It was the Fourth of July, and Annie was hurrying with her w_Much Ado About Peter

MUCH ADO ABOUT PETER

JEAN WEBSTER

AUTHOR OF

DADDY LONG-LEGS,

DEAR ENEMY, ETC.

[Illustration: Decoration]

NEW YORK

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

[Illustration: " ... PLUNGED INTO A RECKLESS FLIRTATION WITH MARY, THE

CHAMBERMAID"]

INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN

PUBLISHED, MARCH, 1909

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Gervie Zame, Gervie Door 3

II. The Ruffled Frock 33

III. Their Innocent Diversions 57

IV. Dignity and the Elephant 81

V. The Rise of Vittorio 113

VI. Held for Ransom 139

VII. George Washington's Understudy 175

VIII. A Usurped Prerogative 209

IX. Mrs. Carter as Fate 243

X. A Parable for Husbands 281

Much Ado About Peter

GERVIE ZAME, GERVIE DOOR

Peter and Billy, the two upper grooms at Willowbrook, were polishing the

sides of the tall mail phaeton with chamois-skin rubbers and whistling,

each a different tune, as they worked. So intent were they upon this

musical controversy that they were not aware of Mrs. Carter's approach

until her shadow darkened the carriage-house doorway. She gathered up

her skirts in both hands and gingerly stepped inside. Peter had been

swashing water about with a liberal hand, and the carriage-house floor

was damp.

"Where is Joe?" she inquired.

"He's out in the runway, ma'am, jumpin' Blue Gipsy. Shall I call him,

ma'am?" Billy answered, as the question appeared to be addressed to him.

"No matter," said Mrs. Carter, "one of you will do as well."

She advanced into the room, walking as nearly as possible on her heels.

It was something of a feat; Mrs. Carter was not so light as she had been

twenty-five years before. Peter followed her movements with a shade of

speculative wonder in his eye; should she slip it would be an

undignified exhibition. There was even a shade of hope beneath his

respectful gaze.

"Why do you use so much water, Peter? Is it necessary to get the floor

so wet?"

"It runs off, ma'am."

"It is very unpleasant to walk in."

Peter winked at Billy with his off eye, and stood at attention until she

should have finished her examination of the newly washed phæton.

"The cushions are dripping wet," she observed.

"I washed 'em on purpose, ma'am. They was spattered thick with mud."

"There is danger of spoiling the leather if you put on too much water."

She turned to an inspection of the rest of the room, sniffing dubiously

in the corner where the harness greasing was carried on, and lifting her

skirts a trifle higher.

"It's disgustingly dirty," she commented, "but I suppose you can't help

it."

"Axle grease _is_ sort o' black," Peter agreed graciously.

"Well," she resumed, returning to her errand with an appearance of

reluctance, "I want you, William--or Peter either, it doesn't matter

which--to drive into the village this evening to meet the eight-fifteen

train from the city. I am expecting a new maid. Take Trixy and the

buckboard and bring her trunk out with you. Eight-fifteen, remember,"

she added as she turned toward the doorway. "Be sure to be on time, for

she won't know what to do."

"Yes, ma'am," said Peter and Billy in chorus.

They watched in silence her gradual retreat to the house. She stopped

once or twice to examine critically a clipped shrub or a freshly spaded

flower-bed, but she finally passed out of hearing. Billy uttered an

eloquent grunt; while Peter hitched up his trousers in both hands and

commenced a tour of the room on his heels.

"William," he squeaked in a high falsetto, "you've spilt a great deal

more water than is necessary on this here floor. You'd ought to be more

careful; it will warp the boards."

"Yes, ma'am," said Billy with a grin.

"An' goodness me! What is this horrid stuff in this box?" He sniffed

daintily at the harness grease. "How many times must I tell you,

William, that I don't want anything like that on _my_ harnesses? I want

them washed in nice, clean soap an' water, with a little dash of

_ee-oo-dee cologne_."

Billy applauded with appreciation.

"An' now, Peter," Peter resumed, addressing an imaginary self, "I am

expectin' a new maid to-night--a pretty little French maid just like

Annette. I am sure that she will like you better than any o' the other

men, so I wish you to meet her at the eight-fifteen train. Be sure to be

on time, for the poor little thing won't know what to do."

"No, you don't," interrupted Billy. "She told me to meet her."

"She didn't either," said Peter, quickly reassuming his proper person.

"She said either of us, which ever was most convenient, an' I've got to

go into town anyway on an errand for Miss Ethel."

"She said me," maintained Billy, "an' I'm goin' to."

"Aw, are you?" jeered Peter. "You'll walk, then. I'm takin' Trixy with

me."

"Hey, Joe," called Billy, as the coachman's steps were heard approaching

down the length of the stable, "Mrs. Carter come out here an' said I was

to meet a new maid to-night, an' Pete says he's goin' to. Just come an'

tell him to mind 'is own business."

Joe appeared in the doorway, with a cap cocked on the side of his head,

and a short bull-dog pipe in his mouth. It was strictly against the

rules to smoke in the stables, but Joe had been autocrat so long that he

made his own rules. He could trust himself--but woe to the groom who so

much as scratched a safety-match within his domain.

"A new maid is it?" he inquired, as a grin of comprehension leisurely

spread itself across his good-natured rubicund face. "I s'pose you're

thinking it's pretty near your turn, hey, Billy?"

"I don't care nothin' about new maids," said Billy, sulkily, "but Mrs.

Carter said me."

"You're awful particular all of a sudden about obeying orders," said

Joe. "I don't care which one of you fetches out the new maid," he added.

"I s'pose if Pete wants to, he's got the first say."

The Carter stables were ruled by a hierarchy with Joe at the head, the

order of precedence being based upon a union of seniority and merit. Joe

had ruled for twelve years. He had held the position so long that he had

insidiously come to believe in the divine right of coachmen. Nothing

short of a revolution could have dislodged him against his will; in a

year or so, however, he was planning to abdicate in order to start a

livery stable of his own. The money was even now waiting in the bank.

Peter, who had commenced as stable-boy ten years before, was

heir-presumptive to the place, and the shadow of his future greatness

was already upon him. Billy, who had served but a few meagre months at

Willowbrook, did not realize that the highest honours are obtained only

after a painful novitiate. He saw no reason why he should not be

coachman another year just as much as Peter; in fact, he saw several

reasons why he should be. He drove as well, he was better looking--he

told himself--and he was infinitely larger. To Billy's simple

understanding it was quantity, not quality, that makes the man. He

resented Peter's assumption of superiority, and he intended, when

opportunity should present itself, to take it out of Peter.

"I don't care about fetchin' out the new maid any more than Billy,"

Peter nonchalantly threw off after a prolonged pause, "only I've got to

take a note to the Holidays for Miss Ethel, and I'd just as lief stop at

the station; it won't be much out o' me way."

"All right," said Joe. "Suit yourself."

Peter smiled slightly as he fell to work again, humming under his

breath a song that was peculiarly aggravating to Billy. "_Je vous aime,

je vous adore_," it ran. Peter trilled it, "_Gervie zame, gervie door_,"

but it answered the purpose quite as well as if it had been pronounced

with the best Parisian accent.

The last maid--the one who had left four days before--had been French,

and during her three weeks' reign at Willowbrook she had stirred to its

foundations every unattached masculine heart on the premises. Even

Simpkins, the elderly English butler, had unbent and smiled foolishly

when she coquettishly chucked him under the chin in passing through the

hall. Mary, the chambermaid, had been a witness to this tender passage,

and poor Simpkins's dignity ever since had walked on shaky ground. But

Annette's charms had conquered more than Simpkins. Tom, the gardener,

had spent the entire three weeks of her stay in puttering about the

shrubs that grew in the vicinity of the house; while the stablemen had

frankly prostrated themselves--with the exception of Joe, who was

married and not open to Gallic allurements. It was evident from the

first, however, that Peter and Billy were the favoured ones. For two

weeks the race between them had been even, and then Peter had slowly,

but perceptibly, pulled ahead.

He had returned one morning from an errand to the house with a new song

upon his lips. It was in the French language. He sang it through several

times with insistent and tender emphasis. Billy maintained a proud

silence as long as curiosity would permit; finally he inquired gruffly:

"What's that you're givin' us?"

"It's a song," said Peter, modestly. "Annette taught it to me," and he

hummed it through again.

"What does it mean?"

Peter's rendering was free.

"It means," he said, "I don't love no one but you, me dear."

This episode was the beginning of strained relations between the two.

There is no telling how far their differences would have gone, had the

firebrand not been suddenly removed.

One morning Joe was kept waiting under the _porte-cochère_ unusually

long for Mrs. Carter to start on her daily progress to the village, but

instead of Mrs. Carter, finally, his passenger was Annette--bound to the

station with her belongings piled about her. Joe had a wife of his own,

and it was none of his affair what happened to Annette, but he had

observed the signs of the weather among his underlings, and he was

interested on their account to know the wherefore of the business.

Annette, however--for a French woman--was undemonstrative. All that Joe

gathered in return for his sympathetic questions (they were sympathetic;

Joe was human even if he was married) was a series of indignant sniffs,

and the assertion that she was going because she wanted to go. She

wouldn't work any longer in a place like that; Mrs. Carter was an old

cat, and Miss Ethel was a young one. She finished with some idiomatic

French, the context of which Joe did not gather.

Billy received the news of the departure with unaffected delight, and

Peter with philosophy. After all, Annette had only had three weeks in

which to do her work, and three weeks was too short a space for even the

most fetching of French maids to stamp a very deep impression upon

Peter's roving fancy. Four days had passed and his wound was nearly

healed. He was able to sit up and look about again by the time that Mrs.

Carter ordered the meeting of the second maid. Ordinarily the grooms

would not have been so eager to receive the assignment of an unallotted

task, but the memory of Annette still rankled, and it was felt between

them that the long drive from the station was a golden opportunity for

gaining a solid start in the newcomer's affections.

The stablemen did not eat with the house servants; Joe's wife furnished

their meals in the coachman's cottage. That evening Peter scrambled

through his supper in evident haste. He had an important engagement, he

explained, with a meaning glance toward Billy. He did take time between

mouthfuls, however, to remark on the fact that it was going to be a

beautiful moonlight night, just a "foin" time for a drive.

An hour later, Billy having somewhat sulkily hitched Trixy to the

buckboard under Joe's direction, Peter swaggered in with pink and white

freshly shaven face, smelling of bay-rum and the barber's, with shining

top-hat and boots, and spotless white breeches, looking as immaculate a

groom as could be found within a hundred miles of New York. He jauntily

took his seat, waved his whip toward Billy and Joe, and touched up Trixy

with a grin of farewell.

Later in the evening the men were lounging in a clump of laurels at one

side of the carriage-house, where a hammock and several battered veranda

chairs had drifted out from the house for the use of the stable hands.

Simpkins, who occasionally unbent sufficiently to join them, was with

the party to-night, and he heard the story of Peter's latest perfidy.

Simpkins could sympathize with Billy; his own sensibilities had been

sadly lacerated in the matter of Annette. Joe leaned back and smoked

comfortably, lending his voice occasionally to the extent of a grunt.

The grooms' differences were nothing to him, but they served their

purpose as amusement.

Presently the roll of wheels sounded on the gravel, and they all

strained forward with alert interest. The driveway leading to the back

door swerved broadly past the laurels, and--as Peter had remarked--it

was a bright moonlight night. The cart came into view, bowling fast,

Peter as stiff as a ramrod staring straight ahead, while beside him sat

a brawny Negro woman twice his size, with rolling black eyes and

gleaming white teeth. An explosion sounded from the laurels, and Peter,

who knew what it meant, cut Trixy viciously.

He dumped his passenger's box upon the back veranda with a thud, and

drove on to the stables where he unhitched poor patient little Trixy in

a most unsympathetic fashion. Billy strolled in while he was still

engaged with her harness. Peter affected not to notice him. Billy

commenced to hum, "_Je vous aime, je vous adore_." He was no French

scholar; he had not had Peter's advantages, but the tune alone was

sufficiently suggestive.

"Aw, dry up," said Peter.

"Pleasant moonlight night," said Billy.

Peter threw the harness on to the hook with a vicious turn that landed

the most of it on the floor, and stumped upstairs to his room over the

carriage-house.

For the next few days Peter's life was rendered a burden. Billy and Joe

and Simpkins and Tom, even good-natured Nora in the kitchen, never met

him without covert allusions to the affair. The gardener at Jasper

Place, next door, called over the hedge one morning to inquire if they

didn't have a new maid at their house. On the third day after the

arrival the matter reached its logical conclusion.

"Hey, Pete," Billy called up to him in the loft where he was pitching

down hay for the horses. "Come down here quick; there's some one wants

to see you."

Peter clambered down wearing an expectant look, and was confronted by

the three grinning faces of Billy, Tom, and David McKenna, the gardener

from Jasper Place.

"It was Miss Johnsing," said Billy. "She was in a hurry an' said she

couldn't wait, but she'd like to have you meet her on the back stoop.

She's got a new song she wants to teach you."

Peter took off his coat and looked Billy over for a soft spot on which

to begin. Billy took off his coat and accepted the challenge, while

David, who was a true Scotchman in his love of war, delightedly

suggested that they withdraw to a more secluded spot. The four trooped

in silence to a clump of willow trees in the lower pasture, Peter grimly

marching ahead.

Billy was a huge, loose-jointed fellow who looked as if he could have

picked up little Peter and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of

flour. Peter was slight and wiry and quick. He had once intended to be a

jockey, but in spite of an anxious avoidance of potatoes and other

fattening food-stuffs, he had steadily grown away from it. When he

finally reached one hundred and sixty-six pounds he relinquished his

ambition forever. Those one hundred and sixty-six pounds were so

beautifully distributed, however, that the casual observer would never

have guessed their presence, and many a weightier man had found to his

sorrow that Peter did not belong to the class he looked.

The hostilities opened with Billy's good-natured remark: "I don't want

to hurt you, Petey. I just want to teach you manners."

Ten minutes later Peter had taught him manners, and was striding across

the fields to work off his surplus energy, while Billy, whose florid

face had taken on a livelier tinge, was comforting a fast-swelling eye

at the drinking trough.

It was the last that Peter heard of the maid, except for a mild lecture

from Joe. "See here, Pete," he was greeted upon his return, "I'm given

to understand that you've been fighting for your lady-love. I just want

you to remember one thing, young man, and that is that I won't have no

fighting about these premises in business hours. You've laid up Billy

for the day, and you can go and do his work."

Three weeks rolled over the head of "Miss Johnsing," and then she, too,

departed. It developed that a husband had returned from a vacation on

"the island" and wished to settle down to family life again. A week

passed at Willowbrook without a parlour-maid, and then one day, as Peter

returned from the lower meadow where he had been trying to entice a

reluctant colt into putting its head into the halter, he was hailed by

Joe with:

"Say, Pete, Mrs. Carter sent out word that you're to go to the station

to-night and fetch out a new maid."

"Aw, go on," said Peter.

"That's straight."

"If there's a new maid comin' Billy can get her. I ain't interested in

maids."

"Them's orders," said Joe. "'Tell Peter,' she says, 'that he's to drive

in with the buckboard and meet the eight-fifteen train from the city.

I'm expectin' a new maid,' she says, but she neglected to mention what

colour she was expectin' her to be."

Peter grunted by way of answer, and Joe chuckled audibly as he hitched

up his trousers and rolled off toward his own house to tell his wife the

joke. The subject was covertly alluded to at supper that night, with

various speculations as to the colour, nationality, and possible size of

the newcomer. Peter emphatically stated his intention of not going near

the blame station. When the train hour approached, however, the stables

were conspicuously empty, and there was nothing for him to do but

swallow his assertion and meet the maid.

As he drove down the hill toward the station he saw that the

eight-fifteen train was already in, but he noted the fact without

emotion. He was not going to hurry himself for all the maids in

creation; she could just wait until he got there. He drew up beside the

platform and sat surveying the people with mild curiosity until such

time as the maid chose to search him out. But his pulses suddenly

quickened as he heard a clear voice, with an adorable suggestion of

brogue behind it, inquire of the station-master:

"Will you tell me, sor, how I'll be gettin' to Mr. Jerome B. Carter's?"

"Here's one of the Carter rigs now," said the man.

The girl turned quickly and faced Peter, and all his confused senses

told him that she was pretty--prettier than Annette--pretty beyond all

precedent. Her eyes were blue, and her hair was black and her colour was

the colour that comes from a childhood spent out of doors in County

Cork.

He hastily scrambled out of his seat and touched his hat. "Beggin' yer

pardon, ma'am, are ye the new maid? Mrs. Carter sent me to fetch ye out.

If ye'll gi' me yer check, ma'am, I'll get yer trunk."

The girl gave up her check silently, quite abashed by this very dressy

young groom. She had served during the two years of her American

experience as "second girl" in a brown-stone house in a side street, and

though she had often watched men of Peter's kind from a bench by the

park driveway, she had never in her life come so near to one as this.

While he was searching for her trunk, she hastily climbed into the cart

and moved to the extreme end of the left side of the seat, lest the

apparition should return and offer assistance. She sat up very stiffly,

wondering meanwhile, with a beating heart, if he would talk or just

stare straight ahead the way they did in the park.

Peter helped the baggage-man lift in her trunk, and as he did it he

paused to take a good square look. "Gee, but Billy will want to kick

himself!" was his delighted inward comment as he clambered up beside her

and gathered the reins in his hands. They drove up the hill without

speaking, but once Peter shot a sidewise glance at her at the same

moment that she looked at him, and they both turned pink. This was

embarrassing, but reassuring. He was, then, nothing but a man in spite

of his clothes, and with a man she knew how to deal.

A full moon was rising above the trees and the twilight was fading into

dusk. As Billy had justly observed at the supper table, it was a fine

night in which to get acquainted. The four miles between the station and

Willowbrook suddenly dwindled into insignificance in Peter's sight, and

at the top of the hill he turned Trixy's head in exactly the wrong

direction.

"If ye have no objections," he observed, "we'll drive the long way by

the beach because the roads is better."

The new maid had no objections, or at least she did not voice any, and

they rolled along between the fragrant hedgerows in silence. Peter was

laboriously framing to himself an opening remark, and he found nothing

ludicrous in the situation; but to the girl, whose Irish sense of humour

was inordinately developed, it appeared very funny to be riding alone

beside a live, breathing groom, in top-hat and shining boots, who turned

red when you looked at him.

She suddenly broke into a laugh--a low, clear, bubbling laugh that

lodged itself in Peter's receptive heart. He looked around a moment with

a slightly startled air, and then, as his eyes met hers, he too laughed.

It instantly cleared the atmosphere. He pulled Trixy to a walk and faced

her. His laborious introductory speech was forgotten; he went to the

point with a sigh of relief.

"I guess we're goin' to like each other--you an' me," he said softly.

The moon was shining and the hawthorn flowers were sweet. Annie's eyes

looked back at him rather shyly, and her dimples trembled just below the

surface. Peter hastily turned his eyes away lest he look too long.

"Me name's Peter," he said, "Peter Malone. Tell me yours, so we'll be

feelin' acquainted."

"Annie O'Reilly."

"Annie O'Reilly," he repeated. "There's the right swing to it. 'Tis

better than Annette."

"Annette?" inquired Annie.

She had perceived that he was a man; he now perceived that she was a

woman, and that Annette's name might better not have been mentioned.

"Ah, Annette," he said carelessly, "a parlour-maid we had a while ago;

an' mighty glad we was to be rid of her," he added cannily.

"Why?" asked Annie.

"She was French; she had a temper."

"I'm Irish; I have a temper--will ye be glad to be rid o' me?"

"Oh, an' I'm Irish meself," laughed Peter, with a broader brogue than

usual. "'Tis not Irish tempers I'm fearin'. Thim I c'n manage."

When they turned in at the gates of Willowbrook--some half an hour later

than they were due, owing to Peter's extemporaneous route by the

beach--he slowed Trixy to a walk that he might point out to his

companion the interesting features of her new home. As they passed the

laurels they were deeply engaged in converse, and a heavy and respectful

silence hung about the region.

"Good night, Mr. Malone," said Annie, as he deposited her trunk on the

back veranda. "'Tis obliged to ye I am for bringin' me out."

"Oh, drop the Mister Malone!" he grinned. "Peter's me name. Good night,

Annie. I hope as ye'll like it. It won't be my fault if ye don't."

He touched his hat, and swinging himself to the seat, drove whistling to

the stables. He unhitched Trixy and gave her a handful of salt. "Here,

old girl, what are ye tryin' to do?" he asked as she rubbed her nose

against his shoulder, and he started her toward her stall with a

friendly whack on the back. As he was putting away her harness, Billy

lounged in, bent on no errand in particular. Peter threw him a careless

nod, and breaking off his whistling in the middle of a bar, he fell to

humming softly a familiar tune. "_Gervie zame, gervie door_," was the

song that he sang.

THE RUFFLED FROCK

It was the Fourth of July, and Annie was hurrying with her work in order

to get out and celebrate. She had no particular form of celebration in

view, but she had a strong feeling that holidays, particularly Fourths

of July, ought to be celebrated; and she was revolving in her mind

several possible projects, in all of which Peter figured largely. Aside

from its being the Fourth of July, it was Thursday, and Thursday was

Peter's afternoon off. She put away the last of the dishes with a gay

little burst of song as she glanced through the window at the beckoning

outside world. It was a bright sunshiny day with a refreshing breeze

blowing from the sea. The blue waters of the bay, sparkling at the foot

of the lower meadow, were dotted over with white sailboats.

"Do ye want anything more of me, Nora?" she asked.

"No, be off with you, child," said Nora, good-naturedly. "I'll finish

puttin' to rights meself," and she gathered up the dish-towels and

carried them into the laundry.

Annie paused by the screen door leading on to the back veranda, and

stood regarding the stables speculatively. She was wondering what would

be the most diplomatic way of approaching Peter. Her speculations were

suddenly interrupted by the appearance in the kitchen of Miss Ethel,

with a very beruffled white muslin frock in her arms.

"Annie," she said, "you'll have to wash this dress. I forgot to have

Kate do it yesterday, and I want to wear it to-night. Have it ready by

five o'clock and be careful about the lace."

She threw the frock across the back of a chair, and ran on out of doors

to join a laughing crowd of young people about the tennis-court. Annie

stood in the middle of the floor and watched her with a fast-clouding

brow.

"An' never so much as said please!" she muttered to herself. She walked

over and picked up the frock. It was very elaborate with ruffles and

tucks and lace insertion; its ironing meant a good two hours' work.

Ironing muslin gowns on a Fourth of July was not Annie's business. She

turned it about slowly and her eyes filled with tears--not of sorrow for

the lost afternoon, but of anger at the injustice of demanding such work

from her on such a day.

Presently Nora came in again. She paused in the doorway, her arms

akimbo, and regarded Annie.

"What's that you've got?" she inquired.

Then the floodgates of Annie's wrath were opened and she poured out her

tale.

"Don't you mind it, Annie darlin'," said Nora, trying to comfort her.

"Miss Ethel didn't mean nothin'. She was in a hurry, likely, an' she

didn't stop to think."

"Didn't think! Why can't she wear some other dress? She's got a whole

room just full o' dresses, an' she has to have that special one ironed

at a minute's notice. An' Kate comin' three days in the week! It isn't

my place to wash--that isn't what Mrs. Carter engaged me for--I wouldn't

'a' minded so much if she'd asked it as a favour, but she just ordered

me as if washin' was me work. On Fourth o' July, too, an' Mrs. Carter

tellin' me I could have the afternoon off--an' all those ruffles--'have

it done by five o'clock,' she says, an' goes out to play."

Annie threw the dress in a fluffy pile in the middle of the floor.

"I shan't do it! I won't be ordered about that way by Miss Ethel or

anybody else."

"I'd do it for you meself, Annie, but I couldn't iron that waist no

more 'n a kangaroo. But you just get to work on it; you iron beautiful

and it won't take you long when you once begin."

"Won't take me long? It'll take me the whole afternoon; it'll take me

forever. I shan't touch it!"

Annie's eyes wandered out of doors again. The sunshine seemed brighter,

the songs of the birds louder, the glimpse of the bay more enticing.

And, as she looked, Peter came sauntering out from the stables--Peter in

his town clothes, freshly shaven, with a new red necktie and a flower in

his buttonhole. He was coming toward the kitchen.

Annie's lips trembled and she kicked the dress spitefully.

Peter appeared in the doorway. He, too, had been revolving projects for

the fitting celebration of the day, and he wished tentatively to broach

them to Annie.

"What's up?" he inquired, looking from Annie's flushed cheeks to Nora's

troubled eyes.

Annie repeated the story, growing more and more aggrieved as she dwelt

upon her wrongs. "An' never so much as said please," she finished.

"That's nothin'--ye mustn't mind it, Annie. Miss Ethel ain't used to

sayin' please." Peter was gropingly endeavouring to soothe her. "I

remember times when she was a little girl she'd be so sassy, that, Lor',

me fingers was itchin' to shake her! But I knowed she didn't mean

nothin', so I just touches me hat an' swallows it. She's used to

orderin', Annie, an' ye mustn't mind her."

"Well, I ain't used to takin' orders like that, an' what's more, I

won't! 'Have it done by five o'clock,' she says, an' it's half past two,

now. An' all them ruffles! I hate ruffles, an' I won't touch it after

the way she talked. Not if she goes down on her knees to me, I won't."

"Aw, Annie," remonstrated Peter, "what's the use in kickin' up a fuss?

Miss Ethel's awful kind hearted when she thinks about it."

"Kind hearted!" Annie sniffed. "I guess she can afford to be kind

hearted, havin' people wait on her from mornin' to night an' never doin'

a thing she doesn't want to do. I wish she had to iron once, an' she

could just see how she likes it."

"She gave you a bran' new dress last week," reminded Nora.

"Yes, an' why? 'Cause when I was dustin' her room she happened to be

tryin' it on an' it didn't fit, an' she threw it down on the floor an'

said: 'I won't wear that thing! You can have it, Annie.'"

"The time you burned your hand with her chafing-dish she 'most cried

when she saw how blistered it was, an' wrapped it up herself, an'

brought you some stuff in a silver box to put on it."

For a moment Annie showed signs of relenting, but as her glance fell

upon the dress again, she hardened. "She tipped the alcohol over me

herself an' she'd ought to be sorry. I'd be willin' to do her a favour,

but I _won't_ be ordered around. She just pokes it at me as if I was an

ironing machine. An' this the Fourth o' July, an' Mrs. Carter tellin' me

I could go out. She has enough dresses to last from now till she's gray,

an' I just won't touch it!"

"You won't touch what?" asked Mrs. Carter, appearing in the doorway. She

glanced from the girl's angry face to the rumpled frock upon the floor.

They told their own story. "What's the meaning of this, Annie?" she

asked sharply.

Annie looked sulky. She stared at the floor a moment without answering,

while Peter's and Nora's eyes anxiously scanned Mrs. Carter's face.

Finally she replied:

"You said I could go out this afternoon, ma'am, an' just as I was

gettin' ready, Miss Ethel came in an' said I was to wash that dress

before five o'clock."

"I am sorry about your afternoon," said Mrs. Carter. "Miss Ethel didn't

know about it, but you may go to-morrow afternoon instead."

"I was wantin' to go to-day," said Annie. "I'm willin' enough to do me

own work, ma'am, but it isn't me place to wash."

Mrs. Carter's mouth became a straight line.

"Annie, I never allow my servants to dictate as to what is their work

and what is not. When I engage you, I expect you to do whatever you are

asked. This is a very easy place; you are allowed to go out a great

deal, and you have very little work to do. But when something extra

comes up outside your regular work, I expect you to do it willingly and

as a matter of course. Miss Ethel has been very kind to you; you can do

her a favour in return."

"I wouldn't mind doin' it as a favour, but she just walks in an' orders

it as if it was me regular place to wash."

"And I order it also," said Mrs. Carter. "You may wash that dress and

have it done by five o'clock, or else you may pack your trunk and go."

She turned with a firm tread and walked out of the room.

Annie looked after her with flashing eyes.

"She orders it too, does she? Well, I won't do it, an' I won't, an' I

_won't_!" She dropped down in a chair at one end of the table and hid

her head in her arms.

Peter cast an anxious glance at Nora; he did not know how to deal with

Annie's case. Had she been an obstinate stable-boy, he would have taken

her out behind the barn and thrashed reason into her with a leather

strap. He awkwardly laid his hand on her shoulder.

"Aw, Annie, wash the dress; there's a good girl. It won't take ye very

long, an' then we'll go down t' the beach to-night to see the fireworks.

Miss Ethel didn't mean nothin'. What's the use o' makin' trouble?"

"It's no more my place to wash than it is Simpkins's," she sobbed. "Why

didn't she ask him to do it? I won't stay in a place like this where

they order you around like a dog. I'll pack me trunk, I will."

Nora and Peter regarded each other helplessly. They furtively

sympathized with Annie, but they did not dare to do it openly, as

sympathy only fanned the flames, and they both knew that Mrs. Carter,

having pronounced her ultimatum, would stand by it. Annie must wash that

dress before five o'clock, or Annie must go. At the thought of her

going, Peter fetched a deep sigh, and two frowning lines appeared on his

brow. She had been there only four weeks, but Willowbrook would never

again be Willowbrook without her. Presently the silence was broken by

the sound of generous footsteps flapping across the back veranda, and

Ellen, the cook at Mr. Jasper's, appeared in the doorway.

"Good afternoon to ye, Nora, an' I wants to borrow a drop o' vanilla. I

ardered it two days ago, an' that fool of a grocer's b'y----what's the

matter wit' Annie?" she asked, her good-natured laughing face taking on

a look of concern as she gazed at the tableau before her.

Nora and Peter between them explained. Annie, meanwhile, paid no

attention to the recital of her wrongs; only her heaving shoulders were

eloquent. Ellen hearkened to the story with ready sympathy.

"Oh, it's a shame, it is, an' on Fort' o' July! We all has our troubles

in this world." She sighed heavily and winked at Peter and Nora while

she pushed them toward the door. "Get out wit' ye, the two of yez, an'

lave her to me," she whispered.

Ellen reached down and picked up the dress. "'Tis somethin' awful the

things people will be puttin' on ye, if ye give 'em the chance. 'Tis a

shame to ask any human bein' to wash a dress like that wit' all them

ruffles an' lace fixin's. I think it's bad enough to have to wash Mr.

Harry's shirts, but if he took to havin' lace set in 'em, I'd be leavin'

pretty quick. An' ye not trained to laundry work either! I don't see how

Miss Ethel had the nerve to ask it. She must be awful over-reachin'.

She'll be settin' ye to play the piano next for her to dance by."

Annie raised a tear-stained face.

"I could do it," she said sulkily. "I can wash as good as Kate; Miss

Ethel said I could. It's not the work I'm mindin' if she'd ask me

decent. But she just throws it at me with never so much as please."

"I don't blame ye for leavin'; I would, too." Ellen suddenly had an

inspiration, and she plumped down in a chair at the opposite end of the

table. "I'm goin' to leave meself!" she announced. "I won't be put upon

either. An' what do ye think Mr. Jasper is after telephonin' out this

afternoon? He's bringin' company to dinner--three strange min I niver

set eyes on before--an' he's sint a fish home by Patrick, a blue fish

he's after catchin'. It's in the ice-box now an' we're to have it for

dinner, he says, an' I wit' me dinner all planned. I don't mind havin'

soup, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert, but I _won't_ have soup, _an'

fish_, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert. If there was as many to do the

work at our house as there is over here, I wouldn't say nothin', but

wit' only me an' George--an' him not so much as touchin' a thing but the

silver an' the glasses--it's too much, it is. George 'ud see me buried

under a mountain o' dishes before he'd lift a finger to help."

Ellen paused with a pathetic snivel while she wiped her eyes on a corner

of her apron. Annie raised her head and regarded her sympathetically.

"Soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert, an' three strange

min into the bargain, an' all the dishes to wash, an' the fish not even

cleaned. True it is that troubles niver come single; they're married an'

has children. Ivery siparate scale o' that blue fish did I take off

wit' me own hands, an' not a word o' thanks do I get. I slaves for those

two min till me fingers is worn to the bone, an' not a sign do they

give; but just let the meat be too done, or the bottles not cold, an'

then I hears quick enough! 'Tis the way wit' min; they're an ungrateful

set. Ye can work an' work till ye're like to drop, an' they swallows it

all an' niver blinks. It ud be different if there was a woman around.

I've often wished as Mr. Harry had a wife like Miss Ethel, so smilin'

an' pretty 't is a pleasure to watch her. Oh, an' I wouldn't mind

workin' a little extra now an' then for her--but five courses an' no one

but me to do the dishes! It's goin' I am. I'll give notice to-night."

Ellen broke down and wept into her apron while Annie attempted some

feeble consolation.

"I've worked there thirteen years!" Ellen sobbed. "Since before Mrs.

Jasper died, when Mr. Harry was only a b'y. 'Tis the only home I've

got, an' I don't want to leave."

"Then what makes you?" Annie asked.

"Because I won't be put upon--soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an'

dessert is too much to ask of any human bein'. The dishes won't be done

till ten o'clock, an' it's Fort' o' Ju-l-y-y." Ellen's voice trailed

into a wail. Her imagination was vivid; by this time she fully believed

in her wrongs. They cried in unison a few minutes, Ellen murmuring

brokenly: "Soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert, an' it's

all the home I've got.

"You don't have company very often," said Annie consolingly.

"That we don't!" cried Ellen. "An' the house is so lonesome an' shut up

'tis like a tomb to live in. If there was dancin' an' singin' an'

laughin' the way there is over here I'd be glad enough. Wit' Mr. Jasper

an' Mr. Harry so quiet an' frownin' an never sayin' a word--Oh, if I had

someone like Miss Ethel to do for 'tis willin' enough I'd be to iron

her dresses. That night she had her party an' I come over to help, an'

you an' Pete was dancin' in the kitchen to the music, an' after the

guests was served we had a table set out on the back veranda--'tis then

I was wishin' I lived in a place like this. An' Miss Ethel come out when

we was eatin' an' asked was we tired an' said thank you for sittin' up

so late, an' she was glad if we was havin' a good time, too."

Annie sighed, and her eyes wandered somewhat guiltily to the dress on

the floor.

"Mrs. Carter orders me around just as if I was a machine," she

reiterated, in a tone of self-defence.

"An' it's orderin' around ye've got to learn to take in this world,"

said Ellen. "If ye occasionally get a 'thank ye,' thrown in, ye can

think yourself lucky--it's more 'n I get. I've darned Mr. Harry's socks

for eleven years, an' never a word o' notice does he take--I'm doubtin'

he even knows they're darned. 'Tis a thankless world, Annie dear.

Thirteen years I've worked for the Jaspers, an' on top o' that to ask me

for soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert on a Fort' o' July

night!"

Ellen showed signs of breaking down again and Annie hastily interposed.

"Don't cry about it, Ellen; it's too bad, it is, but Mr. Jasper likely

didn't think what a lot o' trouble he was makin'. He ain't never washed

no dishes an' he don't know what it's like. I'll come over an' help you

do them."

"But ye won't be here. Ye're goin' yerself," Ellen blubbered.

Annie was silent.

"Thirteen years an' 'tis the only home I've got."

"Don't go, Ellen," Annie begged.

"Soup, an' fish, an' roast----"

"I'll stay if you will!"

Ellen heaved a final shuddering sigh and wiped her eyes.

"Ye'll have to hurry, Annie, if ye're goin' to get that dress done by

five o'clock. Come on!" she cried, jumping to her feet. "I'll help ye.

Ye take the waist and I'll take the skirt, an' we'll see which one gets

done first. It just needs a little rubbin' out an' we'll iron it damp."

Five minutes later, Peter and Nora, who had been sitting on the back

steps, waiting patiently for Ellen's diplomacy to bear fruit, returned

to the laundry. They found Ellen at one tub and Annie at another--up to

her elbows in the soap suds, her cheeks still flushed, but a smile

beginning to break through.

"Ellen's helpin' me," she said in rather sheepish explanation.

"An' she's comin' over to wash the dishes for me to-night," Ellen chimed

in. "We're havin' soup, an' fish, an' roast, an'----"

Peter clapped his hand over his mouth and Nora cast him a warning look.

"You're goin' to the beach with Pete to see the fireworks, that's where

you're goin' to-night," she said. "I'll help Ellen with her dishes."

"Thank ye, Nora," said Ellen. "'Tis a kind heart ye've got, an' that's

more 'n I can say for Mr. Jasper, for all I've worked for 'im thirteen

years. 'Tis soup, an' fish, an' roast, an' salad, an' dessert the man's

after wantin' for dinner to-night, an' no one but me to wash a kettle.

If it wasn't for Annie, I'd be leavin', I would." Ellen wrung the skirt

out and splashed it up and down in the rinsing water. "An' now while

this dress is dryin' ready to iron, I'll just run home an' stir up a bit

o' puddin' for dessert, if ye'll be lendin' me some vanilla, Nora dear.

That fool of a grocery b'y----"

"Oh, take your vanilla an' get along wit' you! We've had all we wants o'

your soup an' your fish an' the rest o' your fixin's."

Nora dived into the pantry after the bottle, while the attention of the

others was attracted by a gay laugh outside the window. Annie's face

clouded at the sound, and they all looked out.

Miss Ethel was coming across the lawn on her way to the bay. Mr. Lane,

who was visiting at Willowbrook, strolled at her side, dressed in white

boating flannels with some oars over his shoulder. A little way behind

walked Mr. Harry, a second pair of oars over his shoulder, and his eyes

somewhat surlily bent on the ground. Miss Ethel, pretty and smiling in

her light summer gown, was talking vivaciously to Mr. Lane, apparently

having forgotten that Mr. Harry existed.

"I'd show her pretty quick if I was Mr. Harry!" Ellen muttered

vindictively.

Miss Ethel paused and shaded her eyes with her hand.

"It's awfully sunny!" she complained. "I'm afraid I want a hat." She

glanced back over her shoulder. "Harry," she called, "run back and get

my hat. I think I left it on the front veranda, or maybe at the

tennis-court. We'll wait for you at the landing."

For a moment Mr. Harry looked black at this peremptory dismissal; but he

bowed politely, and whirling about strode back to the house while Miss

Ethel and Mr. Lane went on laughing down the hill.

"An' she never so much as said please!" whispered Annie.

"I'll be darned if I'd do it," said Peter.

III

THEIR INNOCENT DIVERSIONS

"We got three kids visitin' to our house, and there won't be nothin'

left o' Willowbrook by the time they goes away. Hold up, Trixy! What are

ye tryin' to do?"

Peter paused to hook the line out from under Trixy's tail, and then

re-cocking his hat at a comfortable angle and crossing his legs, he

settled himself for conversation. Peter loved to talk and he loved an

audience; he was essentially a social animal. His listeners were two

brother coachmen and a bandy-legged young groom, who were waiting, like

himself, for "ladies' morning" to draw to its usual placid

termination--sandwiches and lemonade on the club veranda after a not too

heated putting contest on the first green.

"Yes, we got three visitin' kids; with Master Bobby it makes four, and

I ain't drawed an easy breath since the mornin' they arrived. They keep

up such an everlastin' racket that the people in the house can't stand

them, an' we've had them in the stables most o' the time. Mrs. Brainard,

that's their mother, is Mr. Carter's sister, and I can tell ye she makes

herself to home.

"That's her over there with the lavender dress and the parasol"--he

jerked his head in the direction of a gaily dressed group of ladies

trailing across the links in the direction of the first green. "She's

mournin' for her husband--light mournin', that is; he's dead two years."

"She picked me the first day to look after the la-ads. 'Peter,' she

says, 'me dear boys are cr-razy to play in the stables, but I can't help

worryin' for fear they'll get under the horses' feet. I have perfect

confidence in you,' she says, 'and I'll put them under yer special

care. Just keep yer eye on the la-ads an' see that they don't get

hur-rt.'

"'Thank ye, ma'am,' says I, flattered by the attention, I'll do the best

I can.' I hadn't made the acquaintance o' the little darlin's yet, or I

would 'a' chucked me job on the spot.

"Master Augustus--he's the youngest--has gold curls an' blue eyes and a

smile as innocint as honey. He's the kind the ladies stops an' kisses,

and asks, 'Whose little boy is you?' At the first glance ye'd think to

see a couple o' wings sproutin' out behind, but when ye knowed him

intimately, ye'd look for the horns an' tail. I've pulled that little

divvil three times out o' the duck pond, and I've fished him out from

the grain chute with a boat hook. I couldn't tell ye the number o' trees

he's climbed after birds' eggs and got stuck in the top of; we keeps a

groom an' ladder on tap, so to speak. One afternoon I caught the four o'

them smokin' cigarettes made o' dried corn silk up in the hay loft as

comfortable as ye please--'tis many a stable-boy as has been bounced for

less. Between them they finished up the dope the vet'rinary surgeon left

when Blue Gipsy had the heaves, thinkin' it was whisky--an' serves them

right, I say. I didn't tell on 'em, though, when the doctor asked what I

thought the trouble was; I said I guessed it was green apples.

"But them's only the minor divarsions that occupy their leisure; they're

nothin' to the things they think of when they really get down to

business. The first thing they done was to pretend the victoria was a

pirate ship; an' they scratched the paint all up a-tryin' to board her.

Joe turned 'em out o' doors to play, an' they dug up the whole o' the

strawberry bed huntin' for hidden treasure. Their next move was to take

off their shoes an' stockin's, turn their clothes wrong side out, an'

dirty up their faces with huckleberry juice--ye would have sworn they

was a lot o' jabberin' Dagoes. They went beggin' in all the houses o'

the neighbourhood, includin' Willowbrook, an' Nora never knew them an'

give them some cold potatoes.

"One day last week they nearly broke their blame young necks slidin'

down the waggon-shed roof on a greased tea-tray. There's a pile o' straw

at the bottom that kind of acted as a buffer, but Master Augustus didn't

steer straight an' went over the edge. 'Twas only a drop o' four feet,

but he come up lookin' damaged.

"That ain't the worst though. Last Sunday afternoon they frightened the

cow into hysterics playin' she was a bull, an' they was matydoors or

torydoors, or whatever ye call them. They stuck pins into her with paper

windmills on the end, and she ain't give more 'n six quarts at any

milkin' since. I was mad, I was, an' I marched 'em to the house an' tole

their mother.

"'It grieves me,' she says, 'to think that me boys should be so

troublesome; but they didn't mean to be cruel to the poor dumb brute.

They're spirited la-ads,' she says, 'an' their imaginations run away wid

them. What they needs is intilligent direction. Ye should try,' she

says, 'to enter into the spirit o' their innocint divarsions; an' when

ye see them doin' somethin' dangerous, gintly turn their thoughts into

another channel. Their grattytood,' she says, 'will pay ye for yer

trouble.'

"'Wery well, ma'am,' says I, not too enthusiastic, 'I'll do the best I

can,' and I bows meself out. I've been superintendin' their innocint

divarsions ever since, and if there's any one as wants the job, I'll

turn it over to him quick."

Peter paused to back his horses farther into the shade; then having

climbed down and taken a drink at a near-by hydrant, he resumed his seat

and the conversation.

"But ye should have seen them this mornin' when I drove off! They was a

sight if there ever was one. Joe's away with Mr. Carter and I'm takin'

charge for the day. When I went into the carriage-house to give Billy

orders about hitchin' up, what should I find but them precious little

lambkins gambolin' around in stri-ped bathin' trunks, an' not another

stitch. They was further engaged in paintin' their skins where the

trunks left off--an' that was the most o' them--with a copper colour

foundation and a trimmin' o' black stripes.

"'Holy Saint Patrick!' says I. 'What the divvil are ye up to now?'