ST. PATRICK'S DAY AND THE FIRST OF APRIL
The Misses Clark had borrowed Elisabeth for the afternoon. It was
becoming a custom with them, and as Miss Merriam insisted that her
little charge should have her naps out of doors with unbroken
regularity, the old ladies found themselves almost every day sitting,
rug-enwrapped, on Mrs. Smith's veranda or their own while the baby dozed
luxuriously in her carriage. Elisabeth grew pink in the fresh air and if
her self-appointed attendants did not do likewise they at least found
themselves benefiting by the unaccustomed treatment.
In early March a brother came to visit them. He was a dignified elderly
man, "just like the sisters before Elisabeth made them human," Roger
declared, "except that he has whiskers a foot long." At first he paid no
attention to the child, though the story of its escape from Belgium
interested him. But no one resisted Elisabeth long and it was not many
days before Mr. Clark was holding his book with one hand and playing
ball with the other.
On this particular day Mrs. Smith and Miss Merriam had both needed to go
to New York, and the Misses Clark had seized the opportunity to have an
unusually long call from Ayleesabet. They had sat on their veranda with
her while she napped; but when she came in, fresh and wide awake, their
older eyes were growing sleepy from the cold and they went upstairs for
forty winks, leaving their nursling in charge of their brother.
Ayleesabet was goodness itself. She sat on the floor and rolled a ball
to her elderly playmate, chuckling when it struck the edge of a rug and
went out of its course so that he had to plunge after it. She walked
around the edge of the same rug, evidently regarding it as an island to
be explored, Crusoe fashion. Her explorations were thorough. If she had
been old enough to know what mines were one would have thought that she
was playing miner, for she lay on her back, pushed up the rug and rolled
under it.
"Upon my word," ejaculated Mr. Clark, adjusting his spectacles and
examining the hump made by the baby's round little Belgian body. "Upon
my word, that doesn't seem the thing for her to do."
But Elisabeth seemed entirely contented and made no response to the old
gentleman's cluckings and other blandishments.
"Come out," he whispered in beguiling tones. "Come out and play."
No answer.
"Come and play horsey. Don't you want to climb up? That's it. Up she
goes! Steady now. Hold tight."
As he started on a slow tour of the room on all fours his rider lurched
unsteadily.
"Take hold of my collar," cried the aged war-horse.
Ayleesabet fell forward, her arms went around his neck and her hands
buried themselves in his whiskers. With a chirrup of delight she righted
herself, a bridle-rein of hair in each hand. On went the charger, his
speed increasing from a walk to an amble. Louder and louder laughed
Elisabeth. Steed and rider were in that perfect accord wherein man seems
akin to the Centaur.
At the height of the race the drawing room door opened and in walked
Ethel Blue and Ethel Brown Morton. The horse stopped suddenly and wiped
his forehead with one of his forefeet, but maintained his horizontal
position in order not to throw his rider. Elisabeth's equilibrium was
somewhat disturbed by the abrupt cessation of her charger's advance but
she kept a firm hold on her bridle and restored herself.
"Go, go," she chortled, thumping the prostrate form of Mr. Clark with
her slippered feet and smiling with excusable vanity at the new
arrivals.
The Ethels stood side by side so stricken with amazement and amusement
that for an instant it seemed that apoplexy would overtake them. Thanks
to their natural politeness they did not laugh, though they agreed later
that it had been the hardest struggle of their lives not to do so.
"We've come to take Ayleesabet home," they said. "It's awfully good of
you to entertain her so long."
They lifted the protesting equestrian to the floor and put on her outer
garments while the late steed resumed an upright position and dusted his
knees.
"A very good child," he observed. "A very intelligent child. She does
Miss Merriam great credit."
"She's growing splendidly," replied Ethel Brown.
"Too bad she can't continue under her care. Too bad."
"Can't continue under her care!" repeated the Ethels in unison. "Why
can't she? What do you mean?"
"Why, on account of Miss Merriam's leaving. Of course you know. I hope I
haven't betrayed any confidence."
"Miss Merriam's leaving!" exclaimed the Ethels as one girl.
"We don't know anything about it!"
"Where is she going?"
"When is she going?"
The questions poured thick and fast and Mr. Clark seemed distinctly
taken aback by the excitement he had created.
"Why, Dr. Watkins said that he thought she wasn't going to stay with
Elisabeth much longer. That's what I understood him to say. I don't
think I'm mistaken," and the old gentleman passed his hand nervously
over the top of his head.
"That's perfectly terrible if it's really so," declared Ethel Blue, who
was an especial admirer of Gertrude Merriam's and a devout believer in
her ability to turn Elisabeth from a skeleton into a robust little
maiden.
"We must find out at once," and Ethel Brown put Elisabeth into her coat
with a speed that so disregarded all orderly procedure as to bring a
frown to the young Belgian's brow.
The two girls talked about the news in low, horrified tones on the way
back to Dorothy's, and down they sat, prepared not only to amuse
Elisabeth but to amuse her until the return of Miss Merriam, no matter
how late that proved to be.
It seemed an eternity but it was only half past five when she and Mrs.
Smith came back. The Ethels sat before the fire in the sitting room like
judges on the bench. They made their accusation promptly. Gertrude sat
down as if her knees were unable to support her. Her blue eyes stared
amazedly from one to the other.
"Mr. Clark says I am going away? That Dr. Watkins said he thought I was
going away?"
Her complete wonderment proved her not guilty.
"But I'm not going away! I haven't any idea of going away--unless you
want me to," and she turned appealingly to Mrs. Smith.
"My dear child, of course we don't want you to," and Mrs. Smith bent and
kissed her. "We love you dearly and we like your work. I can't think
what Mr. Clark could have meant--or Dr. Watkins--"
"It was Edward Watkins who told Mr. Clark," repeated Ethel Brown.
Gertrude sat stupefied.
"Unless the wish were father to the thought," ended Mrs. Smith softly.
"Unless he wanted it to be true?" translated Gertrude inquiringly.
"Unless--Oh!"
A blush burned its way from her chin to her brow and lost itself in the
soft hair that swept back from her temples.
"He wanted it to be true, and he said he thought it was going to happen.
Well, he's altogether too sure! It's humiliating," and she threw up her
chin and walked firmly out of the room, for the first time forgetting
Elisabeth.
"What does she mean?" Ethel Blue asked her aunt.
"Why is she humiliated?" asked Ethel Brown.
"What is she going to do?" was Dorothy's question.
"I don't know," Mrs. Smith replied to Dorothy. "We'd better not bother
her. Don't tease her with questions."
The girls obeyed, but they talked the matter over a great deal among
themselves and they would have asked Edward Watkins about it the first
time they saw him except that their Aunt Louise guessed their plan and
forestalled it by telling them that any mention of the matter would be
an intrusion upon other people's affairs which would be wholly
unwarranted.
The first time they saw Edward was the next day, when the Rosemont
Charitable Society gave a bazaar for the benefit of its treasury,
depleted by the demands upon it of an uncommonly hard winter. The seats
were all taken out of the high school hall and the big room became the
scene of a Donnybrook Fair on St. Patrick's Day. Of course the U. S. C.
had been called on to help; it had made a name for itself and outsiders
looked to it for ideas and assistance.
In fact, the idea of the fair was Ethel Brown's. She heard her mother
talking with one of the Directors of the R. C. S. one afternoon about
the unending need for money and suggested the Irish program as a
possible means of making some.
"The child is right," fat Mrs. Anderson promptly agreed. "Rosemont never
had anything of the sort."
"It wouldn't be harder to get up than any other kind of fair," said Mrs.
Morton.
"And St. Patrick's Day will be here so soon that it's a good excuse for
hurrying it."
So it had been hurried, and the day after the strange encounter with Mr.
Clark and the disturbing conversation with Miss Merriam the scholastic
American precincts of the high school were converted into an Irish fair
ground. Every one who had anything to do with the tables or the conduct
of the bazaar was dressed in an Irish peasant costume, the girls with
short, full skirts with plain white shirt waists showing beneath a
sleeveless jacket of dark cloth. Heavy low shoes and thick stockings
would have been the appropriate wear for the feet, but all the girls
rebelled.
"This footgear was meant for the earth floor of a cabin and not for a
steam-heated room," declared Helen. "I'll wear green stockings, but thin
ones, and my own slippers, even if they aren't suitable."
The boys were less inconvenienced by their garb, which included, to be
sure, heavy shoes and long stockings, but also tight knee breeches and,
instead of jackets, waistcoats with sleeves.
Every one in Rosemont who had any green furnishings lent them for the
occasion. Mrs. Anderson robbed her library of a huge green rug to place
before the stationery booth over whose writing paper and green
place-cards and novelties, all in green boxes, she presided robustly.
Mrs. Morton, with Helen and Margaret to assist her, ruled over a table
shaped like a shamrock and laden with articles carved from bog oak, and
with china animals and photographs of Ireland and of Irish colleens.
Dorothy told fortunes in the lower part of Blarney Castle, built of
canvas but sufficiently realistic, in a corner of the hall. On top Tom
was ready to hold over the battlements by the heels any one who was
"game" for the adventure of kissing the Blarney Stone.
In the restaurant, which was a corner of the hall shut off by screens
covered with green paper, Mrs. Anderson superintended the serving of
supper by her assistants--Ethel Blue and Della and some of their
friends. They offered a hearty meal of Irish stew, or of cold ham and
potato salad, followed by pistachio ice cream and small cakes covered
with frosting of a delicate green. At one side Ethel Brown controlled
the "Murphy Table" and sold huge hot baked Irish potatoes and paper
plates of potato salad and crisp potato "chips" ready to be taken home.
Before the evening was many minutes old she had so many orders set aside
on the shelves that held books in the hall's ordinary state that she had
to replenish her stock.
James acted as cashier for the whole room. Roger, armed with a
shillelagh, ran around for every one until the time came for him to
mount the stage and show what he knew about an Irish jig. Under the
coaching of George Foster's sister, he and his sisters had learned it in
such an incredibly short time that they were none too sure of their
steps, but they managed to get through it without discredit to
themselves or their teacher.
Then Mrs. Smith played the accompaniments for a set of familiar Irish
songs--"The Harp that once through Tara's Halls," "Erin go Bragh,"
"Kathleen Mavourneen," "The Wearing of the Green." Dorothy led the
choruses, the whole U. S. C., including Dicky, sang their best, and
Edward Watkins's tenor rose so pleadingly in "Kathleen Mavourneen" that
Mrs. Smith was touched.
"I'm going home now," she said to him, "to stay with the baby so that
Gertrude can come to the bazaar. You may go with me if you like."
Edward did like. He glowed with eagerness. He hardly could carry on an
intelligent conversation with Mrs. Smith, so eager was he to test the
possibilities of the walk back when he should be escorting Miss Merriam.
When they entered the house and he saw her reading before the fire his
heart came into his throat, so demure she looked and so lovely.
"I've come home, dear, so that you can go," explained Mrs. Smith. "Dr.
Watkins will take you back."
Gertrude had given Mrs. Smith's escort one startled glance as they
entered.
"Thank you very much indeed," she answered. "You are always so
thoughtful. But I'm not going out again tonight. It's quite out of the
question; please don't urge me," and she left the room without a look at
the disappointed face of the young doctor.
"Now, what does that mean?" he inquired in amazement.
"You ought to know."
"I don't know. Do you?"
"I think I do."
"Won't you tell me?"
"If you think over any conversations you have had recently about Miss
Merriam perhaps it will come to you."
"And you won't tell me?"
"I may be a wrong interpreter. At any rate I'm not an interferer. Your
affairs are your own."
"That's a very slender hint you've given me, but I'll do my best with
it."
His best was of small avail. Miss Merriam would not see him when he
called, did not go anywhere where she would be likely to meet him, bowed
to him so coldly when she passed him one day going into the house, that
he actually did not have the courage to stop her, but rang the bell and
asked for Mrs. Smith.
The Ethels and Dorothy felt that the part of courtesy was to preserve a
civil silence, but they were consumed with curiosity to know just what
was going on. Certainly Miss Gertrude was not happy, for she often
looked as if she had been weeping, and certainly Dr. Watkins was
wretched, for Tom and Della quite immediately reported him as being "so
solemn you can't do anything with him." Indeed, at the April Fool party
which the Hancocks gave to the U. S. C., he indulged in an outburst that
startled them all.
Margaret and James had asked him because the Club had formed the habit
of doing so when they were undertaking anything special. The Ethels were
quite right when they guessed that he accepted the invitation because he
hoped to see Miss Merriam there. She did not go, offering as an excuse
that Ayleesabet needed her.
The April Fool party might have been named the Party of Surprises. There
were no practical jokes;--"a joke of the hand is a joke of the vulgar"
had been trained into all of them from their earliest days;--but there
were countless surprises. The opening of a candy box disclosed a toy
puppy; a toy cat was filled not with the desired candy but with popcorn.
The candy was handed about in the brass coal scuttle, beautifully
polished and lined with paraffin paper. Each guest received a present. A
string of jet beads proved to be small black seeds, and a necklace of
green jade resolved itself on inspection into a collar of green string
beans strung by one end so that they lay at length like a verdant
fringe.
The early evening was spent in the dining-room--no one knew why. When
supper was served in the library it became evident that it was just a
part of the program to have everything topsy turvy. It was evident, too,
that a raid had been made on Dr. Hancock's supplies, for the lemonade
was served in test tubes and the Charlotte Russe in pill boxes.
It was after supper when Edward Watkins had grown sure that Miss Merriam
surely was not coming that he indulged in a burst of sarcasm. After a
consultation with Margaret he drew the curtains across the door leading
into the hall.
"Are you ready?" he called to Margaret.
"Yes," came in reply.
"Then here, my friends, you see the portrait of the original April
Fool."
He swept back the portiere and the laughing group, silenced by the
energy of his announcement, saw Edward himself reflected in a mirror
that Margaret had set up on a chair. They all laughed, but it was uneasy
laughter, and Tom tried to reassure his brother by clapping him on the
shoulder and exclaiming, "You do yourself an injustice, old man, you
really do," with a touch of earnestness in it.