"I won't have it! I won't have it! If they come, I'll run away and
hide!" shouted the child, wildly.
"That will be very rude. No one acts like that--no one except a
barbarian," said Miss Wilder, calmly.
"I want to be a bar----one of those things you said."
"You act like one most of the time."
The child brain caught at a new idea.
"What _is_ that--that what you said?"
"Barbarian? B-a-r-b-a-r-i-a-n," she spelled slowly. "It is a savage
creature with no manners, no morals, no clothes even. It lives in a hut
or a tree, and eats roots and nuts, and nearly raw meat," Miss Wilder
remarked, none too accurately, but slowly, in order to distract
Isabelle's attention from the late subject of unpleasantness. The little
girl considered her words thoughtfully.
"Do they have children?"
"Yes."
"Where do they live?"
"Oh, strange places; Fiji Islands, for one."
"Are there any near here?"
"Not that I know of."
"I want to go live with the bar-barbarians."
Miss Wilder's stern face underwent no change. She answered seriously:
"You would not like it; you would be very uncomfortable. The children
have no pretty clothes, no nice homes with gardens to play in, no kind
parents or patient teachers."
"Do they have horses?"
"I suppose so."
"Do they swim?"
"Probably. They have rude boats called dug-outs," continued Miss Wilder,
glad of an absorbing subject.
"Do the children go in the boats?"
"No doubt."
"They can't get their clothes spoiled if they don't wear any."
"Obviously. Come, now, Isabelle, put on your dress like a nice girl. The
children will be coming to the party, and you won't be dressed."
"I _won't_ put on that dress, and I'm _not_ going to the party, I tell
you; I _hate_ them."
Miss Wilder tried force, but in vain. She tried strategy, with no
results. Isabelle wriggled out of her grasp and darted out of the room.
Miss Wilder called; no reply. She commanded; no answer. Then she closed
her lips more firmly and betook herself to the door of Mrs. Bryce's
room.
"What is it? I told you not to bother me," an irritated voice called, at
her knock.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bryce, but Isabelle refuses to be dressed for the
party. She says she won't go."
"Come in," called the voice.
The governess opened the door and entered. It was a hot day, and Mrs.
Bryce, in a cool neglige, lay stretched out on a _chaise longue_, with a
pitcher of something iced beside her, a book open on her lap. She was
the picture of luxurious comfort, except for the frown upon her pretty
brow.
"Why don't you make her behave, Miss Wilder?"
"I do my best, Mrs. Bryce, but she is very difficult," the older woman
sighed.
"Of course she's difficult--she's a brat! But that is what I have you
for, to teach her some manners, and make her act like a civilized being.
Where is she?"
"She ran away when I tried to put her dress on her."
"What do you expect me to do about it?"
"I thought you might order her to get dressed."
"Much good it would do! I don't see why I have to be bothered with it. I
didn't want the party; it's a perfect nuisance, cluttering up the place
with noisy kids; but she owes it to them, and she has to have them here
once a season."
A small, determined figure appeared at the door, in a brief petticoat
and socks.
"I won't go to that party," she announced.
"Come here to me this instant," exploded her mother at sight of her.
The child walked slowly to her mother's side, with disconcerting
dignity, all out of proportion to her four brief years.
"What do you mean by acting like this when I give you a birthday party?
There is everything on earth ordered to eat, and all the children in the
colony are asked to come and play with you, and you make a monkey of
yourself."
"I won't go."
"Why won't you go?"
"You didn't ask Patsy."
"You can't ask that common little Irishman to a _party_," objected her
parent.
"I won't go. He's my friend. I like him best, an' if he don't come, I
won't go."
"But it's _your_ party----"
"I hate 'em."
"You ought to whip her!" Mrs. Bryce said to the governess.
A maid appeared at the door to announce the first arrivals.
"Now, you see, your guests are coming, and you aren't even dressed."
"I won't go," reiterated the child, sullenly.
"If we ask Patsy, will you go?" asked Mrs. Bryce desperately.
"No--o; yes."
"Put on her clothes, Miss Wilder, and telephone the Lodge that Isabelle
wants Patsy for her party."
"But, Mrs. Bryce, do you think we ought to humour her? Will not the
children's mothers object to Patsy?"
"Well, if you want her to go to this party, you'd better make a bargain
with her. I know her."
"Come on. Hurry up, Miss Wilder; I want to go after Patsy myself,"
cried the tyrant, racing down the hall.
Miss Wilder followed, and Mrs. Bryce turned to her book, with a sense of
irritated futility which her only child always aroused in her. But the
party soon faded from her mind, save when shrill shouts from the lawn
below caught her attention.
Eventually Mr. Walter Bryce, familiarly known as Wally, appeared at his
wife's door. He was an undersized, dapper little man, with almost no
chin. His sole claim to attention lay in the millions accumulated by his
father.
"Nice row you've got on down stairs," he remarked.
"Isabelle's birthday party," yawned his wife.
"Looks to me like poor old Wilder's birthday party. Just as I came
along, a line of kids was marching up to give their hostess their
presents. Old Wilder was hanging on to Isabelle so she wouldn't bolt,
and the little beast wouldn't take one of the packages. Said she didn't
want their presents. The poor Wilder appealed to me, and I told Isabelle
to act like a lady, and whadye think she said to me--right there before
all those smart-aleck kids?--'Get out, Wally, this is my party'!"
Mrs. Bryce laughed.
"You ought to know better than to give her a chance like that."
"Look here now, Max, she's got to be attended to. She's the limit. She's
got no more manners than an alley cat."
"That's no news to me, Wally."
"Why don't you do something about it?"
"Do something? Don't I get her a new governess every month? Nobody can
do anything with her."
"I don't see where she gets it," said Wally.
"She gets it from you, and she gets it from me. She's the worst of both
of us personified."
"Poor kid, that's tough luck for her"--seriously.
"A little late for vain regrets"--sarcastically.
He went over to the window and looked down at the party scattered about
below.
"Why wouldn't it be a good idea to keep her with you awhile every day,
Max?"
"Not much! I come down here to rest, not to play nursemaid. You might
take her round with you, if you feel that she needs uplifting."
"She's beyond me. I don't understand her; and, on the whole, I don't
like her."
"Nobody likes her; she's _queer_. And plain; my word, why do you suppose
I had to have a child that looks like that? She hasn't one good point."
"Um--she's got eyes."
"Great big goopy eyes too big for her head! This parent business is
too much of a gamble. If you could go pick out a nice blue-eyed,
pink-and-white, ready-made infant----"
"I suppose you should have picked out a pink-and-white ready-made
husband, if you wanted that kind," Wally interposed.
"Well, I never would have picked out Isabelle."
"After all, you're her mother, Max," he began.
"Look here, Wally, don't begin on that mother stuff. I didn't want her
any more than you did, and we were fools to have her. That may be
abnormal, unnatural, and all the rest of it, but it's the truth, and
there are lots of other women just like me. You can't lump us, any more
than you can lump men. We don't all of us have the maternal instinct,
not by a long shot."
"Don't talk like that, Max; it's not nice."
"There you go. It's all right for you not to want a child, but it's
indecent in me. That's a man-made idea, and it won't work any more. Lots
of us don't find motherhood either satisfying or interesting, and we're
getting courage enough to say so."
"The less you say about it, the better," counselled Wally.
"To get back to Isabelle, she's here, and she's just as much your
responsibility as she is mine."
"Being here isn't her fault, poor kid. Seems as if somebody ought
to--well--love her," he finished in embarrassment.
"Go ahead. I've no objection."
Mrs. Bryce returned to her book.
"By Jove, Max, you're hard as rocks."
"Oh, get out, Wally. I'm not interested in your conversation. Go liven
up the party."
"Why don't you try a younger governess, for a change?" he went on,
undeterred. "Wilder is so old and sort of set."
Mrs. Bryce closed her book with irritated finality.
"Wally, I will give you a chance at running our darling child for the
rest of this summer. I declare a strike! You get her governesses, you
donate your society to her. You've got nothing to do. She may keep you
out of mischief."
"Oh, I say, I don't want to butt in, I only thought----"
"She's yours. I'm through until September first."
There was an uproar from below, louder than before. Wally looked out.
"I wonder what they're up to," he said.
A maid, red and flustered, appeared at the door.
"Oh, Mrs. Bryce, please come down to the party. Isabelle ran away with
Patsy and we've just found her."
Mrs. Bryce, oblivious of her costume, followed Mr. Bryce and the maid
down the stairs, as fast as possible. Evidently a crisis had occurred
below. All the girls in their white dresses and pink or blue sashes, all
the boys in their white collars of ceremony, were grouped about on the
lawn, around the base of a big shade tree. Pink hair bows were a-flutter
with excitement. The patent leather pumps of the boys trod upon the
white slippers of the little girls in their efforts to see what was
happening.
At the foot of the tree stood Miss Wilder red and tired, speaking
sternly to some one overhead. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce rushed to join her,
brushing children aside.
"What is the matter, Miss Wilder?" demanded Mrs. Bryce.
"Oh, Mrs. Bryce, she's--she's----"
"Isabelle Bryce, come down here this moment," commanded her mother,
loudly.
There was a whispered colloquy overhead, among the branches.
"That wretched Patsy is with her," wailed Miss Wilder. "They ran away,
and hid for hours, and then we found them up here."
"Isabelle!" shouted her father.
"All right. We're going to drop," said a voice from above.
Suddenly two white and shining little bodies hung side by side from a
limb, then two naked youngsters dropped into the midst of the astounded
party.
"Isabelle Bryce!" gasped her mother.
"We're playing barbarian," said Isabelle, coolly; "Miss Wilder told me
about them."
"Miss Wilder!" protested Wally.
"But I didn't--I mean--I----"
"You said they lived in trees and never wore clothes."
The children began to titter.
"This is your affair, I believe, Wally," remarked Mrs. Bryce, and she
walked in a leisurely way into the house.
"Oh, I say," he called after her; then: "Get her indoors, will you?
Who's the boy?"
"The gardener's child, Patsy."
"Where are your clothes?" he demanded.
"Up in the tree, sorr," said the boy.
"Get them, and cut home," said Wally, severely.
Patsy obeyed, but Isabelle resisted force. "I won't hurry and I won't be
carried, I'll walk," said she, and--properly clad in her "birthday
clothes"--Isabelle Bryce disposed of her first party!