During the next few years of Isabelle's life she was more of a trial to
her household than ever before, if such a thing were possible. She
overplayed the tomboy, just as she did every role she essayed.
From the moment Herbert Hunter came to her rescue in the affair of Tommy
Page, he was exalted to the highest pedestal in her temple of worship.
Boys knew what loyalty meant. Her hero had forced all the witnesses on
that occasion to keep absolute silence about it--with police, arrest,
and prison terms as alternatives. That he, "an older boy," should
condescend to champion her cause was a triumph for our heroine.
She scorned girls, she endured only the society of males from this time
on. She could scarcely be forced into any costume but her riding
clothes. She applied herself to sports until she played better than most
boys. By disguising this fact, and pretending to be a mere novice, she
was admitted to their games.
Herbert accepted her as Man Friday with considerable reluctance, but she
made him feel that her very gratitude gave her a sort of hold on him.
She was very useful, if you knew how to handle her; and sheer loss, if
you did not. She abhorred authority. If you told her she must do a
thing, she stubbornly refused. If you asked it as a favour, it was done
instantly. If you dared her to do a thing, nothing could stop her. She
was appallingly indifferent to danger. She terrified the more timid
souls in Herbert's crowd. But aside from the fact that she was good at
their games, her main contribution was the original things she thought
up for them to do.
She had, at fourteen, a fair acquaintance with American history, and she
devised rare amusements, based on the primitive life of our pioneer
forefathers. These games lasted for weeks. Bands of Indians preyed on
the settlers; the settlers sent messengers to the tribal chiefs. There
were periods of parleying, smoking of the peace pipe; there were war
dances and uprisings.
The scene might run like this. The ship which was bringing the pilgrims,
was wrecked off the beach, and the passengers took refuge in rowboats
and canoes, from which they landed upon the unfriendly shores. Red men
lay in wait for them, lurking behind sand forts. Occasionally when women
settlers were absolutely necessary, Margie Hunter and the other girls
were allowed to come along, but for the most part they were ruthlessly
shut out. Isabelle, as author and stage manager, was indispensable and,
therefore, safe.
It took much strategy on Isabelle's part to effect her freedom. She
assured Miss Watts that all the children went daily to play at the
Hunters', because there was a pool, and "You have the most fun there";
so when, of an afternoon, Miss Watts accompanied her to the Hunters',
and stayed chatting with the Hunter governess until it was time to go
home, her charge was always wonderfully behaved until she was out of
sight. Then she left the girls and sped off to her true companions.
Margie threatened to tell on her, but Herbert took the matter in hand,
and nothing came of the threat.
Of course Max and Wally had no idea of her associations; that was Miss
Watts' business. Isabelle played with the children of the right set,
which was all that really mattered. That she swaggered and boasted and
whistled about the house, these were annoying details, but she had
always been a pest.
Wally protested once against her hoydenish manners.
"You talk like a jockey, Isabelle. You haven't a grain of feminine
charm."
"Feminine charm! Ha!" snorted his daughter, with scorn.
"You'd better try to acquire a little. You'll need it," he warned her.
"Need it for what?"
"Need it for your business."
"What is my business?"
"Getting married."
She stared at him with an angry flush mounting her face. She turned and
mounted the stairs, leaning over to shout as she went, with unmistakable
emphasis:
"When you've bats in your belfry that flut,
When your _comprenez-vous_ line is cut,
When there's nobody home
In the top of your dome,
Then, your head's not a head; it's a nut!"
Wally swore gently, and gave it up.
Isabelle's life seemed to run in a series of crises. It was always
mounting toward or descending from a climax. The present summer of her
fourteenth year was no exception.
The historic American scenes were still highly popular, but Isabelle's
creative spirit was not yet satisfied. She was preparing the episode of
John Smith and Pocahontas, to be played by Herbert Hunter and herself as
principals, when it occurred to her that the scene ought to be played,
by night, in the woods. She proposed it to Herbert but he scoffed at it.
They never could manage. How could they get away at night? But Isabelle
had it all planned.
Her idea was to pick out the spot in the woods, put up the tepees,
collect the firewood, lay in supplies, and get everything ready in
advance. Saturday night would be the best one for the encampment,
because their parents always dined and danced at the club that night, so
the coast would be clear so far as they were concerned.
"It isn't parents, it's servants that will get in our way," objected
Herbert.
"If you _think_ how to get by them, Herbert, you can," urged the
temptress.
"How? Just tell me how I can get past old Mademoiselle when she sits in
the hall outside my door?"
"Tell her you forgot something downstairs, and then run out."
"Fat chance! She'd give the alarm and they'd all come on the jump."
"Well, if _I_ can get out, I should think _you_ could," she taunted
him.
"How'd we get back in? Suppose parents got back before we did."
Her inspiration flared like a torch.
"We'd sleep in the tents all night."
"Gee!" said Herbert. This was sheer daring. It captured his imagination.
He decided to submit it to the others. A council was called. They in
turn were struck dumb by the idea that they should spend a night in the
woods, untrammelled by authority.
It took an enormous amount of planning and preparation. The problem of
the best means of escape for each member was taken up and decided upon.
The hour for meeting, and the place, were named. Governesses as a rule
had their dinners early, with the children. Later, each boy was to
complain of weariness or headache and go directly to bed. At nine
o'clock they would make a getaway and meet at a certain spot, centrally
located for them all. All of them had ponies, so they could ride to the
trysting place. Blankets must be brought by each camper, and it was
agreed that they would sleep in their clothes.
The day came. As the idea was to be kept secret from all girls, Isabelle
had some trouble managing not even to see Margie Hunter, with whom she
was, ostensibly, to spend the day. She induced Wally to drop her at the
Hunters' on the way to the club.
The boys were hard at work. They greeted her casually, as was their
habit. It was the way they kept up the bluff to themselves that they
had no use for girls. Isabelle was satisfied with their manners. She
knew in her own mind that she was the brains of the whole concern, so
why cavil at their bluff, male ways?
They worked like beavers all day long. They went without any luncheon.
They lugged out the tents and set them up. They made beds of boughs.
They laid fires ready for the torch. They cached the grub in a hollow
tree out of the way of prowling creatures. They carried out pails of
drinking water, and borrowed the kitchen utensils from Margie's
playhouse. It was late afternoon when they limped wearily back to the
Hunters' in search of food.
"Mother was awf'ly mad at you, Isabelle, because you kept luncheon
waiting," said Margie, snippily. "Where have you been?"
"Oh, we were playing, and we thought we'd go without any lunch. I hope
there's tea, though," she added.
There was; and they put away quantities of bread and butter, with jam,
and lemonade, which infuriated the cook, who had to supply the demand.
They parted, later, with fervent farewells, _sotto-voce_ remarks, and
mysterious signs.
At home, Isabelle got ready for her supper without being told, and sat
quietly with a book until she was called. A close observer might have
noted that she never turned a leaf, that when a motor chugged off
bearing her parents, she was seen to smile and sigh.
After supper, she complained of utter weariness and went to bed. Miss
Watts looked in at half past eight; Isabelle was breathing evenly. A
few moments later, she heard the governess close the door between their
two rooms. Immediately she got up, dropped her night gown, worn over her
riding clothes, and slipped out. A moment later she was in the stable,
getting a saddle on her horse, tying her blanket to the horn. She
managed her exit without interference, because Saturday night there were
"doin's" among the servants.
Once on the road, she let the pony run. She had never been out alone at
night before. It was scary, she admitted to herself. Once an automobile,
on the way to the club with somebody's parents, caused her to dash off
the road into the underbrush. Finally she reached the meeting place, and
found two scared boys ahead of her. Shortly, the others arrived. There
were no signs of hilarity over this adventure, they were all solemn and
glum. Some of them were in Indian garb, with tomahawks; others in
boy-scout hats, as pilgrims.
When they were all gathered they moved in a body to the camp. It was
darker than pitch in the woods, so they had to lead the ponies, and they
stumbled over tree trunks, and logs. Unseen things scuttled away
underfoot, and terror began to spread like measles.
"Get the fire lighted, then we can see all right," said Isabelle the
dauntless.
They managed that finally and peered about them, as the weird shadows
danced and made fantastic shapes.
"Let's get the grub and eat," said Herbert.
"Not yet, not till we do the play," objected Isabelle. "Somebody bind up
John Smith and the rest sit round the place where we're going to
execution him. The Indians can lurk----"
"Say, I ain't goin' to lurk in the dark, out there," protested a brave,
peering into the blackness.
"_I_ am!" said Isabelle, marching upon unseen terrors among the trees.
"If you're going to let a _girl_ dare you!" cried Herbert, secretly glad
that his role required no heroic exposure.
The Indians reluctantly followed Isabelle Pocahontas into the shadows,
stepping high, and jumping back with exclamations now and then.
The chopping block was brought out where John Smith's head was to rest,
then Pocahontas crept through into the firelight and the play was begun,
but there was no real spirit in the affair. Isabelle felt this; so, to
create a new interest, she urged John Smith to break bread with the
Indians after he had been saved by her, and released. They hauled out
the food, slightly the worse for squirrels; they cooked the bacon,
eating it nearly raw, with hunks of bread. They had a thermos bottle of
cold tea which they referred to as "rum." There were plenty of doughnuts
and a bakery pie.
The repast roused their spirits considerably. After it was finished,
John Smith invited the Indians to spend the night, and everybody agreed
to turn in. There was an obvious reluctance on the part of some to enter
the dark tents. Things unseen rattled inside.
"Say! why not roll up in our blankets around the fire?" said doughty
John Smith, the Pilgrim's pride.
"Good boy--that's the boy," agreed the Indians.
So they curled up in a circle inside their covers, as near the blaze as
they could lie, wide-eyed and on the watch. Each one secretly longed for
his bed at home, and excoriated Isabelle with her devil's gift of
invention. But after a while the hard labour of the day began to tell,
and as the fire grew fainter, one by one they dropped asleep, and the
shadows closed in upon them completely.