June was crowded full of interest that year. We gathered in with
its sheaf of fragrant days the choicest harvest of childhood. Things
happened right along. Cecily declared she hated to go to sleep for fear
she might miss something. There were so many dear delights along the
golden road to give us pleasure--the earth dappled with new blossom,
the dance of shadows in the fields, the rustling, rain-wet ways of the
woods, the faint fragrance in meadow lanes, liltings of birds and croon
of bees in the old orchard, windy pipings on the hills, sunset behind
the pines, limpid dews filling primrose cups, crescent moons through
darklings boughs, soft nights alight with blinking stars. We enjoyed
all these boons, unthinkingly and light-heartedly, as children do. And
besides these, there was the absorbing little drama of human life
which was being enacted all around us, and in which each of us played
a satisfying part--the gay preparations for Aunt Olivia’s mid-June
wedding, the excitement of practising for the concert with which our
school-teacher, Mr. Perkins, had elected to close the school year, and
Cecily’s troubles with Cyrus Brisk, which furnished unholy mirth for the
rest of us, though Cecily could not see the funny side of it at all.
Matters went from bad to worse in the case of the irrepressible Cyrus.
He continued to shower Cecily with notes, the spelling of which showed
no improvement; he worried the life out of her by constantly threatening
to fight Willy Fraser--although, as Felicity sarcastically pointed out,
he never did it.
“But I’m always afraid he will,” said Cecily, “and it would be such a
DISGRACE to have two boys fighting over me in school.”
“You must have encouraged Cyrus a little in the beginning or he’d never
have been so persevering,” said Felicity unjustly.
“I never did!” cried outraged Cecily. “You know very well, Felicity
King, that I hated Cyrus Brisk ever since the very first time I saw his
big, fat, red face. So there!”
“Felicity is just jealous because Cyrus didn’t take a notion to her
instead of you, Sis,” said Dan.
“Talk sense!” snapped Felicity.
“If I did you wouldn’t understand me, sweet little sister,” rejoined
aggravating Dan.
Finally Cyrus crowned his iniquities by stealing the denied lock of
Cecily’s hair. One sunny afternoon in school, Cecily and Kitty Marr
asked and received permission to sit out on the side bench before
the open window, where the cool breeze swept in from the green fields
beyond. To sit on this bench was always considered a treat, and was only
allowed as a reward of merit; but Cecily and Kitty had another reason
for wishing to sit there. Kitty had read in a magazine that sun-baths
were good for the hair; so both she and Cecily tossed their long braids
over the window-sill and let them hang there in the broiling sun-shine.
And while Cecily sat thus, diligently working a fraction sum on her
slate, that base Cyrus asked permission to go out, having previously
borrowed a pair of scissors from one of the big girls who did fancy work
at the noon recess. Outside, Cyrus sneaked up close to the window and
cut off a piece of Cecily’s hair.
This rape of the lock did not produce quite such terrible consequences
as the more famous one in Pope’s poem, but Cecily’s soul was no less
agitated than Belinda’s. She cried all the way home from school about
it, and only checked her tears when Dan declared he’d fight Cyrus and
make him give it up.
“Oh, no, You mustn’t.” said Cecily, struggling with her sobs. “I won’t
have you fighting on my account for anything. And besides, he’d likely
lick you--he’s so big and rough. And the folks at home might find out
all about it, and Uncle Roger would never give me any peace, and mother
would be cross, for she’d never believe it wasn’t my fault. It wouldn’t
be so bad if he’d only taken a little, but he cut a great big chunk
right off the end of one of the braids. Just look at it. I’ll have to
cut the other to make them fair--and they’ll look so awful stubby.”
But Cyrus’ acquirement of the chunk of hair was his last triumph.
His downfall was near; and, although it involved Cecily in a most
humiliating experience, over which she cried half the following night,
in the end she confessed it was worth undergoing just to get rid of
Cyrus.
Mr. Perkins was an exceedingly strict disciplinarian. No communication
of any sort was permitted between his pupils during school hours. Anyone
caught violating this rule was promptly punished by the infliction of
one of the weird penances for which Mr. Perkins was famous, and which
were generally far worse than ordinary whipping.
One day in school Cyrus sent a letter across to Cecily. Usually he left
his effusions in her desk, or between the leaves of her books; but this
time it was passed over to her under cover of the desk through the hands
of two or three scholars. Just as Em Frewen held it over the aisle Mr.
Perkins wheeled around from his station before the blackboard and caught
her in the act.
“Bring that here, Emmeline,” he commanded.
Cyrus turned quite pale. Em carried the note to Mr. Perkins. He took it,
held it up, and scrutinized the address.
“Did you write this to Cecily, Emmeline?” he asked.
“No, sir.”
“Who wrote it then?”
Em said quite shamelessly that she didn’t know--it had just been passed
over from the next row.
“And I suppose you have no idea where it came from?” said Mr. Perkins,
with his frightful, sardonic grin. “Well, perhaps Cecily can tell us.
You may take your seat, Emmeline, and you will remain at the foot of
your spelling class for a week as punishment for passing the note.
Cecily, come here.”
Indignant Em sat down and poor, innocent Cecily was haled forth to
public ignominy. She went with a crimson face.
“Cecily,” said her tormentor, “do you know who wrote this letter to
you?”
Cecily, like a certain renowned personage, could not tell a lie.
“I--I think so, sir,” she murmured faintly.
“Who was it?”
“I can’t tell you that,” stammered Cecily, on the verge of tears.
“Ah!” said Mr. Perkins politely. “Well, I suppose I could easily find
out by opening it. But it is very impolite to open other people’s
letters. I think I have a better plan. Since you refuse to tell me who
wrote it, open it yourself, take this chalk, and copy the contents on
the blackboard that we may all enjoy them. And sign the writer’s name at
the bottom.”
“Oh,” gasped Cecily, choosing the lesser of two evils, “I’ll tell you
who wrote it--it was--
“Hush!” Mr. Perkins checked her with a gentle motion of his hand. He
was always most gentle when most inexorable. “You did not obey me when
I first ordered you to tell me the writer. You cannot have the privilege
of doing so now. Open the note, take the chalk, and do as I command
you.”
Worms will turn, and even meek, mild, obedient little souls like Cecily
may be goaded to the point of wild, sheer rebellion.
“I--I won’t!” she cried passionately.
Mr. Perkins, martinet though he was, would hardly, I think, have
inflicted such a punishment on Cecily, who was a favourite of his, had
he known the real nature of that luckless missive. But, as he afterwards
admitted, he thought it was merely a note from some other girl, of such
trifling sort as school-girls are wont to write; and moreover, he had
already committed himself to the decree, which, like those of Mede and
Persian, must not alter. To let Cecily off, after her mad defiance,
would be to establish a revolutionary precedent.
“So you really think you won’t?” he queried smilingly. “Well, on second
thoughts, you may take your choice. Either you will do as I have bidden
you, or you will sit for three days with”--Mr. Perkins’ eye skimmed over
the school-room to find a boy who was sitting alone--“with Cyrus Brisk.”
This choice of Mr. Perkins, who knew nothing of the little drama of
emotions that went on under the routine of lessons and exercises in his
domain, was purely accidental, but we took it at the time as a stroke of
diabolical genius. It left Cecily no choice. She would have done almost
anything before she would have sat with Cyrus Brisk. With flashing
eyes she tore open the letter, snatched up the chalk, and dashed at the
blackboard.
In a few minutes the contents of that letter graced the expanse usually
sacred to more prosaic compositions. I cannot reproduce it verbatim, for
I had no after opportunity of refreshing my memory. But I remember that
it was exceedingly sentimental and exceedingly ill-spelled--for Cecily
mercilessly copied down poor Cyrus’ mistakes. He wrote her that he wore
her hare over his hart--“and he stole it,” Cecily threw passionately
over her shoulder at Mr. Perkins--that her eyes were so sweet and lovely
that he couldn’t find words nice enuf to describ them, that he could
never forget how butiful she had looked in prar meeting the evening
before, and that some meels he couldn’t eat for thinking of her, with
more to the same effect and he signed it “yours till deth us do part,
Cyrus Brisk.”
As the writing proceeded we scholars exploded into smothered laughter,
despite our awe of Mr. Perkins. Mr. Perkins himself could not keep a
straight face. He turned abruptly away and looked out of the window,
but we could see his shoulders shaking. When Cecily had finished and
had thrown down the chalk with bitter vehemence, he turned around with a
very red face.
“That will do. You may sit down. Cyrus, since it seems you are the
guilty person, take the eraser and wipe that off the board. Then go
stand in the corner, facing the room, and hold your arms straight above
your head until I tell you to take them down.”
Cyrus obeyed and Cecily fled to her seat and wept, nor did Mr. Perkins
meddle with her more that day. She bore her burden of humiliation
bitterly for several days, until she was suddenly comforted by a
realization that Cyrus had ceased to persecute her. He wrote no more
letters, he gazed no longer in rapt adoration, he brought no more votive
offerings of gum and pencils to her shrine. At first we thought he had
been cured by the unmerciful chaffing he had to undergo from his mates,
but eventually his sister told Cecily the true reason. Cyrus had at last
been driven to believe that Cecily’s aversion to him was real, and not
merely the defence of maiden coyness. If she hated him so intensely that
she would rather write that note on the blackboard than sit with him,
what use was it to sigh like a furnace longer for her? Mr. Perkins had
blighted love’s young dream for Cyrus with a killing frost. Thenceforth
sweet Cecily kept the noiseless tenor of her way unvexed by the
attentions of enamoured swains.