HELENITA'S SONG-BIRD
The tenth of July was always a momentous date in Gilead local history.
Every year on that day, down in the little church on the Plains, the grand
old guard of '83 held their Carberry Reunion.
The girls had heard of it first through Cousin Roxy, who had been one of
the pupils of Professor Carberry in the old days at the Gayhead
schoolhouse.
"Land, girls, if we didn't have our reunion every year, we'd begin to feel
some of us were growing old," she had said laughingly. "The Professor's
class has held that reunion every year since he had to give up the school
in '89. There are a few empty places with the coming around of each July,
but I guess we'll keep on holding them as long as the Professor holds
out."
It was quite an exclusive affair in its way, so that this year, when they
were both invited to attend with their mother, Jean and Kit felt the
honor. Long afterwards, when she had attained her assured place in the
world of art, Jean exhibited a painting which won her her first medal. It
was only a shadowy interior of an old meetinghouse. The sunshine filtered
through half-closed green blinds at the long windows. Up on the platform
there sat Professor Carberry, a little, shrunken figure in black
broadcloth, the lean, scholarly old face, blanched with the snows of
eighty-odd years, filled with eagerness as he looked down on the little
assembled remnant of the old guard.
Cousin Bethiah Newell always said that this picture was Jean's
masterpiece, and she got the inspiration for it on this day. Kit sat very
erect at her end of the pew, but even she, who prided herself on being
unemotional, had tears on her lashes listening to these dear old-time
scholars reciting the poetry out of their old fourth and fifth readers.
Judge Ellis rose with a radiant light in his eyes and spouted, "At
midnight in his guarded tent, the Turk lay dreaming of the hour," and for
an encore he rolled out "Old Ironsides."
"Ay, tear her tattered ensign down,
Long has it waved on high."
Cousin Roxy obliged with "Woodman, spare that tree," but for an encore she
gave a tender poem of old-time days, called "Twenty Years Ago." Its verses
rang in Kit's head all the way home, and when she learned that Miss
Daphne, too, had been one of the old Professor's scholars, she wrote them
down and sent them west to her.
"I've wandered to the village, Tom,
I've sat beneath the tree,
Upon that schoolhouse playground,
That sheltered you and me.
But few were there to greet me, Tom,
And few were left we know,
Who played with us upon the green,
Just twenty years ago."
"I'll never forget it as long as I live, Cousin Roxy," Kit declared,
fervently; "talk about the twanging of heart strings; why, it seemed to
me as though I could just feel the way you all felt as you sat there. It
was the queerest thing, because Mrs. Peckham is stout and getting gray,
and yet when she got up to recite she actually looked like a plump little
girl with her brown eyes and rosy cheeks. And Deacon Simmons was as boyish
as could be, when he stood there blushing and reading his class paper on
'Old Friendships.'"
"Well, child," said Mrs. Ellis, "I'm glad that you could see a little of
the glory that gave light to us. You'll find out as you grow older and
stand upon life's hills of rest that the days of childhood and going to
school are the sweetest and best that life gives to you. I don't mind
saying that I love every clapboard in the little old red schoolhouse, and
when I read in a magazine the other day that such things were a thing of
the past I wanted to call out that it wasn't any such thing. We had one
right here at our crossroads over a hundred and thirty years old, and
still turning out its hundred per cent. graduates."
The next morning, just after Shad had gone whistling up to the barn, Doris
spied a familiar figure coming along the side drive towards the well
sweep, and leaned out of the window, calling with all her heart:
"Hello, Billie!"
Billie waved back with a cheery greeting that brought the other girls
hurrying to the window, too.
"The camp's immense," he said. "We got in late last night and I knew the
way down, so we didn't disturb anybody. Even found the old boat in the
same place, Kit."
"Well, you wouldn't have if I hadn't hauled it there, where I knew you
could lay your hand right on it. I rather thought it would be just like
you to arrive by the light of the moon and try to swim over."
Billie chuckled. He knew from old, past experience that Kit's scoldings
didn't amount to any more than the perturbed clucking of a hen. They had
brought up a load of supplies with them, but huckleberry pancakes with
honey lured them both up for breakfast that first morning. And even Kit
was silent as Stanley related all of his adventures during the year. It
seemed to her that she had never really looked at him before, that is, to
get the best impression, without prejudice. Somehow, he looked younger and
more boyish this year, anyway, in his camper's low-necked sport shirt and
khaki riding breeches. Kit noted for the first time his crispy, curly
yellow hair, and long, half-closed blue eyes, that always seemed to be
laughing at you. He had dimples, too, and these Kit resented.
"I can't abide dimples in a boy or a man's face," she declared, privately,
to Helen, when the latter was dwelling on Stanley's good looks.
"But, Kit, all of the Roman emperors had dimples in their chins."
"What if they did? They're a fine lot to judge by." Kit meditated for a
moment and then added, "I don't think I like blonde, curly hair either."
"Well, I do," Helen answered, placidly. "I think he'd look wonderful in
doublet and hose with a long cloak thrown around him. I think he's much
better looking than Ralph."
"You'd better not let Jean hear you say so," Kit told her sagely. "I
wouldn't be very much surprised if something mighty interesting happened
here this summer. I heard mother and Cousin Roxy talking about Ralph and
Jean the other day."
"Oh, Kit, don't be mean. Tell me what they said, please. I won't tell."
"Impossible, child," returned Kit, loftily. "In fact, it was only what I
might call a family rumor. But, I can tell you this much, I know perfectly
well that Ralph MacRae has asked Dad for his eldest daughter's hand, and I
don't know a blessed thing more."
Helen sighed happily.
"I hope she has a September wedding, all gold and purple. It would just
suit Jean. If one could only dress her in violet velvet with a girdle of
amethysts set with pearls, and braid her hair with strands of jewels, too.
Jean always has that far-away look, in her eyes that princesses should
have."
"Well, I don't see where you get your princess pattern from," remarked
Kit. "From all the recent pictures that I've seen, they're a very
ordinary, old-fashioned lot of young persons, and decidedly at the
dumpling stage. Besides, Jean herself might have something to say about
it. It will be her wedding, you know, Helen."
They had walked down to the Peckham mill after supper to get some supplies
that Danny Peckham had promised to bring up from Nantic. Just as they came
to the turn of the road there came a strange sound from the direction of
the waterfall tent, deep, rich strains of music, almost as low pitched and
thrilling as the sound of the water itself. Both girls stood stock still
listening, until Helen whispered:
"It must be Mr. Ormond. He's playing on something, isn't he?"
"A 'cello, child," Kit said, drawing in a deep breath as though she could
fairly inhale the sweetness of the music on the night air. "I haven't
heard one since we left the Cove, and it's mother's favorite music. I
wish I knew what he's playing. It sounds like Solveig's song from Peer
Gynt, and I love that."
"Then, that's what he does." Helen's tone held a touch of admiring awe as
she listened. "And we thought he might be anything from a counterfeiter to
an escaped convict hiding away up here. Oh, Kit, why do you suppose he
keeps away from every one?"
"Probably got a hidden sorrow," Kit answered. "Still he's got a terrible
appetite. Mrs. Gorham says she doesn't see how he ever puts away the
amount of food he does. He buys whole roast chickens and eats them all
himself."
Just then the music ceased suddenly. The flap of the tent lifted towards
the roadway, and Mr. Ormond sent a hail across the twilight gloom.
"Is that you, Shad?"
"No, sir, it's just us girls," answered Kit. "We're going down to the
mill."
"Would you mind so very much, Miss Kit, asking if any one has telephoned
a telegram up for me from the station? I am expecting one."
"There, you see," Helen said, dubiously, as they went on down the road.
"We just get rid of one mystery, and he hands us another one to solve. Who
on earth would he be getting a telegram from?"
Kit laughed and slipped her arm around the slender shoulders that were
growing so quickly up to her own.
"You're getting just as bad as every one else here in Gilead, Helenita. I
thought only Mr. Ricketts took an interest in telegrams and post-cards."
Nevertheless, when Sally told them that there had been a message 'phoned
up from Nantic, even Kit showed quick interest.
It was signed "Concetta," and the message read:
"Arrive Nantic, ten-two. All love and tenderness. Contract signed."
The girls returned after delivering the message, brimful of the news, but
Mr. Robbins laughed at them.
"Why, bless your hearts," he said, "I could have told you long ago all
about Bryan Ormond. He is one of the greatest 'cellists we have, and is
married to Madame Concetta Doria, the grand-opera singer. He told me when
he first took the tent for the summer, but as he was composing a new
opera, he wanted absolute solitude up here, and asked me not to let any
one know who they were."
"Talk about entertaining an angel unawares," Jean exclaimed. "Now, Helen,
you'll have your chance, if you can only get acquainted with her. I can
see you perched on their threshold drinking in trills and quavers the rest
of the summer."
Helen only smiled happily. It was she who had pleaded most for the
preservation of the empire grand piano. The one in the gold case with all
the Watteau figures and garlands painted on it, that had been saved as one
of the "white hyacinths" from the old home. After the day's work was
over, it was always Helen who stole into the dim front room to listen
while her mother played over favorite airs from the old grand-operas.
Perhaps only Helen really understood how at this time Gilead and all its
rural delights vanished, and in their place came memories of the days back
at the Cove, when the season tickets at the opera had been as natural a
part of the year's pleasures as setting hens were here.
"Have you ever heard her sing, mother?" she asked, that first evening,
after Mrs. Robbins had played the "Shadow Dance" from "Dinorah" and the
trio from "Traviata."
"I heard her in both of these, dear, and ever so many more. I think my
favorite was Rigoletto. She was a beautiful, girlish Gilda, but that is
years ago. You girls will love her."
"And just to think of her coming to live in a tent at Greenacre Farms,"
Helen said, almost in a hushed whisper. "It seems as if we ought to offer
them the royal suite."
"If you did, they would run away. That is just what they have come here
to escape from, all the royal suites and pomp."
Even Jean was on the tiptoe of expectancy to get her first look at Madame
Ormond. While not one of the girls could have explained just exactly how
they suspected she would look, still they held a blurred picture of a
picturesque mortal set apart from ordinary home folks, who would probably
dress more or less eccentrically.
Kit was in the kitchen making scones for lunch, when a shadow fell across
the entry threshold. Doris sat on the edge of the table by the window
picking over blackberries, and the two stared fixedly at the intruder. She
was frankly over forty, a large buoyant type of woman with a mass of curly
ashen blonde hair and sparkling black eyes, the north of Italy type, with
a wonderful complexion, as Helen said later, like the skin of a yellow
peach. Perhaps it was her smile that charmed the girls mostly, though, at
that first glance. It was such a radiant smile of good fellowship when she
peered into the shadowy interior of the old kitchen.
"Good-morning, everybody. I have come for butter and eggs, and milk." She
spied the two-quart pail of berries on the table, and gave a little cry of
interest. "Where do you find those, my dear?"
Doris told her shyly that they came from the rock pasture on the hill
behind the house.
"Will you come down to the tent this afternoon and take me there? Mr.
Ormond is very, very busy working on his new opera, and I must be away and
let him write in peace, so you and I will have to follow the trails
together, yes?" She smiled down into Doris' piquant, freckled little face,
and just at this moment there came from the living-room, where Helen was
dusting, Dinorah's Shadow Song, sung in a clear, girlish soprano.
Madame Ormond laid her finger on her lips and listened, her eyes bright
with attention and interest.
"It is still another one of you?" she asked, softly, when the melody died
away. "You shall bring her down to the tent to me and let my husband try
her voice with the 'cello. It is his big baby, that 'cello, but it is very
wise; it never gives the wrong decision on a voice, and she has a very
beautiful one."
"Well," Kit declared, with a deep sigh, after the diva had gone on down
towards the road with her butter, eggs and milk, "we've always believed we
were an exceptional family. In fact Mrs. Gorham told me once she thought
every last one of us had very intelligent faces, but now we know we are
budding geniuses. Of course, Dorrie, you and I haven't budded very much so
far, but with an artist and a prima donna in a family, we'll have to begin
our song of triumph pretty soon. I'll bet a cookie she'll go up there in
the pasture every day and do her vocal practicing out of hearing of the
'cello, and Helenita will perch on the nearest rock and play echo."