MIRACLES AND MISCHIEF
August 21
DIARY, I'M OUT OF DOORS!
August 28
Diary, you're not to scold. I know I've not honored you with so much
as an exclamation point since my very first out-of-doors entry. But
Mr. John Denton has been and gone--and Wigglesworth is here to stay!
Let me see how it all happened.
Friday last, at exactly three, Sarah arrayed me as a lily of the field
in a glorified turquoise and mauve negligee. There were even
mauve-and-gold pompomed slippers on my worthless feet, and my newly
washed hair was piled high and transfixed with my Mother's
tortoise-shell Spanish comb. It was thus festively garbed that Father
and Doctor Bill--by which name he shall henceforth be known, as some
slight concession to his wizardry--settled me happily under my
particular trees, there to await Mr. Denton's arrival. Sarah, at my
insistence, smuggled a mirror into my hand and sleeve, and when I
heard the smooth purr of the Denton motor, far up the road, I took one
little peek. For if I am not allowed to be just an atom vain, what
virtue is there in charming color schemes and frothing chiffons?
Certainly, the negligee is distractingly pretty, and I am proud of
Father's dress instinct. And something or other had brought the
faintest tinge of color to my cheeks, the shadow of a sparkle to my
eyes. I was hoping that no one would detect me as I lay and admired
myself. But the Doctor Bill person did, of course. He has eyes all
over his head, that man! And promptly, he settled a lovely rainbow
cushion behind my head, remarking very quietly,
"Perhaps this will heighten the effect, Miss Carroll! Poor Uncle
John!"
I could have killed him!
As it was, Diary, although I almost blush to confess it, I--Well, as
his disgustingly capable hand slid past my cheek, I turned my head,
ever so little, and, quite delicately, I _bit_! Not hard, but in an
extremely ladylike manner. There was no occasion for his rude
exclamation, and the alarming brick-red which he proceeded to turn.
Happily for us both, for I was torn between insincere apology and
laughter, Mr. Denton arrived, engrossing his nephew's attention and my
own.
As usual he was accompanied by half a dozen baskets of fruit and half
a library shelf of the latest, lightest books. Best of all, he brought
his own rotund self--and Wigglesworth!
I was prepared for something by Richard Warren's letter, which had
come to me Friday morning. But not for this delicious bunch of
black-satin, French bull puppy. For Wigglesworth is the acme, the
ultimate perfection of dogdom. When, accompanied by gasps from all
assembled, he leaped at me out of the chauffeur's restraining arms, I
gave a perfectly healthy shriek, and clutched him, chiffons
notwithstanding.
"Where did you get him, Denton?" asked Father, vainly endeavoring to
part us.
"I didn't get him," answered Mr. Denton, smiling. "He was wished on me
by an unknown admirer of Mavis."
Father extricated Wigglesworth, and holding him firmly--he has been
well named--read aloud, from the silver and leather collar which
adorned his fascinating neck, "Wigglesworth." Then, looking closer,
added, "What's this? 'Property of H.R.H.'?"
I am afraid I looked guilty. Dr. Denton whistled, and stepped nearer
the initials in question, or, shall I say, the questionable initials?
I was annoyed to see in how friendly a spirit Wigglesworth received
the condescending medical hand upon his quivering ears.
Father is anything but slow. And I have long since let him into the
secret of my romantic correspondence.
"So that's it," he began. And heaven alone knows what he might have
added had I not held up an imploring hand.
Father, well-trained, subsided. But I didn't quite like the little
crease between his brows. It was Mr. Denton, bless him, who saved the
situation.
"Take me up to the house, Carroll," he said. "I have half an acre of
Connecticut soil on my person." And off they went, arm in arm, with
Mr. Denton casting a reassuring look at me over his shoulder.
Alone with Dr. Bill and the frantic Wigglesworth, "Well," I said,
"isn't he wonderful?"
"Who?" asked the obtuse creature.
I pointed to the puppy, chasing his tail with verve.
"Very," he answered drily. "Do you realize, Miss Carroll, that you
almost sat up?"
"When?" I shouted, very rudely, and quite disbelieving.
"About five minutes ago, when the dog jumped into your hammock."
"But," I insisted childishly, "I haven't been able to sit up all by
myself since...."
"I know," he interrupted, "It's what you _have_ done, not what you
haven't, that is the point. Try again."
Half crying from excitement, I tried. But it was no use, and I sank
back, helpless and hysterical.
"You see," I said sorrowfully.
"Yes."
He was looking at me out of those steel-blue eyes.
"We're not going to give up," he said. "But now you must be taken back
into the house again. You're tired."
And no amount of pleading or denial could bend his inflexible will.
Wigglesworth came prancing into my room, just as the Doctor was
leaving.
"You haven't said how adorable he is," I said, coaxing my new toy to
the bed.
"Adorable!" he repeated, emphatically.
But, Diary-dear, the Doctor wasn't looking at the _dog_!
QUITE AT HOME
August 30th
Dear Poet:
By now Mr. Denton has brought you my incoherent note of thanks
for the benison of Wigglesworth. Every day I thank you more. He
is the dearest little friend one could imagine or wish for. I
have taught him to bark loudly when I say your name, and I hope
to bring him to an appreciation of poetry, by selected readings!
Next week, sometime, I am to have my promised lawn fete to
introduce the countryside to the new member of our household.
Even Sarah has succumbed. I heard her talking something
suspiciously like baby-talk to him this morning, when she came in
with my tray and observed Wiggles regarding her brightly and
wagging all over, from his basket at the foot of my bed. And
Father is a willing captive of his charms, even luring him from
me on long, companionable walks. But I believe that he is jealous
of you because he has never thought of getting me a dog. I have
had birds and goldfish and even an Angora kitten which lived but
to run away. But never since childhood a real live dog of my own.
Mr. Denton must have worked some magic with Father that he has so
inexplicably allowed me to accept so valuable a gift from--a
stranger? But no, I cannot call you that!
I regret to report that Wigglesworth has conceived an adoration
for the doctor. The one of no consequence, I mean. I cannot
understand it, but there seems to be a natural affinity between
the two.
Later, I must write you all the things, or, anyway, almost all,
which Mr. Denton said about you. For of course we had a little
session behind closed doors, and I asked the poor man questions
until his grey head rang. Aren't you curious? But before I repeat
to you what was, of course, told to me in strictest confidence, I
must ask you _if those things are true_.
Wigglesworth sends his love. He is beside my bed, this minute, on
the floor, holding up one paw in greeting.
Very gratefully yours,
WIGGLESWORTH'S SLAVE
GREEN HILL
September 5
Dear Diary, I'm sorry that I neglect you so. But you see, with friends
calling every day to behold me, royally at home out of doors, and with
a week's preparation for my "Come one, come all" tea, which took
place yesterday afternoon, and with almost daily letters from Richard
Warren to answer--I've so many now that they make far too bulky a book
of you and so I have them tied up with ribbon, under my pillow--and
with Peter's recent heroic attempt to drink gasoline, and
Wigglesworth's brilliant development as a bloodhound--well, I have had
but little time for you, Blue Book.
Today, Father is out and Sarah busy below stairs. It is five o'clock
of a golden September afternoon, and I am alone, and ready to record
the events of the past week. Suppose we begin with Peter, who lives
next door, as you very well know, and who is an active and ambitious
and altogether charming seven-year old. It seems, Diary, that Peter
has, during the summer, become hopelessly enamored of Jimmy Simpson,
the ten-year old brother of Sammy, a feckless towhead, tanned as a
saddle and twice as tough! From my windows, and more recently also
from the nearer vantage point of my hammock, I have observed the
progress of their friendship, dating from the early days of summer
when Jimmy condescended to aid his older brother in the morning
delivery of the Simpson milk. Lately, Jimmy has been seen displaying
his ragged blue overalls about the lawn adjoining ours. I have heard,
too, blood-curdling shrieks and dire groans which I take to portend
that Peter has more than once inveigled Jimmy into his own favorite
and histrionic pastime of "Injuns and Tigers." Once, Jimmy in his role
of scalper became slightly too realistic, and Peter, bursting through
the hedge which separates the Goodrich property from ours, fled to me
for protection. With his curly head on my breast, I turned against the
aggressor.
"Jimmy Simpson," I cried indignantly, "aren't you ashamed to frighten
a boy younger than yourself? Don't you know that isn't manly?"
Jimmy, engaging, brazen, and blue-eyed, stubbed one bare toe against
the grass.
"Honest, Miss Mavis," he defended himself firmly, "I didn't hurt him
none. He's a _baby_, he is!" he concluded, with a positively vicious
glance at the back of Peter's head.
"I'm not!" shouted the accused, rising up in honest wrath.
"Y'are," repeated Jimmy. "Baby an' telltale."
Here Peter, to my infinite delight, squared two small brown fists, and
disengaging himself from my restraining hands, advanced belligerently
upon his idol.
"You Jimmy," said Peter. "You take that back--quick!"
I swear I saw a gleam of admiration in the Simpson eye.
"Yes," I begged hastily, "do take it back, Jimmy."
Jimmy shifted uneasily upon his capacious feet.
"Well," he began uncertainly. And then a wholly friendly smile
irradiated his freckled face. "I was only funning, Peter," he said
generously.
I breathed again. Peter dropped his hands to his sides and said
happily, "Got any cookies for us, Mavis?"
I rang my silver bell for Sarah, and presently she appeared from the
kitchen, greeted Jimmy in none too friendly accents, and disappearing
into her domain returned again with a heaped plate of crisp tan
cookies and three glasses of lemonade.
"There," said Sarah, grudgingly, "you young limbs!"
She looked at my two small friends as she spoke, but I am afraid she
included me in her remark.
This incident served to show Jimmy the mettle of my seven year old
neighbor. It was by way of a delicate tribute to Peter that he was
asked, on the following day, to be one of six competitors in a foot
race which, starting from his own gate, was to end at the cross roads
some five hundred yards distant. Just before the start he came over
and exhibited himself to me, clad in vest and drawers, with sneakers
on his little feet and a huge red 5 decorating his visibly inflated
chest.
Solemnly, I shook his hand and wished him well. Then I lay back in my
hammock to await the result of the race.
Half an hour later, Peter, very red in the face, very hot, and
manfully trying to suppress his tears, appeared through the gap in the
hedge, with Jimmy in close attendance.
"He won!" said Peter, disconsolately, pointing a dusty forefinger at
his companion.
"But Pete came in second," hastily put in the victor, standing at the
foot of my swinging couch.
"I--I wanted to win," announced Peter, the uncomforted. Then, seeing
my eyes fixed in affection and condolence on him, he gave one loud
frantic gulp and came into my arms.
"But, Peter darling," I, said to the one small red ear I could see,
"you must remember that you are only seven if you _are_ big for your
age, and all the other boys are much older, aren't they, Jimmy?" I
asked this with my most appealing look over Peter's bowed head toward
the Simpson scion.
"Yes, Miss Mavis, ma'am," corroborated Jimmie loudly. "An' Pete, he
done awful good to come in second. Why, Josh Watkins was in the race
too, and he's eleven an' a terrible swift runner."
"You see?" I said to the Ear.
Peter raised his head and thrust his grimy fists into his eyes.
"It's all right," he said bravely, "only...."
"Never mind, dear," I begged, "next time you'll come in first, won't
he, Jimmy?"
"Sure!" agreed Jimmy heartily. And Peter, content with the confidence
of his vanquisher, presently made off with him, saying earnestly, "But
Jimmy, what makes you go so fast?"
Two days later, swinging lazily between my trees and reading _The
Lyric Hour_ to Wiggles, who listened attentively and with cocked,
inquiring ears, I was horrified to see Mrs. Goodrich hurtle herself
through the hedge, followed by Loretta, her black cook, both of them
wringing their hands--Loretta, I swear, almost as white as her
mistress--and both demanding,
"_Have_ you seen Peter?"
"Why, no," I answered, "not today. Why?"
Sarah, her sixth sense telling her that something was wrong, appeared
simultaneously at the foot of my hammock.
"Oh, Mavis," said Peter's pretty mother, "he's lost! He's been gone
two hours, and we've been everywhere!"
Loretta, her apron over her kinky head, rocked to and fro.
I looked at Sarah.
"Have you seen him?" I asked, my heart standing very still.
"No, Miss Mavis."
Except for the sound of Loretta's noisy weeping, we were quite quiet.
"_The Black Pond!_" said Mrs. Goodrich, in a whisper.
"Don't!" said Sarah and I together.
For the Black Pond, Diary, up the road, is a wicked sheet of water,
depthless and sinister.
I have never cursed my helplessness as I did then.
"Perhaps Jimmy Simpson ..." I began. But Mrs. Goodrich interrupted me.
"Loretta has been to the Simpsons', Mavis. Jimmy is off with Sammy
somewhere. No one has seen or heard of Peter since this morning. And
we have not seen him since luncheon."
"Where's Father?" I asked, looking at Sarah.
"Somewhere's with Doctor Denton," she answered. And as she did so, a
gay whistle reached me from the direction of our gate.
"Perhaps that's Father now." I said hopefully. But it was only Doctor
Bill, hatless, coatless, swinging up the path and cutting across to
us.
"Miss Carroll," he said smiling, "your father asked me to tell
you ..." and then, "Why, what's the matter?"
He looked from one to the other, and it was Sarah who answered.
"It's Peter, Doctor. He's lost."
"Lost! Nonsense. He couldn't get lost here. Every one in Green Hill
knows the little chap. Where have you looked?" he asked Mrs. Goodrich.
"Everywhere. And telephoned every house for miles. His father is in
town, you know. Oh...." she broke off incoherently, "I can never
forgive myself--my baby--"
The doctor's hand was on her, quieting, soothing.
"Mustn't break down, Mrs. Goodrich. Suppose you sit here for a bit
with Miss Carroll and get your breath. We'll find the boy, won't we,
Wiggles?" The dog jumped at the sound of his name in the beloved
voice, and began chasing his tail in an ecstasy of showing off.
Dr. Denton beckoned Sarah, spoke to her in a low voice, and I heard
her answer, "Yes sir," before she left the group and went toward the
house, taking Loretta with her.
"Who saw him last?" asked the doctor cheerfully, sitting down with
Wiggles on his knee.
"Michel, our chauffeur. Peter was with him in the barn right after
lunch."
"And where is Michel now?"
"He went with several of the men on the place to search," said Mrs.
Goodrich. "I think--they didn't tell me, but I think they mean to drag
the pond--" She went to pieces there. But it was only for a moment,
for Sarah appeared again, with a glass of something. Dr. Benton took
it from her.
"Drink this," he said quietly, his hand on Mrs. Goodrich's shoulder.
Watching him, I suddenly knew that it would be all right; that Peter
was not really lost, but only mislaid; that we would all be spared a
cruel and terrible sorrow. He seemed to read my mind, for he nodded at
me and said, smiling, "That's better, Miss Carroll."
Sometimes I think that the man is really a magician.
It was perhaps ten minutes later that Michel appeared through the
hedge. Mrs. Goodrich, rather dangerously calm, I thought, got to her
feet.
"Well?" she breathed.
The chauffeur shook his head.
"No trace, ma'am. The boys are still looking...."
"The Black Pond...?" she asked, in a whisper, one hand at her throat.
"They're down there now."
"Ah!"
She was at Dr. Denton's side now, her hands on his arm. "Please help
us." Her eyes sought his.
"I'm going to do my best," he answered. "Michel, did Peter say
anything to you in the barn about going out to play?"
The Irishman's face corrugated in an effort to remember.
"No, doctor, sor. Not that I mind. He came out, the lad, to ask me
what makes cars go fast."
"What?"
It was I who spoke. The foot race of two days before flashed suddenly
into my mind, and the last thing I had heard Peter say, "But Jimmy,
what makes you go so fast?"
"What did you tell him?" I asked eagerly.
"Well," Michel scratched his red head, "I told him the gasoline, Miss
Mavis, just to keep him quiet."
In a word I told the others about the race and Peter's disappointment.
"You don't suppose," I finished, hesitating, "that he tried to...."
"Drink gasoline?" concluded Dr. Benton thoughtfully.
We all looked at Michel.
"Well," he said slowly, "seems to me that I did see him foolin' around
the tank. But I was busy, and when I looked up again, he was gone."
"I seen him runnin'," interposed Loretta suddenly. "Runnin' down
toward the gate. I remember now!"
"Gasoline!" said Peter's mother pitifully, "Would ... would it _kill_
him, Doctor?"
The doctor laughed outright.
"Not by a long shot," he answered cheerfully. "And if he did take a
drink of it, I'll wager it wasn't a very long drink. Now, Mrs.
Goodrich, you and Loretta go home, and get some water heated, and
fetch out a pot of mustard. I'm off with Wiggles to find the young
athlete."
And that's all, Diary, except that they did find him. It was Wiggles,
really, who discovered him in a deserted barn half a mile up the road,
sleeping peacefully and smelling to high heaven of the gas. Home they
brought him, and it must go on record that though mustard and warm
water had no effect whatsoever upon that cast iron little stomach,
every time Peter coughed Dr. Denton swears that the gasoline fumes
nearly knocked him over!
"Did you really drink it, sweetheart?" asked his mother just before
she tucked him in bed.
"Course," answered Peter, wide-eyed. "Mike said it made the cars go
fast, so I tried it. I didn't like it much," he confessed, "but golly,
how I ran! I wish Jimmy could have seen me!"
And on that, Peter fell asleep.
Diary, I am nearly asleep too. Won't Sarah scold if she catches me! So
I will postpone till tomorrow my account of the Lawn Tea--and--the
Utterly New Man imminent in our midst!
Now, aren't you curious?