I don't understand---- Mrs. Westley lifted anxious eyes from her soup-plate. "Gyp always telephones! And both of them----"
I saw Peggy Lee and Pat Everett coming home from the dressmaker's and she wasn't with them, offered Isobel. "But she's all right, mother."
Such dreadful things happen----
I'd like to see anyone try to kidnap Gyp, laughed Graham. Then he added, in an off-hand way: "The ice broke on the lake out at Highacres to-day. Guess the skating's over."
Graham! cried Mrs. Westley, springing to her feet so precipitously that her chair fell backward with a crash. Her face was deathly white.
Graham, frightened by his careless remark, went to her quickly.
Mother--I didn't mean to frighten you! Why there's only one chance in a hundred the girls were on the ice. If they'd been skating some of us would have seen them!
Where are they? groaned the mother. "They might have gone on the lake--afterwards--and not known--and broken through--and--no one would--know----" She shuddered; only by a great effort could she keep back the tears.
Mother, please don't worry, begged Isobel. "Let's call up every one of the girls and then we'll surely find them."
Not one of them wanted any more dinner. They went to the library and Graham began telephoning to Gyp's schoolmates--a tedious and discouraging process, for each reported that she had not seen either Gyp or Jerry since the close of school.
I can't bear it! We must do something---- Mrs. Westley sprang to her feet. "Graham, call Uncle Johnny and tell him to come at once."
Something of the mother's alarm affected Isobel and Graham. Graham's voice was very serious as he begged Uncle Johnny, whom he found at his club, to come over "at once." Then he slipped his arm around his mother as though he wanted her to know that he would do anything on earth for her.
Uncle Johnny listened to the story of Gyp's and Jerry's disappearance with a very grave face. He made Graham tell twice how the ice had broken that afternoon on the lake, frightening the skaters away.
What time was that?
Oh--early. About three o'clock. There were only four or five of us on the lake. You see, hockey practice is over.
But I remember Gyp saying this morning that she was going to have one more skate! cried Isobel suddenly.
Before we report this to the police, Mary, we'll go out to Highacres, Uncle Johnny said. And the thought of what he might find there made Mrs. Westley grip the back of a chair for support. "Come with me, Graham. Isobel--stay with your mother."
Graham went off to the garage to give such directions as Uncle Johnny had whispered to him. Just then Barbara Lee, whom Isobel had reached on the telephone, came in, hurriedly.
I talked to the girls for a moment after the close of school. They were standing near the library door. They had on their coats and hats. Her report was disquieting.
May I go with you? she asked John Westley. He turned to her--something in her face, in her steady eyes, made him feel that if out at Highacres he found what he prayed he might not find--he would need her.
Yes--I want you, he answered simply, wondering a little why, at this distressed moment, he should feel such an absurd sense of comfort in having her with him.
They drove away, two long poles and a coil of rope in the tonneau. In the library Isobel sat holding her mother's hand, wishing she could say something that would drive that white look from her mother's face. But her distress left room for the little jealous thought that Uncle Johnny had told her to stay at home and then had taken Barbara Lee! And she wondered, too, if it were she who was lost, and not Gyp, would mother care as much?
At that moment Mrs. Westley threw her arms about her and held her very close.
I just must feel you, dear, safe here with me--or I couldn't--stand it--waiting.
* * * * *
Jerry! Look! That flash--it comes--and goes! Gyp's voice, scarcely a whisper, breathed in Jerry's ear.
The two girls were huddled in the little window of the tower room. Gyp was almost hysterical; Jerry had had all she wanted of ghosts. Gyp had felt thin fingers grip her elbow, her shoulder--even her ankle. Someone had breathed in her ear. Jerry, too, had admitted that she had heard sounds of irregular breathing from a corner of the room near the secret door. And there had been a constant tap-tapping! And something had laughed--a horrible, thin, ghost laugh, though Jerry said afterwards that it might have been the wind.
Gyp had seen white figures floating about outside, too. Uncle Peter had brought spirit-cronies with him! And now the ghostly flash of light----
Gyp---- Jerry suddenly spoke aloud. "It's a--flashlight! See, someone is swinging it as they walk. Oh----" Inspired to action, Jerry seized a huge book and sent it crashing through the window. "Help! Help!" she screamed, through the broken glass.
Startled, Uncle Johnny, Graham, Barbara Lee and the assistant janitor, whom they had aroused, halted. Graham, dropping the coil of rope, pointed excitedly to the tower.
Look--they're in the tower room! Well, I never---- That the tower room and its mysteries should remain under lock and key had been a grievance to Graham.
Uncle Johnny shouted to the girls; a great relief, surging through him, made his voice vibrate with joy. And in the light of the electric flash he saw that Barbara Lee's eyes were glistening with something suspiciously like tears.
Now, to rescue the imprisoned maidens, he laughed, turning to the engineer.
It took but a few moments for the little party to reach the third floor. Then from above came a plaintive voice.
If you'll just touch George Washington on the left-hand side of the--the frame--he'll move--and----
For a moment, John Westley, staring at the panel, wondered if he were crazy or if Gyp and Jerry----
We got in--that way, the voice explained. "You can't open the other door! And please hurry--it's dreadfully dark and----"
The truth flashed over Graham. "Of all things! A secret door!" he shouted. He put his shoulder to the huge box of books that had been shoved close to the picture, until it could be unpacked. "Give a hand here!" he commanded excitedly.
They all obeyed him--even Barbara Lee, next to Uncle Johnny, shoved with all the strength of her muscular arms. And Uncle Johnny commenced to chuckle softly.
The imps, he muttered. "Trapped in their lair."
The box well out of the way, Graham pressed the left-hand side of the panel picture and it swung out under his amazed eyes, revealing a white-faced Gyp standing in the narrow aperture, and Jerry close behind. Their big, frightened eyes blinked in the flashlight.
Uncle Johnny managed to embrace both at once. He wisely asked no explanations, for he could see that tears were not far away. Barbara Lee hugged them, too, and the assistant janitor, who had a girl of his own and at the suggestion of dragging the lake, had been startled "out of a year's growth" as he said afterwards (though he was six feet tall, then), beamed on them as though he would like to caress them, too. Graham was excitedly swinging the panel back and forth and peering longingly up the dark, narrow stairway.
How'd you find it? Does it open right into the tower room? Were you scared? he asked.
I'm hungry, declared Gyp.
Let's hear all about it on the way home, suggested Uncle Johnny. "And we'll put George Washington back in place--there's no use letting the entire school know about this." His words were directed to Graham and to the janitor. "Now, my girlies--what in the world have you got?" For Jerry had picked up the huge Bible.
It's a--a letter we found--in the Bible----
So you brought the whole thing? Uncle Johnny laughed. "Lead the way, Miss Lee."
In the automobile Gyp had to have an explanation of the poles and the rope. When she heard of their fears her face grew troubled.
Oh--how mumsey must have worried! As the automobile drew up at the curb she sprang from it and rushed into the house, straight into her mother's arms--Mrs. Westley had heard the car stop and had walked with faltering steps to the door.
Mother, I didn't want you to be worried--not for the world! But we couldn't help it.
With the girls safe at home the horrible fears that had tortured them all seemed very foolish. The entire family listened with deep interest while Gyp told of that first afternoon when she and Jerry had discovered the secret stairway and of the subsequent meetings of the Ravens in the tower room.
Please, Uncle Johnny, make Isobel and Graham promise they won't tell anybody! It ought to be ours 'cause we found it and we're Westleys, begged Gyp.
Whatever in the world possessed Peter Westley to build a secret stairway in his house? Mrs. Westley asked John Westley. "Who ever heard of such a thing in this day and age?"
It's not at all surprising when one recalls how persistently he always avoided people. He planned that as a way of escaping from anyone--even the servants. Can't you picture him grinning down from those windows upon departing callers? Doubtless many a time I've walked away myself, after that man of his told me he couldn't be found.
I think it's deliciously romantic, exclaimed Isobel, "and I have just as much right to use it as Gyp has."
My girls--I am afraid the whole matter will have to go to the board of trustees. Remember--Uncle Peter gave Highacres to Lincoln School--we have nothing to say about it.
Wasn't it dark up there? asked Graham.
Gyp looked at Jerry and Jerry looked at Gyp. By some process of mental communication they agreed to say nothing about Uncle Peter's ghost. Back here in the softly-lighted, warm living-room, those weird voices and clammy fingers seemed unreal. However, there was the letter--Gyp reached for the Bible.
We were looking through some books--and we found this. Holding the envelope gingerly between her thumb and forefinger, she handed it to Uncle Johnny.
He read the address, turned the envelope over and over in his hand.
How strange--it has never been opened. It's addressed to Robert. I'll give it to you. He handed it to Mrs. Westley.
She took it with some of Gyp's reluctance. "It's Uncle Peter's handwriting--but how fresh it looks. It's dated two days before he died, John! I suppose he put it in that Bible and it was never found." She tore the envelope open and spread out the sheets. "It's to both you and Robert--read it."
My Dear Nephews:
It won't be long before I go over the river, and I'm glad--for I am an old man and I've lived my life and I can't do much more, and I'd better be through with it. But I wish I could live long enough to right a few things that are wrong. I mean things that I've done, especially one thing. Lately there isn't much peace of mind for me. I've tried to find it in the Bible, but though there's a lot about forgiveness I can't figure out what a man ought to do when he's waited almost a lifetime to get it. I've always been hard as rock; I thought a man had to be to make money, but now it all don't seem worth while, for what good is your money when you're old if your conscience is going to torment you?
Right now I'd give half I possessed if I could make up to a young fellow for a contemptible wrong I did him. So I'm writing this to ask you to do it for me, and then I guess I'll rest easier--wherever I am.
Neither of you knew, I suppose, just what made the Westley Cement Mixer a success; it came near not being one. Back there when we were just starting it up, Craig Winton, a young, smart-looking chap, came to me with a mechanical device he'd invented that he believed we needed in our cement-mixing machine. We did--I knew right off that that invention was what we had to have to make our business a success; without it every cent the other stockholders and myself had put into the thing would be lost. I offered the young fellow a paltry amount, and when he wouldn't accept it, I let him go away. Our engineers worked hard to get his idea, but they couldn't. After a few months he came back. He looked ill and he was shabby and low-spirited. I told him we wouldn't give him a cent more, that I didn't think his invention would help us much, and I let him go away again. The directors were all for paying him any amount, but I told them that if we'd wait he'd come back and as good as give the thing to us or I couldn't read signs, for I'd seen something mighty like desperation in the chap's eyes. Even though the directors talked a lot about failure, I thought the gamble was worth a try, and I made them wait. I was right--young Winton came back, looking more like a wreck than ever, and he took just what I offered him, which was a little less than my first price. And I made him sign a paper waiving all future claims on the patents or the stockholders of the firm. That little invention made all our money. But lately I can't get the fellow's eyes out of my mind--they were queer eyes, glowing like they were lighted, and that last time they had a look in them as though something was dead.
I'm too old to face this thing before the world, but I want you to find Craig Winton and give him or his heirs a hundred thousand dollars, which I've figured would be something like his percentage of the profits if I had drawn an honorable contract with him. The time he came to me he lived in Boston. I've always laughed at men that talked about honor in business, but now that I'm looking back from the end of the trail I guess maybe they're right and I've been wrong....
Uncle Johnny laid Peter Westley's letter down. A silence held them all; it was as though a voice from some other world had been speaking to them. Mrs. Westley shivered.
How I hate money, she cried impulsively. Then, the very comfort and luxury of the room reproaching her, she added: "I mean, I hate to think that wherever big fortunes are made so many are ground down in the process."
Graham was frowning at the letter.
Of course you're going to hunt up this fellow? he asked, anxiously, a dull red flushing his cheeks. "Wasn't that as bad as stealing?"
Maybe he's dead now and it's too late, cried Gyp, who thought the whole thing full of intensely interesting possibilities.
Uncle Peter cannot defend himself, now, Graham, so let us not pass judgment upon what he has done. And I don't suppose I can act on this matter until your father comes home.
Oh, John, I know he will want to carry out his Uncle Peter's wish! You need not wait; too much time has been lost already, urged Mrs. Westley.
Graham was standing in front of the fire, his back to the blaze. It struck Uncle Johnny and his mother both that there was a new manliness in the slim, straight figure.
I want to help find him. It's when you know about such tricks and cheating and--and injustice that you hate this trying to make money. I think things ought to be divided up in this world and every fellow given an equal chance.
John Westley laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Real justice is the hardest thing to find in this world, sonny. But keep the thought of it always in your mind--and look out for the rights of the other fellow, then you'll never make the mistakes Uncle Peter did."
Poor old man, all he cared about in the world was making money, and then in his old age it gave him no joy--only torment. And he'd killed everything else in him that might have brought him a little happiness! I'm glad you and Robert aren't like him, Mrs. Westley added.
I am, too, cried Gyp, so fervently that everyone laughed.
How do you find people? put in Tibby, who was trying very hard to understand what it was all about.
It will be somewhat like the needle in the hay-stack. Boston is a big place--and a lot can happen in--let me see, that must have been fifteen years ago.
Will you hire detectives? Gyp was quivering with the desire to help hunt down the mysterious Craig Winton.
I don't want to; I've always had a sort of distrust of detectives and yet we may have to. We have so little to start on. I'll get Stevens and Murray together to-morrow--perhaps they can tell me more about the buying of the patent. And I'll have Watkins recommend some reliable Boston attorney. Uncle John's voice sounded as though he meant business.
Isobel had said nothing during the little family council. She suddenly lifted her head, her eyes dark with disapproval.
Won't giving this person all that money make us poor?
Something in her tone sent a little shock through the others.
My dear---- protested her mother.
Oh, you'd go on cheating him--just like Uncle Peter! That's like you--just think about yourself, accused Graham, disgustedly.
Do you want tainted money? cried Gyp grandly.
Isobel's face flamed. "You're hateful, Graham Westley. I don't like money a bit better than you do--you'd be squealing if you couldn't get that new motorcycle and go to camp and spend all the money you do. And I think it's silly to hunt him up after all this time. He's probably invented a lot of things since and doesn't need any money, and if he hasn't--well, inventors are always poor, anyway." Isobel tried to make her logic sound as reasonable to the others as it did to her.
Bonnie, dear---- That was the name Uncle Johnny had given to her in nursery days; he had not used it for a long time. "There are two reasons why we must carry out the wish Uncle Peter has expressed in this letter. One is, because he has asked it. He thought he would have time to give the letter to us himself--perhaps tell us more about it; he did not dream that it would lie for two years in that Bible. The other reason is that it is the honorable thing to do--and it not only involves the honor of Uncle Peter's name but your father's honor and mine--your mother's, yours, Graham's--even little Tibby's. We would do it if it took our last cent. But it won't----"
Oh, Uncle Johnny, you're great---- Graham suddenly turned his face to the fire to hide his feeling. "When I'm a man I want to be just like you--and father."
Isobel would not let herself be persuaded to accept her family's point of view. In her heart there still rankled the thought that Uncle Johnny had taken Barbara Lee with him to Highacres and had made her stay at home. And it had been silly for them all to get so excited and make such a fuss over Gyp and Jerry--they might have known that they'd turn up all right. When she had seen Uncle Johnny pull Jerry down to a seat beside him on the davenport she had hated her!
Mrs. Westley followed John Westley to the little room that was always called "father's study."
Won't it be exciting hunting up this Craig Winton? Gyp asked the others. "Isn't it an interesting name? Maybe he'll have a lot of children. I hope there'll be some girls." Gyp hugged her knees in an ecstasy of anticipation. "If they're dreadfully poor it'll be like their finding a fairy godmother. Think of all they can have with that money!"
All I hope--Isobel's voice rang cruelly clear--"is that Uncle Johnny won't want to bring any more charity girls here!" She rose, then, and without looking at any of them, walked from the room.
Gyp opened her lips to speak, then closed them quickly. Whatever she might say, she knew, instinctively, would only add to the hurt Isobel had inflicted. She could not even throw her arms around Jerry's neck and hug her the way she wanted to do, because the expression of Jerry's face forbade it. It was a very terrible expression, Gyp thought, a little frightened--Jerry's eyes glowed with such a fierce pride and yet were so hurt!
After a moment Jerry said slowly, "I--I am going to bed." Gyp wished that Graham would say something and Graham wished Gyp would say something, and both sat tongue-tied while Jerry walked out of the room.
Do you think we ought to tell mother? Gyp asked, in a hushed voice.
N-no, Graham hated the thought of tale-bearing. "But Isobel's an awful snob. It's her going around with Cora Stanton and Amy Mathers." To think this gave some comfort to Graham and Gyp.
Well--I don't know what Jerry will do, sighed Gyp forlornly.
The door of Jerry's room was shut and Gyp had not the courage to open it. She listened for a moment outside it--there was not a sound from within. She went into her own room and undressed slowly, with a vague uneasiness that something was going to happen.
There had been no sound in Jerry's room because she had been standing rigid in the window, staring with burning, angry eyes out into the darkness. Her beautiful, happy world, that she had thought so full of kindness and good-fellowship, had turned suddenly upside down! "Charity girl----" She did not know just what it meant, but it made her think of homeless, nameless, unloved waifs--motherless, fatherless, dependent upon the world's generosity. Her hand went to her throat--charity girl--was not her beloved Sunnyside, with Sweetheart and Little-Dad, richer and more beautiful than anything on earth? And hadn't she always had----Like a flash, though, she saw herself in the queerly-fashioned brown dress that had seemed very nice back at Miller's Notch, but very funny when contrasted with the pretty, simple serge dresses that the other girls at Highacres wore. Perhaps they had all thought she was a "charity girl," a waif brought here by Uncle Johnny. To be sure, her schoolmates had welcomed her into all their activities, but perhaps they had felt sorry for her and, anyway, it had been after Uncle Johnny had given her the Christmas box----
She looked down at the dress she wore--it was the school dress that had been in the box. Perhaps she should not have taken it--taking it may have made her a charity girl. She should never have come here. It was costing someone money to send her to Highacres and to feed her; and often Mrs. Westley gave little things to her--and none of this could she repay!
With furious fingers Jerry unfastened and tore off the Christmas dress. From its hook in her clothes closet she took down the despised brown garment. Her only thought, then, was to sort out her very own possessions, but, as she collected the few things, the plan to go away--anywhere--took shape in her mind. She would go to Barbara Lee until her mother could send for her!
Then her door opened slowly. On the threshold stood Gyp in her red dressing-gown. It was not so dark but that Gyp could see that Jerry wore her old brown dress and that she held her hat in her hand. With one bound she was at her friend's side, holding her arm tightly.
Jerry, you're not going away! You're not----
I've--got--to. I won't be----
You're not a--whatever Isobel said! She's horrid--she's jealous of you because Dana King and--and everybody thinks you're the most popular girl at Lincoln. Peggy Lee said she heard a crowd of girls saying so--that it was 'cause you're always nice to everybody and 'cause you like to do everything--I won't let you go! There was something very stubborn in Gyp's dark face; Jerry wished she had not come in. Just before it had seemed so easy to slip away to Barbara Lee's and now----
I never should have come here. I never should have let you all----
Gyp gave her chum a little shake.
Jerry Travis, Uncle Johnny brought you 'cause he said he knew you could give Lincoln School and Isobel and me a lot--oh, of something--mother read it in his letter--I remember. He said it was like a sort of scholarship. And I heard mother tell him the day I was teasing her to let me cut my hair short like yours, that she'd be willing to let me do anything if I could learn to be as sunny as you are--I heard her, 'cause I was listening to see if she was going to let me. So you've more than paid for everything. There's something more than just money! You're too proud; you're prouder than Isobel herself----
Jerry dropped her hat on the bed. Gyp took it as a promising sign and she closed her arms tight around Jerry's shoulders.
If you go away it will break my heart, she declared. "I love you more'n any chum I ever had--more than anybody--except my family, of course, and I love them differently, so it doesn't count. And mother loves you, too, and so does Tibby, and so does Uncle Johnny. And if you don't tell me right off that you won't go away I'll go straight to mother and then we'll have to tell her how nasty Isobel was, and that'll make her unhappy. And I mean it." There was no doubt of that.
Gyp's concluding argument broke down Jerry's determination to go. No, she could not; as Gyp had said, if she went away Mrs. Westley and Uncle Johnny must know why. She could not do a single thing that would make either of them the least unhappy. That would be poor gratitude. Perhaps Gyp was right, too--that she was too proud! Surely her mother would never have let her come if it was going to bring the least humiliation to her.
Gyp with quick fingers began to unbutton the brown dress. "Let's just show Isobel that we don't care what she says. I think it's that horrid Cora Stanton and Amy Mathers that makes her act so, anyway. They're horrid! Amy Mathers puts peroxide on her hair and Cora Stanton cheated in the geometry exam--everyone says so--I know what let's do, Jerry, there were some cup cakes left; I saw them in the pantry--let's go down ever so quietly and get them--and we'll have a spliffy spread." As she spoke she caught up Jerry's warm eiderdown wrapper and threw it around her.
Gyp's devotion was very soothing to poor distraught Jerry--so, too, was the suggestion of the cup cakes. But half-way down the stairs Jerry stopped short and whispered tragically in Gyp's ear:
Gyp--we can't eat them! Our school record--no sweets between meals! And at the thought of school Jerry's world suddenly righted again.
Oh, well---- Gyp would have liked to suggest missing a point. "We can eat crackers and peanut butter--instead."
The rawness of March gave way to a half-hearted April, days of pelting rain with a few hours now and then of warm sunshine. Patches of grass showed green against the dirty snowbanks lingering stubbornly in sheltered corners; here and there a tiny purple or yellow crocus put up its bright head; a few brave robins started their nest-keeping and, perched shivering on bare boughs, valiantly sung the promise of spring.
There were other signs to mark the changing of the seasons--an organ-grinder trundled his wagon down the street, rag-pickers chanted, small, scurrying figures darted in and out on roller-skates, marbles rattled in ragged pockets, and the Lincoln boys and girls at Highacres turned their attention from basketball and hockey to swimming and the school dramatics.
Isobel Westley had been chosen to play the part of Hermia in "A Midsummer Night's Dream." Her family shared her pleasure--they felt that a great distinction had come to them. Gyp and Jerry, particularly, were immensely excited. Jerry, who had only been to the theatre twice in her life, thought Isobel far more wonderful than the greatest actress who ever lived. Both girls sat by the hour and listened admiringly while Isobel rehearsed her lines before them.
Mrs. Westley, who had never quite outgrown a love of amateur dramatics, gave her approval to Isobel's plans for her costume. The other girls, Isobel explained, were making theirs, but Hermia's should be especially nice--so couldn't Madame Seelye design it? Madame Seelye did design it--Isobel standing patiently before the long mirror in the fashionable modiste's fitting-room while Madame, herself, on her knees, pinned and unpinned and pinned again soft folds of pink satin which made Isobel's face, above it, reflect the color of a rose.
You'd think the whole world revolved 'round your old play, exclaimed Graham, not ill-humoredly. He had asked to be allowed to use the car to take a "crowd of the fellows" out to see if any sap was running in the woods and Mrs. Westley had explained that Isobel had to have her last fitting, stop at the hair-dresser's to try on a wig, and then go on to Alding's to match a pair of slippers.
It does, laughed Isobel back, her eyes shining. She was very happy, and when she was happy she was a gay, good-natured Isobel and a very beautiful Isobel. All through the school year her spirit had smarted under the prominence attained by her schoolmates in the various school activities--Ginny Cox was conspicuous in everything and on the honor roll, besides; Peggy Lee played hockey and basketball, Dorrie was in the Glee Club, Pat Everett was a lieutenant in her scout troop, Cora Stanton was editor of the school paper, Sheila Quinn was the class president--even Gyp was a sub on the all-school basketball team, and Jerry--since that day she had skied down Haskin's Hill she had pushed her way into everything (that was the way Isobel thought of it); she played on the hockey team and had "subbed" on the sophomore basketball team and it was certain she would be picked on the swimming team. Though Isobel scorned all these activities because they were not "any fun," according to her creed, deep in her heart she had envied the girls who could enjoy them. But now her vanity was soothed and satisfied; anyone could play basketball or skate or swim, but no one could be the Hermia that she was going to be! Miss Gray had complimented her upon the interpretation she gave the role and her eyes told her what she saw in Madame Seelye's mirror.
And Dana King was playing Lysander--a fine Athenian lad he made. Isobel could afford now to forget the grudge she had nursed against him ever since the Christmas party. He looked so really grown-up that it pleased her to be a little shy with him, as though she had just met him--to forget that they had been schoolmates since kindergarten days. She read admiration in his eyes. What would he think, she said to herself, with a little flutter, when he saw the rose-pink costume?
Isobel Westley, what fun to have a rehearsal every afternoon, had cried one of a group of girls which surrounded her.
Does Lysander walk home with Hermia every day? asked another, with a meaning laugh.
Tell us all about it, coaxed Amy Mathers. "It's too romantic for anything."
Isobel blushed and laughed and pushed them away. She knew that they all envied her--she wanted them to envy her. She knew that anyone of them would gladly change places with her. Even Gyp and Jerry had sighed and begged their mother to help them get up some sort of a play in which they could take part. Gyp had asked Miss Gray to be allowed to help in the make-up room, even if she did nothing more than pass the little jars of cream and sticks of paint. And to Jerry had been assigned the especial task of shoving Puck, who was sadly rattle-brained, upon the stage, when the cues came.
The play was to be given on Saturday evening. On Friday evening a full-dress rehearsal was called. Hermia's costume was finished and was spread, in all its ravishing beauty, across the guest-room bed. On the floor from beneath it peeped the slippers which had been made to order.
It'll make all the others look cheap, declared Isobel, thrilling at the pretty sight.
Mrs. Westley looked troubled. Certain doubts had been disturbing her ever since that first moment of enthusiasm when she had yielded to Isobel's coaxing. Isobel had said that the other girls were making their own costumes--she knew that the faculty disliked any extravagance or great expenditures of money in any of the school affairs--might it not have been better to have helped Isobel fashion something simple and pretty at home? Then when she watched Isobel's flushed, happy face, radiantly pretty, she smothered her doubt.
Pride goeth before a fall, daughter mine. Take care that your costume doesn't make you forget your part, she laughed. After all, Isobel was so pretty that she would outshine the others, anyway--let her costume be ever so dowdy!
Gyp, Jerry, Tibby, even Graham, superintended Isobel's preparations for the dress rehearsal. Gyp sat back on her heels and declared that Hermia was "good enough to eat." Jerry thought so, too, though she had not the courage to say so. Graham straddled the footboard of the bed and passed scathing remarks concerning girls' "duds," but his eyes were proudly admiring and in his pocket he treasured a ticket for the first row that he had bought from another fellow at an advanced price. Isobel ready, they all squeezed merrily into the automobile, taking care not to crush the rose-pink finery, and whirled off to Highacres.
Isobel, who loved dramatic situations in real life quite as well as in make-believe, planned to conceal her radiance until her first appearance on the stage, when she would startle them all, and especially Lysander, with her dazzling loveliness. She stood in a shadow of the wings with her coat wrapped about her. Except for Jerry, waiting to do her humble part, she was alone. She listened to the ceaseless chatter in the dressing-room with a happy smile. She heard Mr. Oliver, the coach, giving sharp orders. There was some trouble with the curtain. She took a quick step forward to see what it was; the high heel of her satin slipper caught in a coil of rope from the staging and she fell forward to her knees. With the one thought to save the satin gown, she jerked her body quickly backward.
Oh, Isobel, are you hurt? Jerry was at her side in a moment.
N-no, only---- Isobel managed to get to her feet, but she leaned dizzily against the scene propping. "Whoever left that old rope here! They ought to be reported!" She glared angrily at poor Jerry as though the fault must be hers. "I've--I've ruined my dress," she sobbed.
Jerry examined the satin skirt. "There isn't the tiniest spot, Isobel. But are you sure you are not hurt? Please try to walk."
That was exactly what Isobel did not want to do, for there was a horrible aching pain around her knee. Then she heard Mr. Oliver's voice again. The curtain had been fixed; in a moment----
Leave me alone! You'd just like it if I couldn't go on----
Isobel! Oh, here you are. Dana King stuck his head around the corner. Isobel let her cape drop to the floor. The whiteness of her face only added to the pleasing effect. "Whew!" Lysander whistled. "Some class! Say, you're great! Come on--old Oliver's throwing a fit."
With Jerry's anxious eyes and Dana King's admiring gaze upon her, it was possible for Isobel to walk out upon the stage. Somehow or other she got through her part--miserably, she knew, for again and again Mr. Oliver made her repeat her lines and once, in despair, stopped everything to ask her if she was ill, and did not wish to have Miss Lee take her part. Isobel did not intend giving up her part to anyone; she gritted her little white teeth and went on.
Upon arriving home she declined the hot cocoa Mrs. Westley had waiting for her and hurried to her room on the plea of being very tired. She sat huddled in her dressing gown waiting, with a white, strained face, until she heard the girls' steps on the stairs. Then she called Jerry.
Close the door, she whispered, without further greeting. "I want you to promise not to tell mother or--or anyone that--I hurt myself. I didn't hurt myself--much, and, anyway, I'm going to be in that play if I die!" Isobel had hard work to keep back the tears.
Jerry was all sympathy. "I won't tell anyone, Isobel, if you don't want me to. And let me look at your knee--it is your knee, isn't it? I know a lot about those things 'cause Little-Dad's a doctor, you see." Jerry knelt by the side of Isobel's chair and gently drew aside the dressing gown. "Oh, Isobel!" she cried softly. The knee was badly swollen and the flesh had discolored. "That looks--maybe you ought----"
Isobel jerked away from her. "If you're going to make a fuss you can go to bed! But if you know anything--oh, it hurts--terribly----"
Without another word Jerry went after hot water and towels. Half through the night she sat by Isobel's bed, her eyes heavy with sleep, patiently administering pack after pack. Gradually the pain subsided and Isobel dropped off into slumber.
All the next day Isobel's secret weighed heavily on Jerry's conscience; with it, too, was an uncertain admiration for Isobel's grit. But Jerry wondered if she, even though she might be the Hermia that Isobel was and wear the rose satin--could want it enough to endure the pain silently.
Isobel had begged to be allowed to stay in bed all day and "rest" and her mother had willingly acquiesced, carrying her meals to her room and chatting with her, unsuspecting, while she nibbled at what was on the tray.
Jerry helped Isobel dress. The pain caused by the effort to stand on the injured leg brought a deep flush to Isobel's cheeks and tiny purplish shadows under her pretty eyes, so that she made even a lovelier Hermia than on the evening before. That knowledge, the murmur of admiration that swept through the crowded hall, the envy she read on the other girls' faces, the shy, boyish wonder in Lysander's lingering glance, helped her through the agony of it all until the very end when, quite suddenly, she crumpled into Lysander's quickly-outstretched arms! The last scene had a touch of reality not expected; no one had the presence of mind to ring down the curtain; the girls and boys rushed pell-mell upon the stage.
Graham and Dana King carried Isobel to an empty classroom where she quickly regained consciousness. Her first sensation was a deep thankfulness that the play was over and that she could tell about her injured knee. Jerry had already done so, a little conscience-smitten, and Uncle Johnny had rushed away for a doctor. Isobel looked at her crumpled rose-pink skirts with something akin to loathing and clung tightly to her mother's hand. Graham, in a voice that sounded far off, was assuring her that he could carry her out to the car without hurting her the least bit! And Dana King was asking, at regular intervals, and in an anxious voice, if she felt better. Oh, it was nice to have them all care--it made the pain easier----
...She liked the funny bright lights swimming all around her and the quick steps and the hushed voices.... Mrs. Hicks' little round eyes blinking at her ... the feel of the soft sheets and the doctor's cold touch on her poor, swollen knee ... the swinging things before her eyes and the far-off hum of voices that were really very close and the tiny star of light over the blur in the other end of the room ... the million stars ... the slippery taste of the medicine someone gave her ... and always mother's fingers tight, tight about her own....
This is very serious, came in a small voice that couldn't be the doctor's because he spoke with a deep boom ... then she went to sleep....
Poor, pretty Hermia--trying days followed her little hour of triumph. While the whole school buzzed over the gorgeousness of her costume, over the satin and silver-heeled slippers, over her prettiness and how she had really acted just as well as Ethel Barrymore, she lay very still on her white bed and let one doctor after another "do things" to her poor knee. There were consultations and X-ray photographs, and all through it old Doctor Bowerman, who had dosed her through mumps and measles, kept saying, at every opportunity, with a maddening wag of his bald head: "If you only hadn't been such a little fool as to walk on it!" Finally, after what seemed to Isobel a great deal of needless fuss, the verdict was given--in an impressive now-you'll-do-as-I-tell-you manner; she had torn the muscles and ligaments of her knee; some had stretched, little nerves had been injured; she must lie very quietly in bed for a few weeks and then--perhaps----
I know what he means, Isobel had cried afterwards, in a passion of fear; "he means he can tell then whether I will ever be able to--to dance again or not!" The thought was so terrible that her mother had difficulty soothing her.
If you do what he tells you now you'll be dancing again in less than no time, reassured Uncle Johnny. "Dr. Bowerman wants to frighten you so that you will be careful."
The first week or so of the enforced quiet passed very pleasantly; mother had engaged a cheery-faced nurse who proved to be excellent company; every afternoon some of the girls ran in on their way home from school with exciting bits of school gossip and the whispered inquiry--of which Isobel never wearied--how had it felt to faint straight into Dana King's arms? Uncle Johnny brought jolly gifts, flowers, books, puzzles; Gyp tirelessly carried messages to Amy Mathers and Cora Stanton and back again.
But as the days passed these pleasant little excitements failed her, one by one. Mother decided that the nurse was not needed--there was no medicine to be given--and a tutor was engaged, instead, to come each morning. Her school friends grew weary of the details of Isobel's accident and the limitations of her pink-and-white room; other things at school claimed their attention--a new riding club was starting, and the Senior parties; they had not a minute, they begged Gyp to tell Isobel, to play--they were "awfully" sorry and they'd run in when they could. Gyp and Jerry, too, were swimming every afternoon in preparation for the spring inter-school swimming meet. The long hours dragged for the little shut-in; she nursed a not-unpleasant conviction that she was abused and neglected. She consoled her wounded spirit with morbid pictures of how, after a long, bedridden life, she would reap, at its end, a desperate remorse from her selfish, inconsiderate family; she refused to be cheered by the doctor's assertion that she was making a tremendously "nice" recovery and would be as lively on her feet as she'd ever been--though he never failed to add: "You don't deserve it!"
One afternoon, three weeks after the accident, Isobel looked at her small desk clock for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. A ceaseless patter of rain against the window made the day unusually trying. Her mother had gone, by the doctor's orders, to Atlantic City for a week's rest, leaving her to the capable ministrations of Mrs. Hicks. That lady had carried off her luncheon tray with the declaration that "a body couldn't please Miss Isobel anyways and if Miss Isobel wanted anything she could ring," and Isobel had mentally determined, making a little face after the departing figure, that she'd die before she asked old Hicks for anything! It was only half past two--it would be an hour before even Tibby would come, or Gyp or Jerry. What day was it?
When one spent every day in one small pink-and-white room it was not easy to remember! Thursday--no, Wednesday, because Mrs. Hicks had said the cook was out----
A door below opened and shut. Footsteps sounded from the hall; quick, bounding, they passed her door.
Gyp! Isobel called. There was no answer. Someone was moving in the nursery; it was Jerry, then, not Gyp.
Jerry! Still there was no answer. Jerry was too busy turning the contents of her bureau drawer to hear. She found the bathing-cap for which she was hunting and started down the hall. A sudden, pitiful, choky sob halted her flight.
When she peeped into Isobel's room Isobel was lying with her face buried in her pillow.
Isobel---- Jerry advanced quickly to the side of the bed. "Is anything wrong? What is the matter?"
I--I wish I--were dead!
Oh--Isobel!
So would you if you had to lie here day in and day out a--a helpless cripple and left all alone----
Jerry looked around the quiet room. There was something very lonely about it--and that patter of the rain----
Isn't Mrs. Hicks----
Oh--Hicks. She's just a crosspatch! You all leave me to servants because I can't move. Nobody loves me the least little bit. I--I wish I were dead.
To Jerry there was something very dreadful in Isobel's words. What if her wish came true, then and there? What if the breath suddenly stopped--and it would be too late to take back the wish----
Oh, don't say that again, Isobel. Can't I stay with you?
Isobel turned such a grateful face from her pillow that Jerry's heart was touched. Of course poor Isobel was lonely and she and Gyp had selfishly neglected her. Even though Isobel did not care very much for her, she would doubtless be better company than--no one. She slipped the bathing-cap in her pocket and slowly drew off her coat and hat.
Do you mind staying? Isobel asked in a very pleading voice.
Jerry might reasonably have answered: "I do mind. I cannot stay; this is the afternoon of the great inter-school swimming meet and I am late, now, because I came home for my cap," but she was so thrilled by the simple fact of Isobel's wanting her--her, that everything else was forgotten.
Of course I don't. It's horrid and stupid for you to lie here all day long. Shall I read?
Oh, no--after that dreadful tutor goes I don't want to see a book!
Let's think of something jolly--and different. Would you like to play travel? It's a game my mother and Little-Dad and I made up. It's lots of fun. We pick out a certain place and we say we're going there. We get time-tables for trains and boats and we decide just what we'll pack--all pretend, of course. Then we look up in the travel books all 'bout the place and we have the grandest time--most as good as though we really went. Last winter we traveled through Scotland. It made the long evenings when we were shut in at Sunnyside pass like magic. Little-Dad has a perfect passion for time-tables and he never really goes anywhere in his life--except in the game.
What fun, cried Isobel, sitting up against her pillows. A few weeks before Isobel would have scorned such a "babyish" suggestion from anyone. "Where shall we go?"
I've always wanted to go to Venice. We got as far as Naples and then 'Liza Sloane's grandson got scarlet fever and Little-Dad went down and stayed with him. I'd love to live in a palace and go everywhere in little boats.
Then we'll go to Venice and we'll travel by way of Milan and Florence. Jerry, down in father's desk there are a whole lot of time-tables and folders he collected the spring he planned to go abroad. And you can get one of Stoddart's books in the library--and a Baedeker, too. We ought to have a whole lot of clothes--it's warm in Italy. Bring that catalogue from Altman's that's on mother's sewing table and we'll pick out some new dresses. What fun!
Jerry went eagerly after all they needed for their "game." She sat on the other side of Isobel's bed and spread the books out around her. First, they had to select from the colored catalogue suitable dresses and warm wraps for shipboard; then they had to fuss over sailing dates and cabin reservations. In the atlas Jerry traced from town to town their route of travel, reading slowly from Baedeker just what they must see in each town. She had a way of reading the guidebook, too, that made Isobel see the things. It was delightful to linger in Florence; Jerry had just suggested that they postpone going on to Venice for a few days, and Isobel had decided to send back to America for that pale blue dotted swiss, because it would blend so wonderfully with the Italian sky and the pastel colors of the old, old Florentine buildings, when they were interrupted by Gyp and Uncle Johnny.
Gyp was a veritable whirlwind of fury, her eyes were blazing, her cheeks glowed red under her dusky skin, every tangled black hair on her head bristled. She confronted Jerry accusingly.
So here's where you are! Her words rang shrilly. "Here--fooling 'round with Isobel and you let the South High beat us by two points! You know you were the only girl we had who could beat Nina Sharpe in the breast stroke. They put in Mary Reed and she was like a rock. And you swam thirty-eight strokes under water the other day. I saw you--I counted. And--and the South High girl only got up to twenty! That's all you cared."
Jerry turned, a little frightened. She had hated missing the swimming meet--contests were such new things in her life that they held a wonderful fascination for her--but she had not dreamed that, through her failure to appear, Lincoln might be beaten! She faced Gyp very humbly.
Isobel was alone----
Gyp turned on her sister.
You're the very selfishest girl that ever lived, Isobel Westley, and you're getting worse and worse. You never think of anyone in this whole world but yourself! You never would have hurt your knee so badly only you wanted to save your precious old dress, and you wouldn't give in and let Peggy Lee take your part! Maybe you are lonely and get tired lying here and everyone's sorry 'bout that, but that's not any reason for your keeping Jerry here when we needed her so badly--and she missed all the fun, too!
Isobel drew herself back into her pillows. She was no match for her indignant sister. And she was aghast at the enormity of her selfish thoughtlessness.
I didn't know--honestly, Gyp. I thought the match was on Thursday----
It was. This is Thursday, scornfully.
Oh, it's Wednesday. Isn't it Wednesday? Mrs. Hicks said cook was out and----
As if the calendar ran by the cook! Cook's sister's niece's sister was married to-day and she changed her day out. If you'd think of someone else----
Jerry took command of the situation.
It's my fault, Gyp. I could have told Isobel but--I didn't. I sort of realized how I'd feel if I had to lie there in bed day after day when everyone else was having such a good time and--well, the swimming match didn't seem half as important as making Isobel happy and--I don't believe it was! There was triumphant conviction in Jerry's voice, born of the grateful little smile Isobel flashed to her.
Gyp turned disgustedly on her heel. From the doorway where Uncle Johnny had been taking in the little scene came a chuckle. As Gyp walked haughtily out of the room he came forward and laid his hand on Jerry's shoulder.
Right-o, Jerry-girl. There's more than one kind of a victory, isn't there? Now run along and make peace with Miss Gypsy and let me get acquainted with my Bonnie--four whole days since I've seen you. There was a suspicious crackling of tissue-paper in his pocket. One hand slowly drew forth a small, blue velvet box which he laid in Isobel's fingers.
Oh, Uncle Johnny! For, within, lay a dainty bracelet set with small turquoise. Quite unexpectedly Isobel's eyes filled with tears.
What is it, kitten?
It's lovely only--only--everybody's too good to me for--I guess--I'm--what Gyp said I was!
There was everything in Isobel's past experience to warrant her expecting that Uncle Johnny would vehemently protest the truth of her outburst and assure her that no one could do enough for her. She wanted him to do so. But, alas, she read in his face that he, too, thought what Gyp had said was very true.
Isobel, dear--I think I ought to try and make you see something--for your own good. Have you ever pictured the fight that's going on in the human blood all the time--the tiny warriors struggling constantly, one kind to kill and the other to keep alive? The same sort of fight's going on in our natures, too. Every one of us is born with a whole lot of good things; they're our heritage and it's our own fault when we don't keep 'em. I don't mean outward things, dear--like your golden hair and those sky-blue eyes of yours--I mean the inside things, the things that grow and make our lives. But they've got to fight to live. If vanity and selfishness get the upper hand--where do they lead you? Well, he laughed, "I can't make you understand any more clearly what I mean than just to point to poor old Aunt Maria!"
Isobel had turned her face away; he could not see how she was taking his clumsy little lecture.
She's just a pathetic waste of God's good clay--moulded once as He wants His children, but what has she done? She's lived--no one knows how many years--only to feed her own body and glorify her own nest; she's grown in instead of out; she's never given an honest thought to making this world or anyone in it one bit better for her having lived in it. She's stealing from God. And what's done it--vanity, that years ago mastered all the good things in her. Poor old soul--she was once a young, pretty girl, like you----
Isobel jerked her head petulantly. The blue velvet box lay neglected on the counterpane.
I think you're horrid to lecture me, Uncle Johnny. Mother and father----
Uncle Johnny smiled whimsically at the childish face.
Mothers and fathers sometimes don't see things as clearly as mere uncles--because they're so close. And Bonnie, dear, it's because we all want so much of you! Let me tell you something else--this isn't a lecture, either. It's a little thing that happened when you were a baby and I've never forgotten it. I didn't see you until you were a year old--I was abroad, studying, when you were born. When I went up to your nursery that first time, and looked at you, I thought you were the most wonderful thing God ever made. You lay there in your little white crib and stared at me with your round, blue eyes, and then you smiled and thrust out the tiniest scrap of a hand. I didn't dare breathe. And everything around you was so perfect--white enamel, blue and yellow and pink birds and squirrels and dogs and things painted on your walls, the last word in baby furniture and toilet things. That very day a friend of mine asked me to help drive the orphans of the city on their annual outing. I was glad to do something for someone--you see, having a new niece made me feel as though I was walking on air. They loaded up my car with kids of all sizes and then the last moment someone snuggled a bit of humanity into the front seat between two older youngsters--a poor little mite with big, round, blue eyes like yours and the lower part of her face all twisted with a great scar where she'd been burned. I couldn't see anything on the whole ride but that little face--and always, back in my mind were your two blue eyes and your dimpled smile. I wanted to get through with the whole trip and hurry back to your nursery to see if you were all right. But I stopped long enough at the orphanage to ask about the poor baby. She'd been found in a filthy cellar where she'd been abandoned--that's all they knew. How's that for a heritage? Stripped of everything--except the soul of her--to fight through life with, and horribly disfigured in the bargain. I asked what they did for such children and they told me that they'd keep her until she was fourteen--then they'd have taught her some sort of work--probably domestic--and she could make her own way. God help her--fourteen, a little younger than our Gyp! I went back to your mother's. She was out and I rushed up to your nursery. Your very professional nurse thought I was mad. I sent her out. I took you in my arms. I had to hold you to feel that you were safe and sound and had all the arms and legs you needed and your face not half scarred away. And sitting there I sort of talked to God--I begged Him to let you keep the blessings you had at that moment and to make you worthy of them. You're a beautiful girl, Isobel, and you have every advantage that love and thought and money can give you, but--so was Aunt Maria beautiful at your age, before vanity and selfishness----
Uncle Johnny, I've known for a long time--that you didn't love me! That's why I've been so nasty to Jerry. You love her----
Bonnie! Uncle Johnny's arm was around her now. He half shook her. "Foolish girl! I love you now just the way I loved that mite of a baby. I've always been fonder of you than any of the others and I'm mighty fond of them. But you were the first--the most wonderful one."
But you'd like to have me--like Jerry?
Yes, he answered, very decidedly. "I'd like to have you--that kind of a girl, who walks straight with her head up--and sees big visions--and grows toward them."
I hate goody-goody girls, sighed poor Isobel.
So do I! laughed Uncle Johnny. "But you couldn't hate a girl who would rather make someone else happy than win in a swimming match?"
N-no, and I wouldn't blame Jerry if she'd just enjoy seeing me miserable--I've been so nasty to her. And she isn't goody-goody, either! She's just----
A very normal, unspoiled, happy girl who's always been so busy thinking of everything else that she's never had a moment to think of herself. Now to show that you forgive my two-a-penny lectures, will you let me eat dinner with you off your tray? And what are you doing with these books? And did you know Dr. Bowerman's going to let you try crutches on Sunday?
Two hours later, when Jerry, a little shyly, tiptoed into Isobel's room to say good-night, Isobel impulsively pulled her head down to the level of her own and kissed her. She wanted to tell Jerry what Uncle Johnny had made her feel and see but she could not find the right words, and Jerry wanted to tell her that she wouldn't for the world trade the jolly afternoon they had had together for any swimming match, but she couldn't find the right words, so each just kissed the other, wondering why she was so happy!
I'm going to walk on crutches Sunday, Jerry.
Oh, great! It will only be a little while before you're back in school, Isobel.
Good-night, Jerry.
Good-night, Isobel!
Hello! Is that you, Gyp? I want Centre 2115, please. Is this Mr. Westley's house? Is that you, Gyp?.... This is Pat Everett. Listen---- came excitedly over the wire, though Gyp was listening as hard as she could. "Peg and I've found the black-and-white man!"
Gyp declared, afterwards, that the announcement had made her tingle to her toes! Immediately she corralled Jerry, whom she found translating Latin with a dictionary on her lap and a terrible frown on her brow, and together they hurried to Pat's house. It was a soft May evening--the air was filled with the throaty twitter of robins, the trees arched feathery green against the twilight sky. Pat and Peggy sat bareheaded on the steps of the Everett house, waiting for them. A great fragrant flowering honeysuckle brushed their shoulders. A more perfect setting could not have been found for the finish of their conspiracy.
Pat plunged straight into her story.
Peg and I were coming back from Dalton's book store and we ran bang into the man--he'd taken his hat off 'cause it was so warm and was fanning himself with it. We both saw it at exactly the same moment and we just turned and clutched each other and almost yelled.
And then, what? Why didn't you grab him?
As if we could lay our hands on a perfect stranger! Anyway, we've got to be tactful. But I'm sure it's the one--there was a white streak that ran right back from the front of his face. And he was very handsome, too--at least we decided he would be if we were as old as Miss Gray. I thought he was a little--oh, biggish.
And to think how we've hunted for him and he was right here---- Then Gyp realized that Pat did not have the gentleman in her pocket.
But how will we find him again?
We followed him--and he went into the Morse Building and got into the elevator and we were going right in after him when who pops out but Dr. Caton, and he looked so surprised to see us that we hesitated, and the old elevator boy shut the door in our faces. But we asked a man who was standing there in a uniform, like a head janitor or something, if that gentleman in a black coat and hat and lavender tie had an office in the building, and he said, Yes, seventh floor, 796." He leered at us, but we looked real dignified, and Peg wrote it down on a piece of paper and we walked away. So now all we've got to do is to just go and see him," and Pat hugged her slim knees in an ecstasy of satisfaction.
The girls stared meditatively at a fat robin pecking into the grass in search of a late dinner. To "just go and see him" was not as simple to the conspirators as it sounded, slipping from Pat's lips.
Who'll go? Gyp put the question that was in each mind.
Perhaps it would be too many if all four of us went--so let's draw lots which two----
Oh, no! cried Jerry, aghast.
The others laughed. "It'd be fairest to leave Jerry out of the draw."
I'll go, cried Gyp grandly, "if Pat or Peggy will go with me and do the talking."
What'll we say? Now that the Ravens faced the fulfillment of their plans they felt a little nervous.
I know---- Gyp's puzzled frown cleared magically. "Mother has five tickets for the Philadelphia Symphony to-morrow night--I'll ask her to let us go and invite Miss Gray to chaperone us. Then we'll write a note and tell this man that if he'll go to the concert and look at the third box on the left side he'll see the lady of his heart who has been faithful to him for years in spite of her many other suitors--we'll put that in to make him appreciate what he's getting. It'll be much easier writing it than saying it."
Gyp--you're a wonder, cried the others, inspired to action. "Let's go in and write the note now."
The Ravens, who met now at Pat Everett's house, had neglected Miss Gray of late. Carnations had succeeded the violets, then a single rose. Pat had even experimented with a nosegay of everlastings which she had found in one of the department stores. It had been weeks since they had sent anything. For that reason a little feeling of remorse added enthusiasm now to their plotting.
Mrs. Westley was delighted at Gyp's desire to hear the concert and to include Miss Gray in the party. And Miss Gray's face had flushed with genuine pleasure when Gyp invited her.
Everything's all ready, Gyp tapped across to Pat Everett, and Pat, nodding mysteriously, pulled from her pocket the corner of a pale blue envelope.
Directly after the close of school Gyp and Pat, with Jerry and Peggy Lee close at their heels, to bolster their courage, walked briskly downtown to the Morse Building. If any doubts as to the propriety of their action crept into any one of the four minds, they were quickly dispelled--for the sake of sentiment. It, of course, would not be pleasant, facing this stranger, but any momentary discomfort was as nothing, considering that their act might mean many years of happiness for poor, starved, little Miss Gray!
To avoid the leering elevator man the two girls climbed the six flights to the seventh floor. Pat carried the letter. Gyp agreed to go in first.
746--748---- read Pat.
It's the other corridor. They retraced their steps to the other side of the building. "784-788-792----" Gyp repeated the office numbers aloud. "7-9-6! Wilbur Stratman, Undertaker!"
Pat Everett! Gyp clutched her chum's arm. "A--undertaker! I won't go in--for all the Miss Grays in the world!"
Pat was seized with such a fit of giggling that she had difficulty in speaking, even in a whisper. "Isn't that funny? We've got to go in. The girls are waiting--we'd never hear the last of it! He can't bury us alive. Oh, d-dear----" She wadded her handkerchief to her lips and leaned against the wall.
If Miss Gray wants an undertaker she can have him! For my part I should think she'd rather have a policeman or--or the iceman! Come on---- Gyp's face was comical in its disgust. She turned the knob of the door.
A thin, sad-faced woman told them that Mr. Stratman was in his office. She eyed them curiously as, with a jerk of her head, she motioned them through a little gate. As Gyp with trembling fingers opened the door of the inner office, a man with a noticeable white streak in his hair pulled his feet down from his desk, dropped a cigar on his pen tray and reached for a coat that lay across another chair.
Is--is this Mr. Stratman? asked Gyp, wishing her tongue would not cling to the roof of her mouth.
He nodded and waited. These young girls were not like his usual customers, probably they had some sort of a subscription blank with them. He watched warily.
Our errand is--is private, stumbled Gyp, who could see that Pat was beyond the power of speech. "It's--it's personal. We've come, in fact, of--our own accord--she doesn't know a thing about it----"
She? Who?
Miss--Miss Gray. Gyp glanced wildly around. Oh, she was making a dreadful mess of it! Why didn't Pat produce the letter instead of standing there like a wooden image?
Being an undertaker, Mr. Wilbur Stratman met a great many women whom he never remembered. "H-m, Miss Gray--of course," he nodded. Encouraged, Gyp plunged on, with the one desire of getting the ordeal over with.
She's dreadfully unhappy. She's been faithful to you all these years and she's lived in a little boarding house and worked and worked and wouldn't marry anyone else and----
With an instinct of self-defense Mr. Stratman rose to his feet and edged ever so little toward the door. Plainly these two very young women were stark mad!
I am very sorry for Miss Gray but--what can I do?
Oh, can't you marry her now? She's still very pretty---- Gyp was trembling but undaunted. The precipice was there--she had to make the leap!
The undertaker paused in his contemplated flight to stare--then he laughed, a loud, hoarse laugh that sent the hot blood tingling to Gyp's face.
Who ever heard the beat of it! A proposal by proxy! Ha! ha! My business is burying and not marrying! Ha! Ha! Pretty good! I don't know your Miss Gray. Even if I did I can't get away with a husky wife and six children at home!
Pat pulled furiously at Gyp's sleeve. A chill that felt like a cold stream of water ran down Gyp's spine.
I don't get on to what you're after, Miss what-ever-your name is, but you're in the wrong pew. I never knew a Miss Gray that I can remember and I guess somebody's been kidding you.
Pat suddenly found her tongue--in the nick of time, too, for a paralysis of fright had finished poor Gyp.
We must have made a mistake, Mr. Stratman. We are very sorry to have bothered you. We are in search of a certain--party that--that has--a white streak--in his hair.
O-ho, the undertaker clapped his hand to his head. "So that's the ticket, hey? Well, I've always said I couldn't get away from much with that thing always there to identify me--but I never calculated it'd expose me to any proposals!" He laughed again--doubling up in what Pat thought a disgustingly ungraceful way. She held her head high and pushed Gyp toward the door. "We will say good-by," she concluded haughtily.
Say, kids, who are you, anyway? His tone was quite unprofessional.
It is not necessary to divulge our identity, and with Gyp's arm firmly in her grasp Pat beat a hasty retreat. Safe outside in the corridor they fell into one another's arms, torn between tears and laughter.
With mingled disgust and disappointment the Ravens decided then and there to let love follow its own blind, mistaken course.
Miss Gray can die an old maid before I'll ever face another creature like that! vowed Gyp, and Pat echoed her words.
No one ever gets any thanks for meddling in other people's affairs, anyway, Peggy Lee offered.
Nice time to tell us that, was Gyp's irritable retort.
That evening Miss Gray, charming in a soft lavender georgette dress, which her clever fingers had made and remade, wondered why her four young charges were so glum. There was nothing in the world she loved so much as a symphony orchestra. She sat back in her chair, close to the edge of the box, with a happy sigh, and studied her program. Everything that she liked best, Chopin, Saint-Saens, and Wagner--Siegfried's Death. Gyp, eyeing her chaperon's happy anticipation, indulged in a whispered regret.
Doesn't she look pretty to-night? If that horrible creature only hadn't been---- The setting would have been so perfect for the denouement. She sprawled back, resignedly, in her chair, smothering a yawn. A flutter of applause marked the coming in of the orchestra. There was the usual scraping of chairs and whining of strings. Then suddenly Miss Gray leaned out over the box-rail, exclaiming incoherently, her hands clasping and unclasping in a wild, helpless way.
An opening crash of the cymbals covered her confusion. The four girls were staring at her, round-eyed. They had not believed Miss Gray capable of such agitation! What ever had happened----
An old friend, she whispered, her face alternately paling and flushing. "A very dear--old--friend! The--the third--violin----" She leaned weakly against the box-rail. The girls looked down at the orchestra. There--under the leader's arm--sat the third violinist--and a white streak ran from his forehead straight back through his coal black hair!
As though an electric shock flashed through them the four girls straightened and stiffened. A glance, charged with meaning, passed from one to another. Gyp, remembering the moment of confidence between her and Miss Gray, slipped her hand into Miss Gray's and squeezed it encouragingly.
Not one of them heard a note of the wonderful music; each was steadying herself for that moment when the program should end. Their box was very near the little door that led behind the stage. Gyp almost pushed Miss Gray toward it.
Of course you're going to see him! Hurry. You look so nice---- Gyp was so excited that she did not know quite what she was saying. "Oh--hurry! You may never see him again."
Then they, precipitously and on tiptoe, followed little Miss Gray. Though it did not happen as each in her romantic soul had planned, it was none the less satisfying! In a chilly, bare anteroom off the stage, at a queer sound behind him resembling in a small way his name, the third violinist turned from the job of putting his violin into its box.
Milly, he cried, his face flaming red with a pleased surprise.
George---- Miss Gray held back, twisting her fingers in a helpless flutter. "I--I thought--when you sent--the--flowers--and the verses--that maybe, you--you still cared!"
Just for a moment a puzzled look clouded the man's face--then a vision in the doorway of four wildly-warning hands made him exclaim quickly:
Care--didn't I tell you, Milly, that I'd never care for anyone else?
He took her right in his arms, four tongues explained at once, when, the next day, the self-appointed committee on romance reported back to the other Ravens. "Of course, he didn't know we were peeking. He isn't exactly the type I'd go crazy over, but he's so much better than that undertaker! And going home Miss Gray told us all about it. It would make the grandest movie! She had to support her mother and he didn't earn enough to take care of them both, and she wouldn't let him wait all that time; she told him to find someone else. But you see he didn't. Isn't love funny? And then when her mother finally died she was too proud to send him word, and I guess she didn't know where he was, anyway, or maybe she thought he had gone and done what she told him to do and married some one else. And she believed all the time that he sent her those flowers--I s'pose by that say-it-with-flowers-by-telegraph-from-any-part-of-the-country method. Oh, I hope she'll wear a veil and let us be bridesmaids!"
But little Miss Gray did not; some weeks later, in a spick-and-span blue serge traveling suit, with a little bunch of pink roses fastened in her belt, she slipped away from her dreary boarding house and met her third violinist in the shabby, unromantic front parlor of an out-of-the-way parsonage; the parson's stout wife was her bridesmaid--so much for gratitude!
Oh, dear--how dreadfully fast time passes. It seems only a little while ago we were planning for the winter and now here comes Mrs. Hicks about new summer covers for the furniture, and Joe Laney wants to know if there's going to be any painting done and I haven't thought of any summer clothes--and with those two great growing girls! I suppose if we're going to the seashore we ought to make some reservations, too---- and Mrs. Westley concluded her plaint with a sigh that came from her very toes.
John Westley, from the depths of the great armed chair where he stretched, laughed at her serious face. But the expression of his own reflected the truth of what she had said.
It's the rush we live in, Mary. Why don't you cut out the seashore and find a quiet place--out of this torrent? Something--like Kettle. The mention of Kettle brought him suddenly to a thought of Jerry.
Well, my Jerry-girl's year of school is almost up. What next?
Mrs. Westley laid down her knitting. "Yes--what next?" she asked.
Somehow, I can't picture Jerry going back to Miller's Notch and--staying there----
That's it--I've thought of it often. Have we been doing the girl a kindness? After all, John, contentment is the greatest thing in this world, and perhaps we've hurt the dear child by bringing her here and letting her have a taste of--this sort of thing.
John Westley regarded his sister-in-law's plump, kindly face with amusement. She had the best heart in the world and the biggest, but she had not the discernment to know that there were treasures even in Miller's Notch and Sunnyside, and, anyway----
Isn't contentment, Mary, a thing that depends on something inside of us, rather than our surroundings?
She nodded, speculatively.
"And I rather think my girl from Kettle will be contented anywhere. She's gone ahead fast here. I was talking to Dr. Caton about her. He says she is amazingly intense in her work. I suppose that has come from her way of living there at Sunnyside. But what can the school there at Miller's Notch give her now? And what is there for a girl, living in a small place like that, after school? Contentment does depend upon our state of mind, I grant, but one's surroundings affect that state of mind--so there you are! How is a girl going to be happy if she knows that she is far superior mentally to everything that makes up her life? Jerry will grow to womanhood in her little mountain village--marry some native and----""
"Uncle Johnny ignored the picture.
We can trip ourselves up at almost every turn, Mary. Aren't places really big or small as we ticket them in our own minds? If you think of Miller's Notch and Kettle by figures of the census, they are small--but, maybe, reckoning them from real angles they're big--very big, and it's our cities that are small. To go back to Jerry--when I think of her I always think of something I said to Barbara Lee--that nothing on earth could chain a spirit like that anywhere--she was one of the world's crusaders. Oh--youth! If nothing spoils my Jerry, she'll always go forward with her head up! But that's what has made me worry, more than once, during my experiment." Have we risked the girl to the danger of being spoiled? Will our little superficialities, so ingrained that we don't realize them, taint her splendid unaffectedness? I don't know--I can't tell until I see her back at Kettle--in that environment the like of which I've never found anywhere else. If she isn't the same shining-eyed Jerry plus considerable wisdom gleaned from her books and her school friends, I'll have it on my conscience--if she's the same, well, the winter's been worth a great deal to all of us! When I see her and watch her back there--I'll know. And that leads me to what I really came here to tell you." John Westley drew a letter from his pocket. "I had word from Trimmer--the Boston attorney. He's found traces of a Craig Winton who was a graduate of Boston Tech. He lived in obscure lodgings in a poorer part of Boston and yet he seemed to have quite a circle of friends of an intellectual sort. Some of them have given enough facts to be pieced together so as to prove, I think conclusively, that this chap is the one we're looking for. He was an inventor and of a very brilliant turn of mind, but unpractical--the old story--and desperately poor. He married the only daughter of a chemist who lived in Cambridge. His health broke down and he took his wife and went off to the country somewhere--his Boston friends lost track of him after that. Later one received a letter telling of the birth of a son."
How interesting! Robert will be home in two weeks and then we can make the settlement.
But, Mary--the search hasn't ended. He left Boston for the 'country'--that is very vague. And I don't like the tone of Trimmer's communication. He advises dropping the whole matter. He says that sufficient effort has been made to meet the spirit of the letter left by the late Peter Westley----
You will not drop it, will you?
Indeed not. I wired him to put all the men he could find on the case. And I am going to do some work on my own account.
You?
Yes--I have a clue all of my own. He laughed, folding the letter and putting it away.
Really, John?
Yes--a foolish sort of a clue--I can scarcely tell it to a man like Trimmer. It's only a pair of eyes----
I suppose if you're like all other sleuths you will not tell me anything more, said Mrs. Westley, wondering if he was really in earnest. "When and where will your personal search begin?"
I'd like to start this moment, but I happened to think I could drive Jerry home, and then I can make the test of my experiment.
Drive Jerry home---- his words reached the ears of the young people, coming into the hall. It was Friday evening and they had been at the moving-pictures.
Who's going to drive Jerry home? You, Uncle Johnny? Can't I go, too? Oh, please, please---- Gyp fell upon him, pleadingly.
Oh, I wish the girls could go, added Jerry.
Why not? Uncle Johnny turned to Mrs. Westley. "Then you wouldn't have to worry your head over clothes and hotel space at the seashore! And Mrs. Allan's up there across at Cobble with a house big enough for a dozen----"
But they must stay at Sunnyside, protested Jerry, her face glowing.
Always, now, at the back of her head, were persistent thoughts of home. She had counted the days off on her little calendar; she saw, in the bright loveliness with which the springtime had dressed the city, only a proud vision of what her beloved Kettle must be like; she hunted violets on the slopes of Highacres and dreamed of the blossoming hepaticas in the Witches' Glade and the dear sun-shadowed corners where the bloodroot grew and the soft budding beauty of the birches that lined the trail up Kettle. She longed with a longing that hurt for her little garden--for the smell of the freshly-turned soil, for the first strawberries, for the fragrance of the lilacs that grew under her small window, for the clean, cool, grass-scented valley wind. And yet her heart was torn with the thought that those very days she had counted on her calendar marked the coming separation from Gyp and the schoolmates at Highacres--Highacres itself. She must go away from them all and all that they were doing and they would in time forget her, because they would know nothing of Sunnyside. And now, quite suddenly, a new and wonderful possibility unfolded--to have Gyp at home with mother and Little-Dad, sleeping in the tiny room under the gable, climbing the trails with her, working in the garden, playing with Bigboy, sharing all the precious joys of Kettle, meant a link; after that, there could be no real separation.
And she wanted Isobel, too. Between the two girls had sprung a wonderful understanding. Isobel was grateful that Jerry had not humiliated her by mentioning the debate, or the many other little meannesses of which she had been guilty; Jerry was glad that Isobel had not raked them up--it was so much nicer to just know that Isobel liked her now. Isobel was a very different girl since her accident--perhaps Uncle Johnny, alone, knew why. She had decided very suddenly that she did want to go to college. The week before she had "squeezed through" the college entrance exams--luck she did not deserve, she had declared with surprising frankness. And after college she planned to study interior decorating.
Everyone wondered why they had not thought before of such wonderful summer plans. Mrs. Westley would go with Tibby to Cousin Marcia's at Ocean Point in Maine--"quiet enough there"; Graham was going to a boys' camp in Vermont, and Isobel and Gyp could divide their time between Sunnyside and Cobble.
We are not consulting Mrs. Travis, laughed Mrs. Westley.
Oh, she'd love them to be there, cried Jerry with conviction.
And anyway, if she frowns, we'll move on to Wayside, and we know the trail in between, don't we, Jerry?
Say, Jerry, Graham thought it the psychological moment to spring a request he had been entertaining in his heart for some time. "Will you let me take Pepper to camp? Lots of the boys have dogs but none of them are as smart as Pep."
Jerry could not answer for a moment. In her picture of her homegoing, Pepper had had his part; but--it would be another link----
Of course you may take him. He'll love--being with you. Long ago she had reconciled herself to sharing Pepper's devotion with Graham.
Oh, I think that's the wonderfulest plan ever made, exclaimed Gyp rapturously--Gyp, who with her mother had visited some of the most fashionable summer and winter resorts. "I want to sleep up on--where is it, Jerry--and see the sunrise. How will we ever exist until school's over!"
Examinations will help us do that, laughed Isobel.
And Class-day and Commencement. And who's going to win the Lincoln Award?