Lying far at the side of the little suburban town, the McAlisters'
grounds were of a size and beauty which entitled them to be ranked as
one of the few so-called "places" that dominated the closely-built
streets of the town. The land ran all up and down hill, here coaxed into
a smooth-cropped lawn, there carpeted with the moss and partridge vines
which had been left to grow over the rocks in undisturbed possession.
Here and there, too, were outcrops of the rock, ragged, jutting ledges
full of the nooks and crannies which delight the souls of children from
one generation to another. The grounds had been, for the most part, left
as nature had made them, full of little curves and hillocks and dimples;
but the great glory of the place lay in its trees. No conventional elms
and maples were they, but the native trees of the forest, huge-bodied
chestnuts, tall, straight-limbed oaks, jagged hickories which blazed
bright gold in the autumn and shot back the sunlight from every leafy
twig, and an occasional cedar or two, from which came the name of the
place, The Savins.
Less than a year after his first marriage, Dr. McAlister had bought the
place, going far out of the town for the purpose. At that time, he was
regarded as little short of a maniac, to prefer land on the ridge to the
smooth, conventional little lawns of the middle of the town, where one
house was so like another that the inhabitants might have followed the
example of the Mad Tea Party and moved up a place, without suffering any
inconvenience from the change. It was years before the townspeople
dropped the story of Mrs. McAlister's first attempt to choose a site for
the house, of her patiently sitting on top of the rail fence, while her
husband borrowed a hatchet and manfully whacked away at the underbrush,
to clear a path to admit her to her new domain.
It was not till several years later that the house was built, and the
McAlisters actually took possession of their new home. Phebe was a baby
then, and the twins were so young that Theodora formed an abiding
impression that Indians were prone to lurk behind a certain trio of
great chestnut-trees at the far side of the grounds. The house was not
impressive. It stood on one of the three hills, and originally it had
been small, to match the income of the young doctor. Only a year later,
he had built on a new wing; and, from that time onward, the spirit of
reconstruction had entered into his soul. Hope was wont to describe the
house as a species of crazy patchwork, a patch for each year, and each
patch of a different style. From the outside point of view, the result
was not a success, and the large red house, low and rambling, had grown
beyond the limits of the hill and sprawled over the edge on a pile of
supporting piazzas and pillars. Inside, it was altogether delightful,
with odd windows and corners and lounging places, sunshine everywhere,
and the indescribable air of half-shabby, well-used cosiness which is so
dear to every one but the owners thereof. Strangers felt the charm as
soon as they crossed the threshold; the whole atmosphere of the place
was hospitable and unconventional and homelike.
Taken all in all, it was an ideal spot for growing children, and the
young McAlisters had made the most of it. On rainy days, they adjourned
to the attic, where they bumped their heads against the low rafters of
the gables, or ventured on long, perilous expeditions upon the beams of
the unfloored extension over one of the wings. They were gifted with
good imaginations, these three older children, and this
carefully-trodden territory did service alternately as Africa, Fort
Ticonderoga, and a runaway locomotive.
But that was only during stormy weather. The rest of the time they lived
out-of-doors, in winter coasting down the hills on sleds or on shingles,
according to the state of the crust; and in summer running riot among
the green things, like the very daisies which refused to be rooted out
of the lawn. A neighborhood had grown up around them; but they cared
little for other children. A wealth of imagination, and plenty of room
to let it work itself out had developed plays of long standing which
were as charming to them as they were incomprehensible to their young
neighbors.
Then the change had come, and a cloud had fallen on the home. Baby Allyn
had been born, and on the same day the bright, happy young mother, boon
companion of her children in work and in play, had fallen asleep. The
shock had come so suddenly and unexpectedly that there had been no time
to plan for a reconstruction. Almost before they realized what had
occurred, they had settled back into their former routine, only with
Hope as the nominal, and old Susan, the American "help," as the actual,
head of things. In a larger community, such an arrangement would have
been out of the question; but Hope was a womanly child, and Susan had
been in the family for years, in a relation which unfortunately is fast
dying out. Accordingly, the doctor had been content to let the situation
go on from day to day, until the hour of his second marriage, two or
three years later.
Back in a far corner of the grounds, close to the division fence towards
the garden of the long-unoccupied corner house, was an early apple-tree,
old and gnarly, which for years had been known as "Teddy's tree." No one
had ever been able to trace the beginning of her proprietorship in it;
but she had assumed it as her own and viewed with disfavor any
encroachments on the part of the others. It might have been a case of
squatter sovereignty; but it was a sovereignty which Theodora stoutly
maintained. Her scarlet hammock hung from the lower branches, and the
tree was full of comfortable crooks and crotches which she knew to the
least detail. Thither she was wont to retire to recover her lost temper,
to grieve over her girlish sorrows, to dream dreams of future glory,
and, often and often, to lie passive and watch the white clouds drift
this way and that in the great blue arch above her. No human being, not
even Hubert himself, could have told so much of Theodora's inner life as
this old apple-tree, if only the power of speech had been granted it.
Three days later, Theodora was curled up in a fork of one of the topmost
branches of her tree. The apples were beginning to ripen, and she had
eaten until even her hearty young appetite was satisfied. Then she
crossed her feet, coiled one arm around the branch beside her, and fell
to planning, as she had so often done before, how she could fulfil her
two great ambitions, to go to college in the first place, and then to
become a famous author. It was always an absorbing subject and, losing
herself in it, she became totally oblivious of her surroundings. Nearly
an hour later, she was roused by the sound of approaching voices, and
she straightened herself and peered down through the branches.
Just below her, on the other side of the fence, so close to it that it
had escaped her notice, was a light bamboo lounge, covered with a pile
of bright cushions. Across the garden, evidently towards it, came a
wheeled chair pushed by a sedate-looking person in green livery, and
occupied by a slight figure covered with a gay rug. Theodora gave a
little gasp of sheer delight.
"It's the boy!" she exclaimed to herself. "Now is my chance to get a
look at him."
Beside the lounge, the chair came to a halt, and the man, bending down,
lifted the boy from the chair. With pitiful eyes, Theodora noted the
limp helplessness of all the lower part of his body; but she also saw
that the boyish face was bright and manly, and that his blue eyes
flashed with a spirit equal to Hubert's own. She watched approvingly the
handy way in which the man settled the cushions. Then he turned to go
away. Half way across the garden, he was arrested by a call from the
lounge.
"Hi, Patrick!"
"Well, sir?"
"Where's my book?"
"What book?"
"The one I was reading, the blue one."
"I think you left it in the house."
"But didn't I tell you to bring it along? Go and get it, and hurry up
about it." And a pillow flew after Patrick's retreating form with a
strength and an accuracy of aim which called forth an ill-suppressed
giggle from Theodora.
Presently the man reappeared, book in hand, and the boy hailed him
jovially with an utter disregard of his passing ill-humor. Then the man
went away, and silence fell. The boy below was absorbed in his reading;
Theodora above in watching him and building up a detailed romance about
him, upon the slight foundation of her present impression.
"I wonder what his name is," she said to herself. "I hope it's something
nice and interesting, like Valentine, or Geoffrey, or something."
She had just reached the point in her romance where one of them, she was
not quite sure which, should rescue the other from a runaway horse, when
the boy suddenly called her back to the present by throwing his open
book on the ground, with a vigorous yawn.
"Ha-um!" he remarked, and, turning his head slightly, he stared
aimlessly up into the tree above him.
Theodora, high up among the branches, was screened from his view by the
light leafage, and the pale greenish tones of her cotton gown helped her
to escape notice. Accordingly, she bent forward and peeped through the
leaves, laughing to herself as she saw his eyes turned upward, quite
unconscious of her scrutiny.
Yes, he was interesting, she told herself. He did not look in the least
like a pensive invalid as he lay there, and she nodded to herself in
girlish approval, as she took in every detail of his appearance.
Unfortunately that nod cost her her hiding-place. Without in the least
realizing it, she had leaned too far forward, and she slipped from her
perch. She saved herself by catching at a branch before her; but the
sudden jar sent a ripe apple crashing down through the leaves, and it
landed plump in one of the cushions, not two inches from the boy's head.
"Oh, I say!" he exclaimed.
[Illustration: THEODORA'S FACE, ROSY WITH BLUSHES, APPEARED IN THE
OPENING.]
The words were addressed to empty space, merely as an expression of
surprise. The surprise was increased, as he saw the leaves pushed apart,
and Theodora's face, rosy with blushes, appear in the opening.
"I'm so sorry! Did it hurt you?"
"Not a bit. Besides, I was just getting hungry."
As a proof of his statement, his teeth met in the apple.
"Don't you want another?" Theodora inquired generously.
"Thank you; not in that same way. You might aim better, next time."
"Honestly, I didn't mean to do it. I slipped and jiggled it down. Wait a
minute, and I'll throw down some more, better ones."
She scrambled about in the branches, tossing down the bright apples till
they lay thick on the ground about the lounge. The boy watched her, half
amused, half envious as he saw her lithe, agile motions.
"You'll have to come down and pick them up now," he said composedly,
when the shower had ceased. "I can't reach them, you see."
"Oh!" Theodora gave a little groan of annoyance. "How stupid I am!"
"I don't see why. But come along down and talk to a fellow for a while."
Glimpses of a rosy face, a pale green gown and a pair of tan-colored
shoes were beginning to whet his curiosity. He wanted to see what the
stranger was like, at shorter range.
With a rustle and a slide and a bump, Theodora dropped lightly at his
side. She caught the placket of her skirt, on the way; but the sound of
rending garments was too common an occurrence in her career to call for
more than a passing attention. Strange to say, it had been much easier
to talk when she had been half-hidden in the apple-tree. A sudden
shyness came upon them both, as they looked in each other's eyes. There
was an interval of silence. Then Theodora dropped down on the turf by
the lounge, and held up a handful of apples.
"Take one of these. They're ever so much better than the first one."
"This is good enough, thank you." He took another from her outstretched
hand, however. "Do you usually inhabit trees like this? I didn't hear
you come."
"I've been there all the morning," Theodora answered, while she told
herself that his bright blue eyes were almost as fine as Hubert's brown
ones. "That tree is my city of refuge. The others call it 'Teddy's
tree.'"
"And you are--" he hesitated.
She laughed, while she chose one of the apples that lay beside her, and
plunged her strong young teeth into it.
"Yes, I'm Teddy," she said, with her mouth somewhat too full for
elegance. "My real name is Theodora," she added, speaking rather more
distinctly.
"I think I like the other best," the boy replied, laughing in his turn.
"I don't. Teddy is like a boy; but Theodora is stately and dignified. I
want to be called Theodora; but in a family like ours, there are bound
to be nicknames."
"You aren't the only one, then?"
"Mercy, no! There are five of us."
"How jolly it must be! I'm the only one." The boy's tone was a bit
wishful. "Are they all like you?"
"I hope not." Theodora's laugh rang out a second time, hearty and
infectious. "There are two good ones, and two bad ones, and a baby."
"Which are you?" the boy asked mischievously.
"What a question! I'm bad, of course, that is, in comparison with Hope.
She's the oldest, and we get worse as we go down the line. I shudder to
think what the baby may develop into."
The boy nestled down contentedly among his cushions and watched her with
merry eyes.
"Go on and tell about them," he urged. "It's such fun to hear about a
large family."
Theodora's quick eye saw that one of the cushions was slipping to one
side. She replaced it with a deftness of touch natural to her, yet
seemingly incongruous with her harum-scarum ways. Then she settled
herself with her back against a tree, facing her new friend.
"Hope is past seventeen and an angel," she said; "one of the good, quiet
kind with yellow hair and not any temper. She's had all the care of us,
since my mother died. Then there's Hubert, my twin brother. He's my boy,
and a splendid one. You'll like Hu. Phebe is ten, and a terror. Nobody
ever knows what she'll do or say next. We call her Babe, but Allyn is
the real baby. He's cunning and funny, except when Babe teases him, and
then he rages like a little monster. That's all there are of us."
"And you live just over the fence?"
"Yes, we've lived there always, grown up with the place. People used to
call it McAlister's Folly; but they're more respectful now."
"McAlister?"
"Yes. I'm Dr. McAlister's daughter. Didn't you know it?"
"How should I? Remember, you came down out of a tree."
They both laughed.
"That's just like me," Theodora returned. "I never do the thing I ought.
Hu was coming over here in a few days; but Hope said I must wait to see
what papa said."
"What for?"
"Because you're a boy. She said girls don't go to see boys. I told her I
would wait, and here I am. I couldn't help it; but Hope will be
horrified. She never went to see a boy in her life; but then, she's used
to being horrified at me." Theodora appeared to be arguing out the
situation, much to her own frank amusement.
"But don't you see it's different in this case?" the boy suggested. "I'm
only about half a boy, just now. Besides, Miss Teddy, if you'll only
come over again, I promise to make up for it, as soon as I'm able to go
to see you."
Theodora's face brightened.
"Do you honestly want me to come again?"
"Of course. Else I shouldn't ask you. Come over the fence again. I shall
be up here, 'most every pleasant morning, and everybody else is busy,
fixing up the house. Come to-morrow," he urged.
"I will, if I can. Sometimes I'm busy."
"By the way," the boy added abruptly; "maybe I ought to tell you my
name. Probably you know it, though."
"No." Theodora looked up expectantly. She had an appetite for
high-sounding names, and she had decided that Valentine Mortimer would
just suit the present instance.
"Well, I'm Will Farrington; but everybody calls me Billy."
"Oh." Then Theodora unexpectedly began to laugh. "We ought to be good
friends," she said; "for our names are about equally imposing. Billy and
Teddy! Could anything be more prosaic? Good-by," she added, as she rose.
"Truly, I must go home now."
Billy held out his hand. It looked rather white and thin, as Theodora's
brown, strong fingers closed over it.
"Good-by," he said reluctantly. "Do come again whenever you can.
Remember there are five of you and only one of me, and be as neighborly
as you can."
Theodora mounted the fence. At the top, she paused and looked back.
"I will come," she said. "I'll get round Hope in some way or other.
Good-by till to-morrow." She nodded brightly, and jumped down out of
sight, on the other side of the fence.