THE RUBY SEAL.
The graduating class of the Girls' Grammar School comprised seven
young misses, of whom Grace Clifford was the youngest, though by no
means the most timid and retiring. They all met on Saturday afternoon
at Mrs. Hallock's to talk over the new project.
The vote was unanimous in favor of the Ruby Seal. Isabel Harrington
opposed it for a while, it is true; but this may possibly have been
because she was not the very first one consulted.
"Now," said Grace, when she saw that, as usual, Cassy expected her to
manage affairs, "here I sit with pencil and paper; and now we'll pass
resolutions, if you please. I'm secretary."
"First place," said Isabel Harrington, with a toss of the head, "I'd
like to ask what's the good of a society, any way?"
"What's the good?" repeated Grace; "ahem! it's to-- to-- make us
better, of course."
"Then mightn't we pass one resolution to read the Bible?" asked gentle
Mahla Linck, the lame girl, whom everybody loved.
"Yes, we will, we will!" cried every voice.
"It's a vote," said Grace, writing down: "We hereby solemnly pledge
ourselves to read two chapters in the Bible daily."
"And say our prayers," suggested Mahla again.
"O, that's all understood," replied Grace. "I'd be ashamed to put
that down. It looks like we could ever forget our prayers!"
"Now," said Judith Pitcher, "I move we forbid the use of all
unladylike words."
This vote was passed.
The next was against falsehoods of every hue, from little white lies
up to the big black ones.
"We mustn't talk about 'oceans of tears,' and 'biting our tongues
out,' I suppose," said Isabel, demurely, but with a sly glance at the
secretary.
"That means me," said Grace, blushing. "And now," continued she,
pausing and looking at Cassy, who would not speak for her, "--now let's
all agree never-- never to be married. If that be your minds, please
to manifest it."
The girls looked astonished.
"I've been reading Mythology," pursued Grace, "and some of the nicest
goddesses and nymphs didn't marry -- Diana, and Minerva, and Clytie,
and Sappho."
"We're not goddesses and nymphs, I hope," said Diademia Jones, shaking
her head.
"Nor heathens," added Isa, with spirit.
"O, no; but if ladies want to be very great, and do oceans of good,
and write poems and everything, why, they mustn't be married. You see
how it is, girls; there's so much housekeeping and sewing to attend
to."
"But, then," added Lucy Lane, mournfully, "if we're not married, we'll
be--old maids!"
"O, no, indeed," said Grace, positively. "Why, if you're great and
splendid, you never will--no such a thing! Maria Edgeworth was
splendid, and she never was an old maid that ever I heard of. And
there was--"
"Grace Greenwood," suggested Cassy, in the tone of one who has added
the finishing stroke to an argument.
But the girls exclaimed,--"Why, Grace Greenwood is married; what are
you talking about? There, there, people can be married, and be
splendid, too."
Grace felt that her cause had received a blow.
"Now, girls," said she, after a pause, "I'll tell you how it is.
Grace Greenwood was married a long while ago. If she was a little
girl now, and saw such acting boys, she'd say, 'It's an awful thing!'
Why, girls, I think, for my part," Grace went on with much dignity,
"we lower ourselves, we degrade ourselves, when we associate with
boys. They smoke, and chew, and use very improper language. It does
seem to me we're white lilies, and they're nothing but--but thistles.
Let's faithfully promise not to converse with boys, --unless it's to
try and reform them, you know."
"Our brothers," urged soft-voiced Lucy Lane, timidly.
"Yes, our brothers," murmured the other girls.
"And our cousins, you know," added dashing Diademia Jones.
No one was quite so enthusiastic over this non-marrying resolve as
Grace had expected; still, the vote was passed with much solemnity,
the girls resigning themselves to the prospect of single lives like a
little band of heroines. They were now certain of becoming
distinguished, and might be doctors, judges, or ministers, just as
they liked, though, as Grace very justly remarked, they need be in no
haste about choosing professions.
It was decided that Grace should be queen of the Ruby Seal Society.
The girls bound themselves to one another by solemn pledges, and if
any member should, by word or deed, do anything to the injury of a
princess, the offender was to be expelled at once. The name, and even
the existence, of the society must be kept a profound secret. They
agreed that a lecture should be delivered once a month, the queen
leading off, and the princesses following in turn, according to ages.
Isa Harrington tried to pass a resolution against any two members of
the society being especially intimate, and setting themselves up for
"particular friends." She was quite eloquent upon this resolution,
but was frowned into silence by Grace, who would have cried, "Down
with the Ruby Seal," sooner than she would have given up Cassy for an
intimate friend.
The society broke up mutually pleased, every one of the princesses
sealing the compact with a kiss, and parting with the password for the
month, "_Vera_." The only discontented face was Isa's, and her
handsome eyes darkened with jealousy as she looked back and saw that
Grace lingered, talking with Cassy. What was there about Cassy
Hallock so very remarkable? For Isa's part, she couldn't see that she
was better than other folks! Ah, Isa Harrington, look out for that
tiny serpent of jealousy. Crush it before it grows to a monster.
[Illustration: Grace and Cassy]
Grace and Cassy walked slowly along, their arms about each other's
waists, chatting socially, and making the most of the time, for Cassy
was to go to Kentucky next week. There are few things more pure and
delightful than the mutual friendship of two good little girls. Isa
Harrington, to be sure, did not think so, but her jealousy was not
more than half suspected by Grace and Cassy.
The Cliffords lived a little way out of town, and their beautiful
grounds were soon in full view. The broad lawn, enclosed by a
trimly-cut hedge, was now of a sleepy brown, in harmony with the
freestone house which stood on a terrace overlooking the clusters of
evergreen trees and well-trained shrubbery. On the other side of the
house was a conservatory filled with choice flowers, and beyond that
the cottage of Mr. Sherwood, the English gardener.
The girls parted at their trysting-place, the "acorn-tree," and Grace
walked the rest of the way alone, musing upon the glorious destiny
which awaited the distinguished Miss Clifford in the rosy future.
When within a few steps of the gate, she saw her mother coming from
Mr. Sherwood's cottage in apparent haste. There was evidently some
cause of disturbance, for every member of the Sherwood family ran out
of the house, one after another, followed by Barbara Kinkle, with her
apron over her head.
"What _is_ the matter," cried Grace, rushing into the yard in
breathless haste.
"Nothing much," replied Barbara, trying to speak calmly. "Your
brother has only been and lost himself. But don't you have no fears,
Miss Grace; he never did go and fall in the river."
Every particle of color fled from Grace's face. She forgot that
Horace belonged to the condemned race of "awful boys." The bare
possibility that he might be drowned was too horrible!
"O, Barby," she cried out. "O, Mr. Sherwood, run for the river."
And for her own part, she ran round and round in a maze, wringing her
hands, peeping under the hedge, examining the gravel path, and all the
places where Horace certainly could not be, even if he had tried to
conceal himself. Mr. Sherwood and his wife had gone to the river.
"It is, perhaps, a foolish alarm," said Mrs. Clifford, pacing the
yard. "Horace asked me to let him go, with some other boys, shooting
squirrels, but I said _No_, very decidedly. I cannot think Horace
would disobey me so."
"Hurrah!" shouted a boyish voice from the house. "Here is the
runaway, safe and sound. Please come here, Mrs. Clifford, if you want
to see a curiosity."
Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Barbara went up stairs with hearts
wonderfully lightened.
"Further yet," said Robert Sherwood's voice from a distance.
Ascending the fourth flight of stairs, they entered the square,
unfinished room called the Observatory. Here sat the boy who had
caused this anxiety, surrounded by a chaos of tools, blocks of wood,
pieces of tin, and coils of rope.
"Now, there!" cried he, bending his elbows into acute angles, and
trying to hide his work in his leather apron. "What made you come in
my shop? My pa said--"
"My son," said Mrs. Clifford, trying not to smile at the boy's
perplexed gestures and eager attempts to put things out of sight, "if
you had only told us you kept shop in the roof of the house, we would
have been spared this needless alarm."
"Yes, Horace Clifford," said Grace, loftily, "I do despise to see
anyone so secret and mysterious."
"I wonders we didn't think he was whittling sticks some-place," said
Barbara, glancing admiringly at Horace.
"Well, now you know," said the boy, fidgeting. "You've found me, and
I wasn't lost; now can't you go off?"
"Pretty talk to your ma," cried Grace.
"O, ma, I don't mean you. But I just don't want anybody to see this
thing I'm making till it's plum done."
"Plum done!" repeated Grace; "where did you pick up such droll words?
and why will you twist your mouth so, Horace?"
The boy threw down his jackknife with a jerk of despair.
"There, now, can't you go away?--I mean you and Barby. 'Tisn't fair
play. This is my own shop-room, and my pa said I could keep my
tool-chest in it, and there shouldn't anybody--"
But Horace found himself talking to empty air, for his visitors had
disappeared. He unrolled his leather apron, removed the bit of straw
matting from sundry boards, and gazed at them fondly, muttering, "Too
good for Gracie, now, isn't it, when she blows me up so?" But for all
that, he set to work again till it was so dark that he could not see
to guide his jackknife; when he went downstairs, declaring--to use his
own words--that he "was hungry enough to eat ginger."
Phebe, the little colored girl, who, during all the excitement about
Horace, had been obliged to stay in the nursery with the baby, was
glad now to wash dishes for Barbara, and pour into her ears complaints
of wee Katie, who was, she said, "a right cross one--as cross as two
hundred sticks."
Barbara listened in indignant silence, only asking at last, "What for
a baby would she be now, if she goes to cut her teeth and doesn't
cry?"
"Bravo! Chalk Eyes," cried Horace, suddenly rushing out upon Phebe,
"none of your grumbling."
"O, Horace," whispered Grace, reprovingly, "hush saying Chalk Eyes.
Haven't you any feeling for poor _discolored_ creatures?
"Poh, Gracie! _Niggroes_ don't feel any worse than we do. Come, let's
play catch."
They played till they were called into the parlor to learn their
Sabbath school lessons.
Grace's last waking thought was about the new society. Who knew but
they might some day build a little asylum for poor children? People
would wonder and admire. Well, nobody should know a word about it
yet,--not for a year and a day. Just as if girls couldn't keep
secrets! And Grace at last dropped to sleep with her finger on her
lip.