking of colmere abbey! what a chance for some rich decent american! somebody that one could easily endure, you understand!" "hilda!" she waved aside the reprimand. "grace understands me--and what i think of americans," she answered quickly. "but, mother, this _is_ a problem! what englishman would buy the place--with its haunting tales--and monstrous value? nobody would be rich enough except one of the millionaires who owns a dozen homes already. and the next-of-kin will inherit nothing along with the place to keep it up!" "hilda! this is neither respectful nor neighborly," her mother remonstrated again, then she turned to her husband. "shall you write to the new lord erskine from london, herbert?" her tone was one of foregone conclusion, conventional enough, but very kindly, and her husband nodded obediently. "oh, to be sure, my dear," he chirruped in a dutiful way. "i shall wire his lawyers immediately and----" "and ask for the pleasure of putting him up while he's in the country?" "certainly! certainly!" "it will be unpleasant--this period of mourning that we shall have to affect--for his sake," she went on, "but it is out of respect for the neighborly proprieties, after all." mrs. montgomery was looking at us all in turn, in some little perplexity, when a sudden recollection came to me of how difficult it is sometimes to amalgamate guests--no matter how many rooms there are to one's house. "and i'll defer my visit until later?" i suggested. she instantly smiled across at me. "just a few days--if you don't mind, dear," she said. "i had planned so many delightful things for _your_ stay--and i know that you wouldn't enjoy the period of mourning." "not so much as you would if you had known lord erskine!" her husband put in wickedly. "and i'm determined to mourn only the briefest time possible." "not an hour later than saturday!" his wife promised generously--and a few hours afterward when they put me down at charing cross and sent me whirling away to a lady-like hotel in bloomsbury, it was with spoken, written and pantomime directions as to which trains, and what-timed trains--and _how many_ trains i was to take toward the end of the week to get to bannerley. in the meanwhile i knuckled down devotedly to london--and sent my deductions home across seas, in neatly typed packets, to _the oldburgh herald_. chapter xvi london what can't be appreciated can always be ridiculed--whether it's old masters, new waltzes, or a wife's easter bonnet--and this is the reason we have always had such reams of journalistic "fun" at the expense of the broad english "a" and the narrow english view. for my part, i consider that--next to the french in new orleans--the english in england are the golden-ruliest people to be found in profane history. you'll find that they're "insular" only when they're traveling off their dear island--and it's homesickness, after all, which makes them so disagreeably arrogant. to be sure, the frenchman in new orleans will, if you ask him for a word of direction toward the old absinthe house, take you into his private office, draw for you a diagram of the whole city, advise you at length not to go unescorted into the market, then follow you to the door with the final warning: "and it would be well for you to observe a certain degree of caution, my dear young lady, for our city is filled with wickedness, and your eyes are--_pardon?_--most charming!" this is delightful, of course, and by far the most romantic thing in the way of adventure america has to offer, but rambling around london presents a dearer and more home-like charm. the englishman who directs you to a church, or a university square, stops to say nothing about your eyes--much less would he mention the existence of good and evil--but he points out to you the tomb, or chained bible, or famous man's pew you are seeking, then glides modestly away before you've had time to say: "it's awfully good of you to take all this trouble for a stranger!" but the truth of the matter is that you don't in the least feel yourself a stranger in london, and you like your kindly englishman so cordially that you secretly resolve to put a muzzle on your own particular cannon cracker the next fourth of july. the shilling guide-books speak of london as the "gray old grandmother of cities," meaning thereby to call attention to her upstart progeny across the seas, but to my mind the title of grandmother is much more applicable on account of the joyous surprises she has shut away in dark closets. one of the main pleasures of a visit to any grandmother is the gift of treasure which she is likely to call forth mysteriously from some tightly-closed cupboard and place in your hands for your own exclusive possession--and certainly this old dingy city outgrannies granny when it comes to that. in the dingiest little book-stall imaginable, lighted by a candle and tended by a ragged-cuffed gentleman with a passion for keats, you may find the very edition of something that college professors in your native town are offering half a year's salary for! you buy it for five dollars--which seems much more insignificant when spoken of by the pound--then run out and hail the nearest cab, offering the chauffeur an additional shilling to get you out of the neighborhood in ten seconds! your heart is thumping in guilty fear that the ragged-cuffed gentleman with the passion for keats may discover his mistake and run after you to demand his treasure back! you make a similar escape, a few hours later, with a wedgwood tea-caddy, whose delicate color the pottery has never been able to duplicate--and with sheffield plate your suit-case runneth over! and your emotions while doing all this? why, you've never before known what "calm content" could mean. in the first place, you never feel countrified and unpopular in london, as you do in new york. your clothes have a way of brightening up and looking noticeably smart as if they'd just enjoyed a sojourn at the dry cleaner's--and everybody you meet seems to care particularly for americans. you are at home there--not merely with the at-home feeling which a good hotel and agreeable society give--but there's a feeling of satisfaction much deeper than this. something in you, which has always known and loved england, is seeing familiar faces again--the something which made you strain your eyes over _mother goose_ by firelight years ago, and thrill over _ivanhoe_ and anything which held the name "sherwood forest" on its printed page. it's something congenial--or prenatal--who knows? (oh yes! i answer very readily "present!" when any one calls: "anglomaniac!") it was only natural that i should let my adoration for great britain show through in the copy i sent home to _the oldburgh herald_, and as if to prove that honesty is the best policy, i received a letter of praise from captain macauley. "anybody can run a foreign country down," he wrote, "but you've proved that you're original by praising one! stay there as long as you have an english adjective left to go upon, then forget your sorrows, chase away down to italy and show us what you can do with 'bellissimo.'" but i didn't do this, for the letter overtook me only after i had reached bannerley, and was seeing things which i could hope for no words, either english or italian, to describe. i left london on friday--which i ought to have had better sense than to do, having been properly brought up by a black mammy--hoping to reach the home of my shipboard friends early enough saturday morning to hear the pigeons coo under the eaves of bannerley hall. all my life i had cherished an ambition to hear pigeons coo under eaves of an ancestral place, and with this thought uppermost in my heart, i packed my suit-case and drove to paddington station. i received my first damper at the ticket window. "bannerley?" the agent repeated, looking at me with a shade of pity, as i mentioned my destination. "bannerley?" "certainly, bannerley!" i insisted, with some effort toward a dignified bearing, but the first glance at his doubtful face caused my spirits to sink. being by nature an extremist, they sank to the bottom. all in a twinkling the cooing of pigeons in my mental picture was changed to the croaking of ravens. "it's not so very difficult to get to bannerley, is it?" he scratched his head. "no-o--not in a general way, miss, but there ain't no telling _when_ you'll get there." i drew back, more hurt than angry. "but my friends have already warned me that i shall have to change at leamington--and manchester--and oldham--and----" "can't help that!" he exclaimed heartlessly, looking over my shoulder at the line of waiting tourists. "since the coal strike, trains on them side-lines has been as scarce and irregular as a youngster's teeth at shedding time." i tried to smile politely, but another glance at his face showed me that he wasn't expecting such an act of supererogation. "getting off into the unbeaten paths sounds pretty enough in a guide-book," he kept on hastily, "but the first thing you do when you meet an unbeaten path is to want to beat it!" i faded out of the line and let my successor take my place. "he's just an old grouch!" i told myself consolingly, as i got a seat next a window. "nothing really terrible can befall you when traveling--if you've got a masonic pin on your coat!" (one of my christie relations had thus decorated me and assured me.) then i forgot all about his gloomy warnings, for the train rumbled across a thousand street crossings--then out into all the sheep pastures in the civilized world, and--it was summer! "this country _must_ be kent!" i mused, not geographically, but esthetically certain--as soft feathery green broke off occasionally into a pollard-trimmed swamp--then came up again a little later into a gentle, sheep-dotted rise. and i remembered the duchess once more--"a stalwart, fair-haired lover, and a dozen kentish lanes!" i have lived to learn that this is common to americans who have been brought up to understand that kent is the garden-spot of england. no matter at which point along the entire coastline they may board a train, their first conviction upon seeing suburban scenery is that it _must_ be kent! (i say "suburban" advisedly, for none of it is far enough away from the other to be rural.) so my journey through an elongated and rather circuitous kent kept my mind away from the croakings of the ticket seller at paddington--until the next morning at daybreak, when i found myself put down with mournful ceremony at a little wayside station which ought to have been labeled "st. helena." "just as sorry as you are, miss, but this is your nearest hope for a train to bannerley!" the guard said, by way of an appropriate farewell, so off i got. "but this place is surely named st. helena," i groaned, as i looked about me, yet the only actual similarity was in the matter of its being entirely surrounded. the island entirely surrounded by water, of course--this station entirely surrounded by land. i believe that i had never before in my life seen such a stretch of unimproved property! "'the woods and i--and their infinite call,'" i quoted, as i looked out somewhat shamefacedly across the acres. for it was exactly the kind of place i had always longed to possess for my very own--yet here i had arrived at it, and might, for all i knew to the contrary, take possession of it by right of discovery--yet i was feeling lonely and resentful at the very start. then i remembered robinson crusoe and took heart, straining my eyes in hope of a sail, but nowhere was there a human face to be seen, nor sign of life. not even a freight car stood drearily on a side-track--and, as you know, you have to be very far away from the center of things not to find a freight car! none was here, however, for there wasn't a side-track for it to stand upon--the main line running in two shining threads far away toward ireland. the only moving bodies visible were a paper sack being blown gently down the track, a blue fly buzzing around a blackened banana peeling and a rook cawing overhead. i looked up at the rook and smiled philosophically. "i anticipated a 'coo,' then apprehended a 'croak'--what i get is a happy compromise, a 'caw,'" i said, and i find that things usually turn out this way in the great journey of life. nothing is ever so good, nor so bad, as you think it's going to be when you're standing at the ticket window. the great anticipator is also a great apprehender--therefore realization is bound to be a relief. then, as if in reward of my optimism, i began to scent the odor of escaping coffee. "it _is_ inhabited!" i cried. springing up, i darted around to the other side of the station, and there, in a clump of trees, lying snug and humane-looking in the morning light, was a tiny cottage. i waited, and presently there issued from the doorway a man--wiping his mouth reminiscently. he espied me at once and came up, cap in hand. "was you wanting something, miss?" he asked. "a train," i replied, trying to sound inconsequential with the lordliness that comes of intense disgust. "i have a ticket to bannerley--and i have friends there _waiting_!" the man dared to smile. "since the coal strike that's mostly what folks does, miss," he explained. there was a moment of strained silence, which was broken by the appearance of a young boy--an eerie creature who had seemed to glide straight out of the eastern horizon on a bicycle. the station-master turned to him. "take this here parcel up to lord erskine--and be quicker than you was yesterday!" he said. the boy's face and mine changed simultaneously, his brightening, mine paling. "lord erskine!" i cried, a little ghostly feeling of fear stealing over me--for my american instincts failed to grasp the rapidity with which dead men's shoes can be snatched off and fitted with new rubber heels in england--"lord erskine is dead." the little messenger boy looked at me pityingly. "'e _wuz_," he explained, "but 'e ain't now!" "and--and do you mean to tell me that this is the station for colmere abbey?" i demanded, turning again to the man. "yes, miss." he tried hard not to look supercilious, but there, six feet above my head, was the name "colmere" in faded yellow letters against the black background of the sign-board. and i had always believed in psychic warnings! "i--i hadn't thought to look at the sign-board," i endeavored to explain. "it seems that it doesn't matter what your station is, for you're as far away from your destination at one place as at another--during the coal strike! you think i can't get a train to bannerley until----" "perhaps to-night--perhaps not until to-morrow morning," he answered with cruel frankness, and i knew from heresay that trains did occasionally wander, comet-fashion, out of their orbit, and come through stations at unexpected moments. "still, there's a railroad hotel about a mile down the track." "a railroad hotel?" "where the men get their meals--the guards and porters!" my spirits sank. "that old kill-joy at paddington knew what he was talking about!" i said to myself--then aloud: "but, couldn't i get a carriage, or a----" he shook his head. "we mostly uses bicycles around here--when we don't walk," he explained. "but i must get to bannerley!" i burst out in desperation. "and i am a first-rate walker! how far is it?" i was beginning to realize that the adventure might make good copy, headed: "wonderful pedestrian journey through historic lancashire." many a slighter incident has called forth heavier head-lines. "walk?" "certainly--then take up the matter with the railroad company in glasgow, just before i sail for home!" my terrible manner caused him to look me over, quickly. "was you wanting to get to the village--or the hall?" he asked, evidently impressed by my severity, and my heart softened. "to the hall," i answered. "mrs. montgomery is expecting me." he tried hard not to show that he was impressed, but he failed. evidently mrs. montgomery was a great personage, and i took on a tinge of reflected glory not to be entirely ignored. "the hall is a mile from the village--and the village is three miles from here," he explained gently. "of course, there's short cuts, if a body knows 'em--but for a lady like you----" the click of the telegraph instrument clamored for his attention, so he reluctantly left me. i remained outside, listening to the caw of the rook. presently he came out again. "there will be a train through here pretty soon--but it's coming from the direction of bannerley instead of going toward there--still----" "still, it will give us occasion to hope for better things later on," i answered cheerfully. "and it has occurred to me that i might while away a portion of the morning by walking up to the gates of colmere abbey. that boy went in this direction, didn't he?" "not a quarter of a mile, miss--down in this direction," he assured me. "just follow this road, and you'll find the lodge in a clump of trees." the "may" hedges were glistening with the early sunbeams, and as i walked down the railroad track the distance seemed quite a good deal short of the quarter of a mile mentioned. i found the clump of trees indicated--then a small gray building. my heart bounded, and i rubbed my eyes to make sure that i was awake. "is this the entrance to colmere abbey?" i asked of the boy on the bicycle, who was turning out of the gate at that moment. "this is one of the lodges--but not the grand one, madam!" he answered anxiously. "oh, indeed? but one can get to the park through this gate?" i persisted. "oh, yes, madam." he showed an inclination to act as my esquire, but i got rid of him by promising him sixpence if he would take care of my bag until i returned to the station--then i crossed the greasy railroad track and entered the shade of the trees. it was far from being my ideal entrée into the old house of my heart's desire, but it was something of an adventure--until i reached the gates. there i was halted. "yes, miss--if you please?" it was an acid voice, and i looked at the doorway of the house, out of which an old woman was issuing. she was garbed in profound black. "i want to get in--to see the grounds of the abbey," i explained casually, but she was not to be overwhelmed by any airy nonchalance. she shook her head. "but that can't be!" the smile which accompanied this information was almost gleeful. "no? but why not?" she looked at me pityingly. "didn't you know we was in mourning?" she demanded, bristling with importance. i instantly made a penitent face, then glanced appreciatively at her gown, but she gave no evidence of being a physiognomist. she failed to take note of my contrite expression. "you can't go sight-seeing in here!" she said. "not even a little way?" i accompanied this plea by the display of a shining half-crown, which i carried in my glove for emergency. that's one good thing about being away from the united states--you don't have to regard money so tenderly. you realize that shillings and francs and lire were made to spend for souvenirs and service, but dollars--ugh! they were made to put in the bank! so i twinkled this ever-ready half-crown temptingly in the morning light, but she shook her head again. "while we was in mourning?" she demanded, with a gasp of outraged propriety. "why--_wha'ud the minister say?_" at this i turned away sadly--for i had been in england long enough to know there's never any use trying to surmise _what_ the minister 'ud say! "just the same, you'd make a dandy old servant--and i'm a great mind to buy you and put you in my suit-case, along with the sheffield candlesticks," i thought, as i made my way back to the station. during my absence a train had come clattering in--and it stood stock-still now, while the engineer and the station-master held a long conversation over a basket of homing pigeons which had been deposited upon the platform. i viewed the locomotive listlessly enough--the walk having taken some of my former impatient energy away, but my interest was aroused as i came upon the platform by the appearance of a servant in livery, disentangling from one of the compartments a suit-case and leather hat-box. the man's back was toward me, as he struggled to lift his burden high above the precious basket of pigeons which was usurping place and attention, but the look of the traveling paraphernalia held my eye for a moment. "could it belong to an american?" i mused. the servant deposited the cases on the platform, then turned, still with his back toward me, and took part in the lively pigeon argument. i looked at the beautiful smoothness of the leather. "of course they're american!" i decided, for you must know that nearly any englishman's luggage would compare unfavorably with the bags aunt jemima brings with her when she comes up to the city for a week's mortification to her nephews. "never judge an englishman by the luggage he lugs!" is only a fair act of discretion. i crossed the platform, partly to get away from the mournful sounds emanating from the wicker basket, and then, at the door of the little station i was arrested by another sound. it was a sound which had certainly not been there when i had left, half an hour before! i halted--wondering if there really could be anything in psychic warnings! inside the dingy little room some one was whistling! the melody was falling upon the air with a certain softness which, however, did not conceal its suppressed vehemence--and the tune was _caro mio ben!_ "anybody has a right to whistle it!" i told myself savagely, but i still hesitated--my heart standing still from the mere force of the hypothesis. after a moment it began beating again, as if to make up for lost time. the whistling man inside left off his music--then i heard his footsteps tramping impatiently across the bare wooden floor. he finally came to the door and looked out. i glanced up, and our eyes met! it _was caro mio ben! it was caro mio ben!_ "well?" he said. he stood perfectly still for half a minute it seemed--making no effort toward a civilized greeting. "well!" i responded--as soon as i could. "this is queer, isn't it?" i looked at him. "'queer?'" i managed to repeat--that is, i heard the word escaping past the tightening muscles of my throat. "_queer!_" "most extraordinary!" "i should--i think i should like to sit down!" i decided, as he continued to stand staring at me, and i suddenly realized that i was very tired. he moved aside. "by all means! come in and sit down, miss christie. this station fellow here tells me that you have been disappointed in your train." "i have," i answered. i might have added that i had been disappointed in everything most important in life, as well--but his own face was wearing such an expression of calm serenity that i was soothed as i looked at it. "that's quite a problem here in england just now," he observed politely. "so i have been informed." after this, conversation flagged, until the silence made me nervous. "i should think we ought to be asking each other--questions!" i suggested, trying to bring him to a realization of the necessary formalities, but he only turned and looked down at me, with a slightly amused, slightly superior smile. "questions?" "about _ships_--and how long we intend staying--and what travelers usually ask!" i said. he shook his head, as if the subjects held little interest for him. "why should i ask that--when i happen to know?" he inquired. "you know--what?" "that you came over on the _luxuria_." "yes?" "and that _the oldburgh herald_ sent you--to write up the coal strike." "yes--it did." "and that you are going to stay--some time." i was decidedly uncomfortable. "will you please explain how you knew all this?" i asked. his smile died away. "mrs. hiram walker wrote her son to call on me while i was in new york," he explained in his serious lawyer-like manner, "and he happened to leave a copy of _the oldburgh herald_ in my rooms." "oh! that was quite simple, wasn't it?" "quite!" it occurred to me then that there was no use trying to keep fate's name out of this conversation--and also it came to me that the orchids were no longer a mystery--but before i could make up my mind to mention this he turned to me ferociously. "you _did_ make a fool of me!" he accused. my heart began thumping again. "what do you mean?" i began, but he cut me short. "it is this that i can not get over! the thought has come to me that perhaps if i might hear you acknowledge it, i might be able to forgive you better." "forgive me?" he leaned toward me. "if you don't mind, i should like to hear you say: 'maitland tait, i did make a fool of you!'" "but i didn't!" i denied stoutly, while my face flushed, and all the fighting blood in me seemed to send forth a challenge from my cheeks. "i'll say what i _do_ think, however, if you wish to hear it!" "and that is----?" "maitland tait, you made a fool of yourself!" he looked disappointed. "oh, i know that!" he replied. "you do? since when, please?" "why, i knew it before i crossed the ohio river!" he acknowledged, seeming to take some pride in the fact. "i--i intended to apologize--or something--when i got to pittsburgh, but when i reached new york, on my way here, i saw that you were coming to england, too----" "so you thought the matter could easily wait--i see!" i observed, then, to change the subject, i asked: "have you been here long?" "two weeks! i knew that i should get news of you in _this_ neighborhood, sooner or later." i instantly smiled. "i have come here for my first sunday, you see, but----" "but you haven't been to the abbey yet, have you?" he asked. the boyish anxiety in his tone gave me a thrill. something in the thought of his remembering my romantic whim touched me. "no. i have just come from there--the lodge--but the old woman at the gates wouldn't let me in." he looked interested. "no? but why not?" "the master of the house has just died," i explained. "it would be a terrible breach of etiquette to go sight-seeing over the mourning acres." his lips closed firmly. "nonsense! i'll venture that's just a servant's whim." he slipped out his watch. "shall i go over and try to beg or bribe permission for you? i'm not easily daunted by their refusals, and--i'll have a little time to spare this morning, if you'd care to put your marooned period to such a use." "i _am_ marooned," i told him, wondering for a moment what the montgomerys would think of my delay, "and i should like this, of course, above anything else that england has to offer, but----" then, after his precipitate fashion, he waited for no more. he paused at the edge of the platform for a low-toned colloquy with collins--i could easily distinguish now that the liveried creature was collins--and the two disappeared down the car track. after the briefest delay he returned. "what can't be cured must be ignored," he said with a shrug, as he came up. "the poor old devil evidently regards us as very impious and--american, but i made everything all right with her." "but how----?" i started to inquire, also at the same moment starting down the track toward the lodge house, when he stopped both my question and my progress. "let us wait here--i have sent collins to get a car for us from the garage not far away." he led the way out to a drive, sheltered with trees, on the other side of the track, and we awaited the coming of collins--neither showing any disposition to talk. "is this _your_ car?" i presently asked, as the servant driving a gleaming black machine drew up in front of us. "i hadn't imagined that you would have your own car down in the country with you." "i've had experience with these trains," he explained briefly, then he looked the car over with a masterful eye. "yes, it's mine." "i really shouldn't have needed to ask--there's so strong a family resemblance to the other one--the limousine you had in oldburgh." he looked pleased. "i hope you'll like this one--it's a blanton six, you see," he explained with a pat of affectionate pride upon the door-handle as he helped me in. collins climbed to his place at the wheel, and without another word--without one backward look--i was whirled away into the land of long ago--the period where i had always belonged. * * * * * at the second lodge--the grand one--i pinched myself. i had to, to see whether i was awake--or dreaming a jane austen dream. maitland tait, watching me closely, saw the act. "you're quite awake," he assured me gravely. "but--what are you?" i inquired. "are you yourself--or aladdin, or----" i broke off abruptly, for the car was gliding over a bridge, and underneath was a silvery, glinting ribbon, that might, in fairy-land, pass for a river. "shall i stop the car and let you dabble the toe of your shoe in the water?" my guide asked. i looked at him in bewilderment. "i shan't be able to believe it's just water--unless you do," i explained. he had seen the look i let fall upon the shining breast of the stream. "and i'll send collins away." "of course! it's sacrilegious to let any wooden-faced human look upon--all this!" the car obediently let us out, then steamed softly away, up the road and out of sight. mr. tait held out his hand to me and helped me down the steep little river bank. i dabbled the toe of my shoe in the water, and as he finally drew me away, with the suggestion of further delights, i caught sight of a tiny fish, lying whitely upward in a tangle of weeds. "how _could_ he die?" i asked mournfully, as we walked away and climbed back to the level of the park. "it seems so unappreciative." the man beside me laughed. "_things_--even the most beautiful things on earth--don't keep people--or fish alive," he said. "they can't even make people want to stay alive--if this is all they have, and after all, the river is just a thing--and the park is a thing--and the house is a thing!" we had walked on rapidly, and at that moment the house itself became apparent. i clutched his arm. "a thing!" i denied, looking at it in a dazed fashion. "why, it's the house of a hundred dreams! it's all the dreams of april mornings--and christmas nights--and----" "and what?" he asked gravely. but my eyes were still intoxicated. "why, it's religion--and art--and _love_--and comfort!" he looked at it wonderingly, as if he expected to see statues representing these chapters in the book of life. what he saw was a tangle of gravel walks, gray as the desert, drawing away from grassy places and coming up sharply against the house. _such_ a house! a church--a tomb--a fluttering-curtained living-hall--all stretched out in one long chain of battlemented stone. where the church began and the living-hall ended no one could say, for there were trees everywhere. "the lower part of the abbey is in good condition, it seems," my conductor remarked, as we approached. "good condition!" i echoed. "why, those doorways are as realistic as--sunday morning! i feel that i ought to have on a silk dress--and hold the corners of my prayer-book with a handkerchief--to keep from soiling my white gloves." "if you listen perhaps you can hear the choir-boys," he said, after a pause, and without smiling. "but there might be a sermon, too!" i objected. high above the doors was a great open space of a missing window; then, over this, smaller spaces for smaller windows; and--in a niched pinnacle--the virgin. "how can she--a woman in love--endure all this beauty?" i asked, my voice hushed with awe. "she's endured it for many centuries, it seems," he answered. but we came closer then. "why, she hasn't even seen it--not once!" i cried, for i saw then that she was not looking up, but down--at the burden in her arms. instinctively maitland tait bared his head as we crossed the threshold. "shall we try to find a way through here into the gardens?" he asked. chapter xvii house of a hundred dreams the shadows inside the roofless old abbey were warm and friendly. the sunlight gleamed against the tombs with a cheer which always falls over very old grief spots. "this quietude--this sense of all rightness--makes you feel that nothing really matters, doesn't it?" i asked, looking around with a sort of awed delight as we paused to read one or two inscriptions--voluminous in length and medieval in spelling. the man at my side was less awed. "shall we go on to the gardens, then?" he asked. "you'll not think so little of temporal pleasures there, perhaps." i looked up at him. "but why?" "well, because these gardens are usually filled with suggestions of living joys--for one thing. there are millions of forget-me-nots, which always give a cheering aspect to the landscape--and there are frequently the flowers mentioned in shakespeare's plays." with a sigh of regret we left the sanctuary. then, turning a corner of the old stone wall we came full upon a side of the house which was receiving shamelessly the biggest sun-kiss i had ever seen. but then, it was the biggest house i had ever seen. it was the gladdest sun--and it was the warmest blending. between house and sun--as if they were the love children of this union--lay thousands of brilliant flowers. when i could get my breath i made a quick suggestion that we go closer. "i want to know which is rosemary--and which is rue!" i told him. but he stopped a moment and detained me. we halted beside a fallen stone, at a point slightly separated from the walls of the house--a sort of half-way ground, where the shadow of the greek cross on an isolated pinnacle seemed still to claim the ground for religion, against the encroachments of the work-a-day world. maitland tait's sudden smile was a mixture of amusement and tenderness. "i've recently heard a story about this spot--this identical stone--which will interest you," he said. "a monk comes here at night--one of those old fellows buried in there." i smiled. "it's quite true!" he insisted. "people have seen him." "i know it," i avowed seriously. "i was not smiling out of unbelief, but out of sheer joy at beholding with mine own eyes the 'norman stone!' "'he mutters his prayers on the midnight air, and his mass of the days that are gone.'" maitland tait looked at me in surprise. "do you know all the legends of the place?" he asked. i shook my head sorrowfully. "i wish i did," i replied. "for so many years this has been my house of a hundred dreams!" we both fell into a moment's dreamy thoughtfulness, which i was first to cast aside. "come and tell me about the plants, if you can!" i begged. "which _is_ rosemary, and which is rue?" we walked down a flight of worn steps, and came upon prim gravel pathways. "this is rosemary," he said, "and here, by the sun-dial, is rue." then, even when i realized that this was the place where lady frances webb had spent her wearisome days, to keep from hearing the clock chime in the hall, i could not be sad. the sun-dial was another grief spot, it was true, but it was an ancient grief spot--and it was located in a golden sea of sunshine, under a sky that was the reflection of forget-me-nots. "she could gather the rue while the sun-dial told, all silently, of the day's wearing on," i said. he looked at me uncertainly. "did she say that in her letters?" he asked. "yes. she had sent her lover away, you see, and--there was nothing else in life." "and she longed for the days to pass silently?" "she stayed out here as much as she could--to keep from hearing the clock in the hall," i told him. "the chime shamed the unholy prayer on her lips, she said--and the sound of the ticking reminded her of her heart's wearying beats." "of _their_ hearts' wearying beats, you mean," he exclaimed, and a quick look of pain which darted into his face showed me that he comprehended. then, for the first time, i began to grasp what a lover he would make! before this time i had been absorbed with thoughts of him as a beloved. suddenly my hat began to feel intolerably heavy, and my gloves intolerably hot. i tampered fumblingly with the pearl clasp at my left wrist, and drew that glove off first. maitland tait was watching me. he saw my hand--my bare ringless hand. he stared at it as if it might have been a ghost, although it looked fairly pink and healthy in the warm glow of the noonday sun. even the little pallid circle on the third finger was quite gone. "grace----" he said. "yes?" "does this mean that you're--you're----" a discreet cough--a still distant, but distinctly warning cough--interrupted for a moment. collins was coming toward us, from the ruins of the old abbey. maitland tait looked up and saw him coming, but he did not stop. on the other hand, the sight of his servant seemed to goad him into a hasty precipitation. "grace, will you marry me?" he asked. "of _course_!" i managed to say, but not too energetically, for the muscles of my throat were giving me trouble again. "soon?" he asked hungrily. i felt very reckless and--american. "before the shadows pass round this dial again, if you _insist_," i smiled. but his eyes were very grave. "without knowing anything more about me than you know now?" "why, i know everything about you," i replied, in some astonishment. "i know that you are the biggest, and the best-looking, and the dearest----" "you know nothing about me," he interrupted softly, "except what i have told you. i am a working man! i have always had the mass hatred for class, and--and my grandfather was a coal-digger in wales." i was silent. "yet, you are willing to marry me?" he asked. "of course! coal is--very warming," i answered. * * * * * collins descended the flight of stone steps and came slowly along the gravel walk. when he had come to the respectful distance he stopped. no english servant ever approaches very close--as if there were a quarantine around the sacred person of the served. "my lord," he said, but stammeringly, as a man halts over a newly-acquired language--"my lord, mrs. carr wishes to know if you will have lunch served in the oak room, or in the----" "in the oak room," the man standing beside me answered readily enough. "and have the old wing opened and lighted, collins. we want to see the pictures in there." the servant breathed the inevitable "thank you," and turned away. i seemed suddenly to feel that the golden sea of sunlight was sweeping me away--up into the blue, which was the reflection of forget-me-nots. and there loomed big on my horizon a house that was a home! "my _lord_?" i demanded, as soon as i could speak. maitland tait nodded reassuringly. "my father died two weeks ago," he said. "and i _had_ to come into the title." "and this place is _yours_!" i sang out, feeling that all the years of my life i had been destiny's love-child. "this old abbey is yours! the park is yours! the garden is yours! the sun-dial is yours!" "and the girl is mine!" he said, with a grave smile. "i am careless of all the other." his gravity sobered my wild spirits. "and your father was--lord erskine?" i finally asked. "he _was_--lord erskine," he answered. "he married out of his station--far, far above his station, _i_ think----" his big beautiful mouth set grimly, but he said nothing more, and i knew that this was as heavily as he would ever tread upon the ashes of the dead. gradually, bit by bit, i learned the history of the muddy pool of mistake and fault, out of which the tender blossom of his boyhood had been dragged. his father had never seen him, but a certain stiff-necked family pride had caused him to provide material bounty for his child. the combination of a good education and rugged plebeian industry had made him what he was. "but why didn't you tell me--that day when you first came to see me and we talked about this place--why didn't you tell me that it was _your_ ancestral home?" he looked at me in surprise. "why, because i had made up my mind to marry you!" he said. "you told me that this old place was a sort of dreamland of yours--and i didn't want to complicate matters. i wanted your love for me to be a reality." "well, it--it is!" i confessed. after a long while--that is, the sun-dial said it was a long while--spent this way a sudden thought of my waiting hosts at bannerley came over me. i sprang up from the step of the pedestal where we had been sitting. "i _must_ get some word to mrs. montgomery!" i said. "they will be thinking that my rash american ways have got me into some dreadful scrape, i'm afraid." but the serene man at my side was still serene. his face looked as if nothing on earth could ever cause him a pang again. he caught my hand and drew me gently, but rather steadfastly back to my place. "mrs. montgomery knows everything--except that we are going to be married--when did you say, to-morrow?" he smiled. "i've been staying with them, and they told me about you, and i told them about you--and we had rather a satisfactory adjustment of neighborly relations." i looked at him in awe. i could not quite shake off the idea that he had a miraculous lamp hidden about somewhere in his pockets. things seemed to _happen_ when he wished them to happen. "did you chance to know that i would take a bad train and be delayed here this morning at sunrise?" i asked, trying to look dignified and unawed. "did you know that i should be compelled to waste precious morning hours pacing up and down a railway station platform?" "why, of course," he answered imperturbably. "mrs. montgomery sent me over to meet you." i sprang up again, more energetically this time. "then why didn't you meet me?" i asked, with the horror of shocking english propriety overwhelming me. "come! we must go to bannerley at once." he rose and followed me toward the main garden path. then he pointed the way to the house door. "i've had collins telephone that your train was very, very late," he explained. "she'll not be surprised--nor too inquisitive. she even suggested this morning that if you shouldn't get in until evening--the drive to bannerley is very fine by moonlight." * * * * * in the late afternoon the chilly dusk sent little forerunners ahead, which caused the old wing of the house to be lighted from within, instead of opened to the cool dying sunset. a cheery fire was kindled in the room which had once been the library of lady frances webb. the dampness and air of disuse disappeared, and it seemed as if personalities came forth from the shadowy corners and sat beside the fire with maitland tait and me. "this was her own desk, they tell me," he said, as he was showing the ancient treasures to me, yet still looking at them himself with half-awed, almost unbelieving eyes. "this was where all her famous books were written." i crossed the room to where the little locked secretary stood. its polished surface was sending back the firelight's glow and seemed to proclaim that its own mahogany was imprisoned sunshine. "and she wrote those letters here," i said in a hushed voice. "do you suppose she has some of his letters locked away somewhere?" he nodded, fitting the key to its lock very carefully. [illustration: he drew me to a corner of the room] "all of them! all the letters written her by--uncle james." "and we are going to look over them together--you and i are going to read these love-letters--before we burn them?" i asked, quick joy making my voice tremulous. for a moment there was silence in the old room, then he turned away from the secretary, and came very close. "why burn them--now?" he asked, his own strong voice of a sudden more tremulous than mine. "why burn them, now, darling? why not--hand-- them--down?" then--in that instant--i knew what life was going to mean to me. and i felt as if i had the great joy of the world--hugged close--in a circle of radiance--like the _madonna della sedia_! "i can be good--a very good woman--if i have your face before me," i told him. after a while he smiled, then took my hand and drew me to a shadowy corner of the room. "you haven't seen this yet," he said. there was a crimson velvet curtain hanging before a picture, and he drew aside the folds. "this is--uncle james," the candlelight shone against the canvas, and glittered in dancing little waves over the name-plate on the frame. "_portrait of the artist, by himself._" "was it a comfort to her, i wonder?" my lover said, his thoughts only half with the past. "a torturing comfort--the kind a woman like her demands," i answered. "she had to go to it every hour in every day--and look at it--to make her heart ache, because it was only a picture. she was a human being--as well as a novelist, so that such as this could only add to her anguish. she wanted a _living_ face----" "she wanted--this?" he set the candlestick down and put both arms round me. "she wanted--_this_?" he breathed. his face was close above mine-waiting for the first kiss. a moment later it came--descending gently, like some blessed holy thing. and it was that. "you are like him," i whispered. "your face can make me good." his arms tightened, and a smile escaped. "and yours? what will you be like to me?" he asked. i looked up, remembering. "like--just an american woman--a tormenting side-issue in your busy life?" but he shook his head gravely. "no--not that." a casement was open near by, and he drew me toward the shaft of radiance which fell into the shadowed room. across the courtyard, white now with moonlight, were the ruins of the abbey. there shone a softened luster through the space of the absent window, and above, resplendent in her niche, stood the virgin. her head was bowed above the burden in her arms. "like that--_like that_!" he whispered. the end the last letter by fritz lieber illustrated by dillon [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction june . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] who or what was the scoundrel that kept these couriers from the swift completion of their handsomely appointed rondos? on tenthmonth , a.d., at exactly a.m. planetary federation time--but with a permissible error of a millionth of a second either way--in the fifth sublevel of newnew york robot postal station , black sorter gulped down ten thousand pieces of first-class mail. this breakfast tidbit did not agree with the mail-sorting machine. it was as if a robust dog had been fed a large chunk of good red meat with a strychnine pill in it. black sorter's innards went _whirr-klunk_, a blue electric glow enveloped him, and he began to shake as if he might break loose from the concrete. he desperately spat back over his shoulder a single envelope, gave a great _huff_ and blew out toward the sorting tubes a medium-size snowstorm consisting of the other nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine pieces of first-class mail chewed to confetti. then, still convulsed, he snapped up a fresh ten thousand and proceeded to chomp and grind on them. black sorter was rugged. the rejected envelope was tongued up by red subsorter, who growled deep in his throat, said a very bad word, and passed it to yellow rerouter, who passed it to green rerouter, who passed it to brown study, who passed it to pink wastebasket. unlike black sorter, pink wastebasket was very delicate, though highly intuitive--the machine equivalent of a white russian countess. she was designed to scan in , codes, route special-delivery spacemail to interplanetary liners by messenger rocket, and distinguish s from upside-down s. pink wastebasket haughtily inhaled the offending envelope and almost instantly turned a bright crimson and began to tremble. after a few minutes, small atomic flames started to flicker from her mid-section. white nursemaid seven and greasy joe both received pink wastebasket's distress signal and got there as fast as their wheels would roll them, but the high-born machine's malady was beyond their simple skills of oilcan and electroshock. * * * * * they summoned other machine-tending-and-repairing machines, ones far more expert than themselves, but all were baffled. it was clear that pink wastebasket, who continued to tremble and flicker uncontrollably, was suffering from the equivalent of a major psychosis with severe psychosomatic symptoms. she spat a stream of filthy ions at gray psychiatrist, not recognizing her old friend. meanwhile, the paper blizzard from black sorter was piling up in great drifts between the dark pillars of the sublevel, and flurries had reached pink wastebasket's aristocratic area. an expedition of sturdy machines, headed by two hastily summoned snowplows, was dispatched to immobilize black sorter at all costs. pink wastebasket, quivering like a demented hula dancer, was clearly approaching a crisis. finally gray psychiatrist--after consulting with green surgeon, and even then with an irritated reluctance, as if he were calling in a witch-doctor--summoned a human being. the human being walked respectfully around pink wastebasket several times and then gave her a nervous little poke with a rubber-handled probe. pink wastebasket gently regurgitated her last snack, turned dead white, gave a last flicker and shake, and expired. black coroner recorded the immediate cause of death as tinkering by a human being. the human being, a bald and scrawny one named potshelter, picked up the envelope responsible for all the trouble, stared at it incredulously, opened it with trembling fingers, scanned the contents briefly, gave a great shriek and ran off at top speed, forgetting to hop on his perambulator, which followed him making anxious clucking noises. the nearest human representative of the solar bureau of investigation, a rather wooden-looking man named krumbine, also bald, recognized potshelter as soon as the latter burst gasping into his office, squeezing through the door while it was still dilating. the human beings whose work took them among the top brass, as the upper-echelon machines were sometimes referred to, formed a kind of human elite, just one big nervous family. "sit down, potshelter," the sbi man said. "hold still a second so the chair can grab you. hitch onto the hookah and choose a tranquilizer from the tray at your elbow. whatever deviation you've uncovered can't be that much of a danger to the planets. i imagine that when you leave this office, the solar battle fleet will still be orbiting peacefully around luna." "i seriously doubt that." * * * * * potshelter gulped a large lavender pill and took a deep breath. "krumbine, a letter turned up in the first-class mail this morning." "great scott!" "it is a letter from one person to another person." "good lord!" "the flow of advertising has been seriously interfered with. at a modest estimate, three hundred million pieces of expensive first-class advertising have already been chewed to rags and i'm not sure the steel helms--god bless 'em!--have the trouble in hand yet." "judas priest!" "naturally the poor machines weren't able to cope with the letter. it was utterly outside their experience, beyond the furthest reach of their programming. it threw them into a terrible spasm. pink wastebasket is dead and at this very instant, if we're lucky, three police machines of the toughest blued steel are holding down black sorter and putting a muzzle on him." "great scott! it's incredible, potshelter. and pink wastebasket dead? take another tranquilizer, potshelter, and hand over the tray." krumbine received it with trembling fingers, started to pick up a big pink pill but drew back his hand from it in sudden revulsion at its color and swallowed two blue oval ones instead. the man was obviously fighting to control himself. he said unsteadily, "i almost never take doubles, but this news you bring--good lord! i seem to recall a case where someone tried to send a sound-tape through the mails, but that was before my time. incidentally, is there any possibility that this is a letter sent by one _group_ of persons to another group? a hive or a therapy group or a social club? that would be bad enough, of course, but--" "no, just one single person sending to another." potshelter's expression set in grimly solicitous lines. "i can see you don't quite understand, krumbine. this is not a sound-tape, but a letter written in letters. you know, letters, characters--like books." "don't mention books in this office!" krumbine drew himself up angrily and then slumped back. "excuse me, potshelter, but i find this very difficult to face squarely. do i understand you to say that one person has tried to use the mails to send a printed sheet of some sort to another?" "worse than that. a written letter." "written? i don't recognize the word." "it's a way of making characters, of forming visual equivalents of sound, without using electricity. the writer, as he's called, employs a black liquid and a pointed stick called a pen. i know about this because one hobby of mine is ancient means of communication." * * * * * krumbine frowned and shook his head. "communication is a dangerous business, potshelter, especially at the personal level. with you and me, it's all right, because we know what we're doing." he picked up a third blue tranquilizer. "but with most of the hive-folk, person-to-person communication is only a morbid form of advertising, a dangerous travesty of normal newscasting--catharsis without the analyst, recitation without the teacher--a perversion of promotion employed in betraying and subverting." the frown deepened as he put the blue pill in his mouth and chewed it. "but about this pen--do you mean the fellow glues the pointed stick to his tongue and then speaks, and the black liquid traces the vibrations on the paper? a primitive non-electrical oscilloscope? sloppy but conceivable, and producing a record of sorts of the spoken word." "no, no, krumbine." potshelter nervously popped a square orange tablet into his mouth. "it's a hand-written letter." krumbine watched him. "i never mix tranquilizers," he boasted absently. "hand-written, eh? you mean that the message was imprinted on a hand? and the skin or the entire hand afterward detached and sent through the mails in the fashion of a martian reproach? a grisly find indeed, potshelter." "you still don't quite grasp it, krumbine. the fingers of the hand move the stick that applies the ink, producing a crude imitation of the printed word." "diabolical!" krumbine smashed his fist down on the desk so that the four phones and two-score microphones rattled. "i tell you, potshelter, the sbi is ready to cope with the subtlest modern deceptions, but when fiends search out and revive tricks from the pre-atomic cave era, it's almost too much. but, great scott, i dally while the planets are in danger. what's the sender's code on this hellish letter?" "no code," potshelter said darkly, proferring the envelope. "the return address is--hand-written." krumbine blanched as his eyes slowly traced the uneven lines in the upper left-hand corner: _from_ richard rowe west th st. (horizontal) rocket court (vertical) hive , newnew york , n. y. columbia, terra "ugh!" krumbine said, shivering. "those crawling characters, those letters, as you call them, those _things_ barely enough like print to be readable--they seem to be on the verge of awakening all sorts of horrid racial memories. i find myself thinking of fur-clad witch-doctors dipping long pointed sticks in bubbling black cauldrons. no wonder pink wastebasket couldn't take it, brave girl." * * * * * firming himself behind his desk, he pushed a number of buttons and spoke long numbers and meaningful alphabetical syllables into several microphones. banks of colored lights around the desk began to blink like a theatre marquee sending morse code, while phosphorescent arrows crawled purposefully across maps and space-charts and through three-dimensional street diagrams. "there!" he said at last. "the sender of the letter is being apprehended and will be brought directly here. we'll see what sort of man this richard rowe is--if we can assume he's human. seven precautionary cordons are being drawn around his population station: three composed of machines, two of sbi agents, and two consisting of human and mechanical medical-combat teams. same goes for the intended recipient of the letter. meanwhile, a destroyer squadron of the solar fleet has been detached to orbit over newnew york." "in case it becomes necessary to z-bomb?" potshelter asked grimly. krumbine nodded. "with all those villains lurking just outside the solar system in their invisible black ships, with planeticide in their hearts, we can't be too careful. one word transmitted from one spy to another and anything may happen. and we must bomb before they do, so as to contain our losses. better one city destroyed than a traitor on the loose who may destroy many cities. one hundred years ago, three person-to-person postcards went through the mails--just three postcards, potshelter!--and _pft_ went schenectady, hoboken, cicero, and walla walla. here, as long as you're mixing them, try one of these oval blues--i find them best for steady swallowing." bells jangled. krumbine grabbed up two phones, holding one to each ear. potshelter automatically picked up a third. the ringing continued. krumbine started to wedge one of his phones under his chin, nodded sharply at potshelter and then toward a cluster of microphones at the end of the table. potshelter picked up a fourth phone from behind them. the ringing stopped. the two men listened, looking doped, krumbine with an eye fixed on the sweep second hand of the large wall clock. when it had made one revolution, he cradled his phones. potshelter followed suit. "i do like the simplicity of the new on-the-hour puffyloaf phono-commercial," the latter remarked thoughtfully. "the bread that's lighter than air. nice." krumbine nodded. "i hear they've had to add mass to the leadfoil wrapping to keep the loaves from floating off the shelves. fact." * * * * * he cleared his throat. "too bad we can't listen to more phono-commercials, but even when there isn't a crisis on the agenda, i find i have to budget my listening time. one minute per hour strikes a reasonable balance between duty and self-indulgence." the nearest wall began to sing: mister j. augustus krumbine, we all think you're fine, fine, fine, fine. now out of the skyey blue come some telegrams for you. the wall opened to a small heart shape toward the center and a sheaf of pale yellow envelopes arced out and plopped on the middle of the desk. krumbine started to leaf through them, scanning the little transparent windows. "hm, electronic soap ... better homes and landing platforms ... psycho-blinkers ... your girl next door ... poppy-woppies ... poopsy-woopsies...." he started to open an envelope, then, after a quick look around and an apologetic smile at potshelter, dumped them all on the disposal hopper, which gargled briefly. "after all, there _is_ a crisis this morning," he said in a defensive voice. potshelter nodded absently. "i can remember back before personalized delivery and rhyming robots," he observed. "but how i'd miss them now--so much more distingué than the hives with their non-personalized radio, tv and stereo advertising. for that matter, i believe there are some backward areas on terra where the great advertising potential of telephones and telegrams hasn't been fully realized and they are still used in part for personal communication. now me, i've never in my life sent or received a message except on my walky-talky." he patted his breast pocket. krumbine nodded, but he was a trifle shocked and inclined to revise his estimate of potshelter's social status. krumbine conducted his own social correspondence solely by telepathy. he shared with three other sbi officials a private telepath--a charming albino girl named agnes. "yes, and it's a very handsome walky-talky," he assured potshelter a little falsely. "suits you. i like the upswept antenna." he drummed on the desk and swallowed another blue tranquilizer. "dammit, what's happened to those machines? they ought to have the two spies here by now. did you notice that the second--the intended recipient of the letter, i mean--seems to be female? another good terran name, too, jane dough. hive in upper manhattan." he began to tap the envelope sharply against the desk. "dammit, where _are_ they?" "excuse me," potshelter said hesitantly, "but i'm wondering why you haven't read the message inside the envelope." * * * * * krumbine looked at him blankly. "great scott, i assumed that at least _it_ was in some secret code, of course. normally i'd have asked you to have pink wastebasket try her skill on it, but...." his eyes widened and his voice sank. "you don't mean to tell me that it's--" potshelter nodded grimly. "hand-written, too. yes." krumbine winced. "i keep trying to forget that aspect of the case." he dug out the message with shaking fingers, fumbled it open and read: _dear jane_, _it must surprise you that i know your name, for our hives are widely separated. do you recall day before yesterday when your guided tour of grand central spaceport got stalled because the aide blew a fuse? i was the young man with hair in the tour behind yours. you were a little frightened and a groupmistress was reassuring you. the machine spoke your name._ _since then i have been unable to forget you. when i go to sleep, i dream of your face looking up sadly at the mistress's kindly photocells. i don't know how to get in touch with you, but my grandfather has told me stories his grandfather told him that his grandfather told him about young men writing what he calls love-letters to young ladies. so i am writing you a love-letter._ _i work in a first-class advertising house and i will slip this love-letter into an outgoing ten-thousand-pack and hope._ _do not be frightened of me, jane. i am no caveman except for my hair. i am not insane. i am emotionally disturbed, but in a way that no machine has ever described to me. i want only your happiness._ _sincerely_, _richard rowe_ krumbine slumped back in his chair, which braced itself manfully against him, and looked long and thoughtfully at potshelter. "well, if that's a code, it's certainly a fiendishly subtle one. you'd think he was talking to his girl next door." potshelter nodded wonderingly. "i only read as far as where they were planning to blow up grand central spaceport and all the guides in it." "judas priest, i think i have it!" krumbine shot up. "it's a pilot advertisement--boy next door or--that kind of thing--printed to look like hand-writtening, which would make all the difference. and the pilot copy got mailed by accident--which would mean there is no real richard rowe." at that instant, the door dilated and two blue detective engines hustled a struggling young man into the office. he was slim, rather handsome, had a bushy head of hair that had somehow survived evolution and radioactive fallout, and across the chest and back of his paper singlet was neatly stamped: "richard rowe." when he saw the two men, he stopped struggling and straightened up. "excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but these police machines must have made a mistake. i've committed no crime." then his gaze fell on the hand-addressed envelope on krumbine's desk and he turned pale. * * * * * krumbine laughed harshly. "no crime! no, not at all. merely using the mails to communicate. ha!" the young man shrank back. "i'm sorry, sir." "sorry, he says! do you realize that your insane prank has resulted in the destruction of perhaps a half-billion pieces of first-class advertising?--in the strangulation of a postal station and the paralysis of lower manhattan?--in the mobilization of sbi reserves, the de-mothballing of two divisions of g. i. machines and the redeployment of the solar battle fleet? good lord, boy, why did you do it?" richard rowe continued to shrink but he squared his shoulders. "i'm sorry, sir, but i just had to. i just had to get in touch with jane dough." "a girl from another hive? a girl you'd merely gazed at because a guide happened to blow a fuse?" krumbine stood up, shaking an angry finger. "great scott, boy, where was your girl next door?" richard rowe stared bravely at the finger, which made him look a trifle cross-eyed. "she died, sir, both of them." "but there should be at least six." "i know, sir, but of the other four, two have been shipped to the adirondacks on vacation and two recently got married and haven't been replaced." potshelter, a faraway look in his eyes, said softly, "i think i'm beginning to understand--" but krumbine thundered on at richard rowe with, "good lord, i can see you've had your troubles, boy. it isn't often we have these shortages of girls next door, so that temporarily a boy can't marry the girl next door, as he always should. but, judas priest, why didn't you take your troubles to your psychiatrist, your groupmaster, your socializer, your queen mother?" "my psychiatrist is being overhauled, sir, and his replacement short-circuits every time he hears the word 'trouble.' my groupmaster and socializer are on vacation duty in the adirondacks. my queen mother is busy replacing girls next door." "yes, it all fits," potshelter proclaimed excitedly. "don't you see, krumbine? except for a set of mischances that would only occur once in a billion billion times, the letter would never have been conceived or sent." "you may have something there," krumbine concurred. "but in any case, boy, why did you--er--written this letter to this particular girl? what is there about jane dough that made you do it?" "well, you see, sir, she's--" * * * * * just then, the door re-dilated and a blue matron machine conducted a young woman into the office. she was slim and she had a head of hair that would have graced a museum beauty, while across the back and--well, "chest" is an inadequate word--of her paper chemise, "jane dough" was silk-screened in the palest pink. krumbine did not repeat his last question. he had to admit to himself that it had been answered fully. potshelter whistled respectfully. the blue detective engines gave hard-boiled grunts. even the blue matron machine seemed awed by the girl's beauty. but she had eyes only for richard rowe. "my grand central man," she breathed in amazement. "the man i've dreamed of ever since. my man with hair." she noticed the way he was looking at her and she breathed harder. "oh, darling, what have you done?" "i tried to send you a letter." "a letter? for me? oh, darling!" * * * * * krumbine cleared his throat. "potshelter, i'm going to wind this up fast. miss dough, could you transfer to this young man's hive?" "oh, yes, sir! mine has an over-plus of girls next door." "good. mr. rowe, there's a sky-pilot two levels up--look for the usual white collar just below the photocells. marry this girl and take her home to your hive. if your queen mother objects refer her to--er--potshelter here." he cut short the young people's thanks. "just one thing," he said, wagging a finger at rowe. "don't written any more letters." "why ever would i?" richard answered. "already my action is beginning to seem like a mad dream." "not to me, dear," jane corrected him. "oh, sir, could i have the letter he sent me? not to do anything with. not to show anyone. just to keep." "well, i don't know--" krumbine began. "oh, _please_, sir!" "well, i don't know why not, i was going to say. here you are, miss. just see that this husband of yours never writtens another." he turned back as the contracting door shut the young couple from view. "you were right, potshelter," he said briskly. "it was one of those combinations of mischances that come up only once in a billion billion times. but we're going to have to issue recommendations for new procedures and safeguards that will reduce the possibilities to one in a trillion trillion. it will undoubtedly up the terran income tax a healthy percentage, but we can't have something like this happening again. every boy must marry the girl next door! and the first-class mails must not be interfered with! the advertising must go through!" "i'd almost like to see it happen again," potshelter murmured dreamily, "if there were another jane dough in it." * * * * * outside, richard and jane had halted to allow a small cortege of machines to pass. first came a squad of police machines with black sorter in their midst, unmuzzled and docile enough, though still gnashing his teeth softly. then--stretched out horizontally and borne on the shoulders of gray psychiatrist, black coroner, white nursemaid seven and greasy joe--there passed the slim form of pink wastebasket, snow-white in death. the machines were keening softly, mournfully. round about the black pillars, little mecho-mops were scurrying like mice, cleaning up the last of the first-class-mail bits of confetti. richard winced at this evidence of his aberration, but jane squeezed his hand comfortingly, which produced in him a truly amazing sensation that changed his whole appearance. "i know how you feel, darling," she told him. "but don't worry about it. just think, dear, i'll always be able to tell your friends' wives something no other woman in the world can boast of: that my husband once wrote me a letter!"