“You can’t tell anything by the way a day starts,” philosophized Phœbe,
as she unlaced her shoes preparatory to going to bed; “because a
wonderful day starts exactly like an ordinary one.”
The day had indeed started ordinarily enough—with the usual routine:
breakfast, twenty minutes in the open air, then an hour equally divided
between spelling and sums. Next Uncle John “heard” the spelling, and
looked over the sums; after which, settling himself in a big,
comfortable chair by a window,—his back to Phœbe—he listened while she
read aloud from Dickens’s “Child’s History of England.”
Phœbe liked the reading aloud best. Because she had discovered that if
she would read quietly, and in one tone, Uncle John could be counted
upon to fall asleep during the first ten minutes. Whereupon Phœbe, with
“Little Women” handy, or “Sara Crewe,” or, better still, something by
“The Duchess”, was able to change from the History to a story without in
any way disturbing Uncle John.
When Uncle John was finished with his after-breakfast sleep (Sophie
confided to Phœbe that it was his liver), he invariably wakened with a
start, pretending that he had not been dozing at all, said “Yes, yes,
yes,” as he got up, and “Very well, dear child,” as he crossed to the
table and his work, and Phœbe was then at liberty either to go on
reading from the book of her choice or betake herself elsewhere.
But this was to be a wonderful day. For no sooner was Phœbe engrossed in
her book, as her clergyman uncle was in his sermon, than Sophie
appeared, looking flushed and important. She made toward the big table
with a swish of her starched skirts. She bent to whisper something.
Whereat Dr. Blair sprang up with a joyful exclamation and strode out.
It so happened that Phœbe was reading “Airy, Fairy Lillian”. On
Sophie’s entrance she had quickly closed that fascinating volume and
slipped it between her back and the chair, then folded her hands
thoughtfully in her lap; not that she feared to let Sophie know what
she was reading—as a matter of fact it was Sophie who had recommended
“The Duchess” books, and pointed out the place of their hiding. But
Phœbe knew that whenever Uncle John was roused out of the strange,
dazed—almost cataleptic!—condition into which he fell when he worked,
he was more likely than not to take stock of everything about him. And
Phœbe did not care to have him see “Airy, Fairy Lillian”.
Uncle John gone, Sophie did a hop-skip to Phœbe’s chair. “What d’ y’
think!” she exclaimed excitedly.
Phœbe looked up languidly. Secretly she was annoyed at Sophie’s
interruption, for the exquisite _Lillian_ (a sort of novelized
Marguerite Clark) had just sprained her slender, silken-covered ankle,
and a lover fully as handsome as Dustin Farnum was about to take
_Lillian_ up in his strong young arms.
“What?” she inquired politely.
Sophie bent, put a hand on each knee, and beamed into Phœbe’s eyes.
“Comp’ny,” she announced.
“Company? Who?” Phœbe was more than interested.
“Genevieve Finnegan.”
Phœbe made a wry face. “Her!” she said, and flushed.
“I pretended I didn’t know her,” chuckled Sophie.
Phœbe was suspicious. “What do you think she’s come for?” she asked.
“Can’t say.” Sophie straightened and shrugged.
“Maybe she’s going to tell me they’re all sorry for putting me out of
school,” suggested Phœbe.
“You’re right! Because Miss Simpson come with her.”
“Miss—Simpson!” gasped Phœbe, staring.
“In the sittin’-room with Grammaw and Dr. Blair.”
Phœbe stood up. The bow on the front of her middy-blouse rose and fell.
Her eyes swam. It was all very well to be independent, to say she did
not want friends or acquaintances. But she had lived through scores of
dull days—days that were all the harder to endure because she was a
product of a metropolis. She had not even seen as much of Manila as she
would have liked. Miss Ruth, too, came only when she had to. And when
Uncle Bob had suggested asking little girls in, Phœbe had proudly said
no—but said it with a bursting heart.
But now the time was come when she could stand out against her
loneliness no longer. “Oh, Sophie! Sophie!” she cried, clasping her
hands. “It’s just splendid! No more tutoring with Uncle John! Oh, how I
hate it! No more Dickens’s ‘Child’s History of England,’ or these awful
classics! Miss Simpson’s come to ask me——”
She paused. It was the look on Sophie’s face that made her pause.
Resentment was written large on that countenance framed by the tousled
hair. Phœbe understood the resentment. She shared it. “But she didn’t
want me when my mother was—West,” she said.
Sophie’s arms were folded. “Now, you’re talkin’!” she replied
admiringly. “When you _needed_ these fine ladies, they didn’t stand by
y’.”
Phœbe nodded. “I know. I’ve thought about it lots since my mother died.
And I know there was something the matter.” She looked down at the
carpet, restraining herself from questioning Sophie. What was it that
Mrs. Botts had said—while Uncle Bob covered Phœbe’s ears? Something very
ugly, Phœbe was sure. And Phœbe would have liked to ask now, yet shrank
as ever from discussing her mother with a servant. But Uncle Bob had
said that Mother could not do wrong——
“Sophie!” she whispered. “_I_ hadn’t done anything, had I? And Miss
Simpson sent home my books!” Her voice broke. She sank to the chair.
“Phœbe,” said Sophie, gently. Then to rouse her, “Keep your chin up,
Kiddie! Don’t you let that Finnegan girl see that you care!”
“I don’t care,” protested Phœbe, with spirit. “You just watch me! Go
on—bring her in. I’m ready!” She caught up a volume of Scott from where
she had deposited it when _Lillian_ had proved the more enthralling.
“Ha-ha-a-a-a!” chortled Sophie, proudly. With a toss of her head, she
went out.
Phœbe opened her book at random. Perhaps it was even upside down—she
scarcely knew. However it was, she became intensely engrossed in it, so
that she did not even glance up when the door to the hall opened and
Sophie returned.
“I found her, Miss Finnegan,” announced Sophie, in her best receiving
manner.
“Phœbe!” gushed Miss Finnegan. She burst past Sophie. “Phœbe! You
_darling_! Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”
Phœbe let her book drop, still open, to her knees. Very carefully she
put one forefinger on the line she was supposed to be reading. Then she
raised eyes that had in them mild surprise, and just a trace of sweet
bewilderment.
“Oh! How do you do,” she answered politely; and got up. “Please excuse
me. I—I get so interested in my books. This is ‘Kenilworth,’ by Sir
Walter Scott. Of course you’ve read it.”
“‘Kenilworth’?” said Genevieve. “Why, no.”
“You haven’t?” returned Phœbe, shocked. “Oh, my, that’s too bad. After a
while, when you’re grown up, you’ll wish you’d read it. A girl can’t be
just fluffy. And a woman mustn’t be fluffy. We must know things, and we
must be wise and—and as much like Miss Ruth Shepard as we can possibly
be.”
Genevieve blinked, trying to comprehend this onrush of ideas.
Phœbe put her head on one side and smiled. “Oh, I _do_ so enjoy the
classics,” she declared.
It was Genevieve’s turn to be bewildered. “The—classics?” she echoed.
“What are the classics?”
Phœbe knit her brows. “Why, they’re—they’re—well, just the most
important thing. My Uncle John says ‘The classics are the foundation of
culture’.”
“Is that so!” pondered Genevieve. “Well, I’d better put ’em down. What
did you call ’em? ‘Kenilworth’?” She drew a handsome leather notebook
from the richly embroidered handbag on her arm. “Because Mamma says,
‘Germans or no Germans, with our name we just got to have culture’.” She
touched her tongue with the tip of a slender gold pencil and wrote.
Sophie, backed against the hall door, shook with silent laughter. As
Phœbe glanced her way, roguishly, Sophie noiselessly applauded, and
signalled Phœbe to continue her tactics.
Phœbe assumed the grand air. “I suppose you’ve heard about my father?”
she began again.
“In Peru, ain’t he—isn’t he?” asked Genevieve.
“It’s South America,” said Phœbe. “Only a few people ever go there.
Daddy is such a wonderful mining-engineer that they just had to have
him.”
Genevieve put away her notes. “Well, I suppose now, the first thing you
know, your father’ll be getting married.”
Phœbe turned white. All the grand air went, leaving her staring almost
wildly. “Married!” she breathed. “My—father——”
Genevieve smiled with gratification. Her shot had gone home. “Mamma
says,” she went on blandly, “that since this war, with so many men
killed off, why, a man that ain’t—I should say isn’t—married don’t stand
a chance.”
Phœbe flung “Kenilworth” down. “Oh, but he wouldn’t!” she cried. “No! I
don’t want to lose him!”
Sophie was at her side in an instant. “Darlin’, don’t you believe it! He
loves you, and just nobody else.” Then marching up to Genevieve,
angrily, with hands on hips, “Say! What did you come here today for,
anyhow?”
Genevieve lifted her shoulders with disdain. “Mamma says,” she returned
calmly, “that you can tell whether people are nice or not by their
servants.”
“Y’ can!” taunted Sophie. “Well, ‘Mammaw’ sure oughta know. Because
Bridget Finnegan was oncet a servant.”
Genevieve’s face darkened. Her neck appeared to swell. “Well, I can tell
you this much,” she answered hotly. “There are some things my mother
_wasn’t_. People have never said that she——”
“Here!” stormed Sophie. She caught Genevieve by a shoulder.
“Sophie!” gasped Phœbe, appalled.
But Sophie did not hear. “Now, you run along,” she ordered, showing
Genevieve toward the door. “Do y’ understand?”
Genevieve went haughtily. “I wouldn’t stay for anything,” she declared.
“I’ll wait for Miss Simpson in my motor.”
“When y’ got your motor,” sneered Sophie, “what a _pity_ y’ didn’t get
some manners!”
Genevieve ignored her. “Good-bye, Phœbe,” she said, from the door. “I
don’t believe us Simpson girls will see you again at school.”
“I’m dead sure you won’t!” cried Sophie, and slammed the door in
Genevieve’s face.
Phœbe sighed. “Now, she’ll make Miss Simpson hate me,” she said sadly.
“And so will all the girls, and they won’t take me back——”
“Take you back!” raged Sophie. “After they sent you packin’ home that
time? Where’s your pride? If it was me, I just wouldn’t _go_ back. And
your uncles and your paw won’t let y’ when they hear what I tell
’em!—Phœbe, you show Miss Simpson that you don’t want her old school.
You turn _her_ down—first!”
Phœbe rallied herself. She realized that Sophie was speaking the truth.
The quarrel with Genevieve—and especially what Genevieve had just said
(Phœbe was aware of an inference there), made her see that the last
bridge was burned between her and the Simpson School. So she might as
well show indifference to the visiting Principal, whose voice, even now,
could be heard from the direction of the sitting-room.
“All right, Sophie,” she whispered bravely. “Don’t you worry.”
She caught up “Kenilworth” once more, tucked herself into a corner of
the big couch, rested her head in a scholarly pose upon one hand, and
lost herself between the pages of Sir Walter Scott.