During the years that followed many were the governesses set up by Mrs.
Bryce to be promptly knocked down, as it were, by Isabelle. They would
either depart of their own accord, or they would be sent flying by the
irate Mrs. Bryce after some escapade of her incorrigible offspring.
"She'll end in a reform school!" she remarked to Wally one day, upon the
dismissal of the latest one.
He sought out his daughter and laboured with her.
"Look here, kid, how many governesses have you had lately?"
"Oodles of 'em."
"But what do you do to them?"
"Get rid of 'em, they're no good. Can't you get Max to let me have Ann
again?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I won't have any of these she gets me--old snoops!"
"She does the best she can," Wally defended.
"She does not. She doesn't even look at 'em, just telephones for one to
be sent out. Let's you and me go pick out another one, Wally."
"I'm sorry, but your mother won't stand for it. Ann gave her a piece of
her mind before she left, and Max blames me for it."
"If she'd get Ann, I'd be so good she'd never have to change again."
"Why don't you tell her that?"
"I did. It makes her mad. You tell her, Wally."
"She gets mad at me, too."
"If you get mad back and yell at her, she stops. That's what I do," she
advised him.
"Look here, it would be a lot more comfortable for you to put up with
some woman, even if you don't like her. You always have to get used to a
new one."
"I don't. They have to get used to me," the imp replied. "Where you
going?" she added.
"I'm going to exercise Nero."
"Take me."
"Can't look after you and that horse, too."
"I'm not a baby," she scorned him. "Tell them to bring the pony round,
Wally."
Later when she threw her breeched leg over her horse, and waited for
Wally to mount, he exclaimed:
"Lord, I wish you'd been a boy!"
"So do I."
They started off. She had discarded the old Shetland pony as too
childish, and demanded a real steed. So Wally had given her a small
Peruvian horse, delicately made and fleet of foot. She rode him like a
leaf on the wind. She jumped hedges and fences and ditches; she did
circus tricks, and finally nagged Wally's Nero into a race.
"You're some rider, Isabelle," he said, on the way home.
"You bet I am!" she replied.
At the door Matthews, the butler, announced that the new governess had
arrived.
"Damn it!" ejaculated Isabelle.
Wally reproved her sharply, but she was inattentive.
"Let's fire her, Wally, and you take care of me."
"Would you like that?" he said, touched by this unusual mark of
affection.
"Yes. You always do what I want you to," replied his tactless child.
"I have other things to do than to look after a fresh little shrimp like
you."
The "new one" was a middle-aged English gentlewoman of the usual
governess type. Isabelle knew the kind thoroughly. She had initiated
whole companies of them into life at The Beeches. Miss Watts, this one
was called. She was putting her things into bureau drawers, when
Isabelle appeared at the door of the bathroom which joined their rooms.
"Is this Isabelle?" inquired the new victim.
The child nodded.
"How do you do? I am Miss Watts."
"I know."
"I hope we are going to be friends----"
"I never like governesses--only one."
"Why did you like this one?" inquired Miss Watts.
She was so used to the lack of manners in the children she taught, that
this one seemed no worse than usual.
"Because she was young and could swim and ride and tell me stories."
"I'm too old to swim and ride, but I can tell stories."
She went on with her unpacking.
"What kinds of stories?"
"All kinds. I know hundreds of stories. Can you read?"
"I know letters, and 'cat' and 'rat,' but I can't read big books. Let's
hear you tell a story."
"I will, with pleasure, when I finish here."
"But I want it now."
"It will take me only a little while."
"But I won't wait."
Miss Watts became aware that this was the initial clash of arms.
"No? Well, don't let me keep you then. Is that your room?"
"If you don't do what I want, I'll yell so everybody in the house will
come to see what's the matter."
Miss Watts glanced at her and smiled.
"That will be interesting," she said.
Whereupon Isabelle opened her mouth and emitted long, loud shrieks. Miss
Watts continued counting handkerchiefs. The howls grew more artificial
in quality, but louder in volume. Isabelle grew red in the face. This
was hard work. After about three minutes of bedlam Miss Watts remarked:
"But where is the audience, Isabelle? I'm afraid you have cried 'Wolf!
Wolf!' too often."
Isabelle stopped long enough to shout:
"I didn't cry 'Wolf!'"
"No?" said Miss Watts, seating herself by the window. "I've finished
now. Is your concert over?"
The child stared at her.
"Maybe you'd be interested in the story of the man who cried 'Wolf!
Wolf!'"
Isabelle smarted under a sense of defeat.
"I won't have any stories now."
"Very good. Of course, I only tell stories as a favour," she added,
pointedly.
The youngster went into her own room. Miss Watts heard her banging
around in there. Presently she appeared again.
"Why did the man cry 'Wolf! Wolf!'?" she demanded.
"Sit down, and I'll tell you," answered Miss Watts, pleasantly.
So the story was told, and the new relationship inaugurated which was to
last for several years.
Miss Watts was a woman of considerable intellectual capacity, with a
passion for books. She was ill-fitted for the sole charge of a
five-year-old girl of Isabelle's vitality, but her poise and sense of
humour won the child's respect. After that first experiment there were
no more spasms of howling. Miss Watts never tried to sentimentalize
their relationship. She recognized the child's unusual quality, and her
precocity. She was at present an unendurable human being, thanks to her
bringing up. Her ideas and ideals were servant-made. If she could be
brought to see herself as socially an outcast, because of her bad
manners, Miss Watts knew it would effect a cure.
On her side, Isabelle found Miss Watts's mind a storehouse of treasures.
She told stories of all countries, and all times, and she told them
well. The only punishment ever inflicted was the abolishment of the
story hour, and this was the only chastisement Isabelle had ever
regarded as such. There was a marked improvement in her behaviour and
the members of her household drew a long breath of relief.
Miss Watts piqued the girl's interest in the study hours, and, as if by
a miracle, she learned to read. The teacher found an extraordinary
concentration of effort to acquire anything the girl desired. Promised
the joy of finding stories for herself, the student applied herself and
learned by magic. She was extremely proud of the new accomplishment, and
would have read constantly if Miss Watts had not settled upon literary
pursuits as the reward of virtue.
One of the by-products of the new ability was a tighter hold on her
leadership of the children she played with. Everything she read
suggested new and wonderful games. As originator and inventor she always
played the leading roles, assisted by the others.
Summer days provided uninterrupted opportunity for her talents. She
turned the playhouse into a theatre, and organized a supporting company.
Sometimes Miss Watts assisted with the scenario, sometimes Isabelle was
sole author or adapter.
It was the year when she was eight, and just beginning to read Dickens,
that she prepared a presentation of "A Tale of Two Cities." She worked
at it with great enthusiasm for fully a week. Then she appeared in her
mother's room.
"Max, can I have lemonade and cake for the audience this afternoon?"
"What audience?"
"At the Isabelle Theatre."
"Who's coming?"
"Everybody. Parents and relatives. I rode around to all the houses this
morning and issued the invitations. They all accepted."
"Why didn't you consult me before you invited the neighbourhood
in?"--hotly.
"I thought you'd kick about the refreshments."
"If you ever do this again you will get no refreshments and I will send
your friends home."
"They're yours too. Martin Christiansen said he would not miss it for a
kingdom."
"You call him Mr. Christiansen, when you speak of him, Miss Impudence.
What do you intend to do to entertain all these people?"
"'A Tale of Two Cities,' by Charles Dickens."
"In the playhouse?"
"Yes; it will be crowded, but people can sit on the floor."
"You can't ask people to sit on the floor in that stuffy box!"
"Well, I asked you to let me use the garage and you wouldn't."
"So that's why you asked all these people."
"That's only one reason. Matthews and Henry can carry chairs to the
garage this morning. We can move the stage our own selves. The play
begins at two."
"Hottest time in the day."
"You don't have to come."
"Who's in your show?"
"I am the star, and Tommy Page is Carton. He's no good because he
giggles, but Mr. Christiansen wouldn't play it. I asked him first."
Mrs. Bryce laughed.
"I suppose you could do with ice cream and cake."
"We could"--promptly.
"What are you going to wear?"
"I have several costumes. I took your velvet opera coat for the
rehearsal. Do you mind?"
"Mind? Certainly I mind. Don't you dare touch anything in my closet."
"All right," replied her daughter, coolly; "Tommy brought over his
mother's best coat in case you were huffy."
"I shall call Madge Page up this minute and tell her."
"Very well, but if you do, I'll announce before the curtain goes up,
that because of _traitors_ there are no costumes."
She saw that that shot took effect.
"You'd better let it alone, Max. I've got it all thought out," she
added.
"I'd like to spank you!" Max exploded.
At the door Isabelle turned.
"Don't you care anything about ART?" she demanded.