_In Which Peggy Takes the Center of the Stage._
THE bell on the schoolhouse had a challenging note. It seemed to call to
the distant hills, and the echo came back in answer. It was the voice of
civilization. "I am here that you may learn of other hills and of other
valleys, of men who have dreamed and of men who have discovered, of
nations which have conquered and of nations which have fallen into decay.
I am here that you may learn--_ding dong_--that you may learn, _ding
ding_--that you may learn--_ding dong ding_--of Life."
As she rang the bell, Anne had always a feeling of exhilaration. Its
message was clear to her. She hoped it would be clear to others. She
tried at least to make it clear to her children.
And now they came streaming over the countryside, big boys with their
little sisters beside them, big girls with their little brothers. Some on
sleds and some sliding. All rosy-cheeked with the coldness of the
morning.
As they filed in, Anne stood behind her desk. They had opening exercises,
and then the work of the day began.
It began scrappily. Nobody had his mind upon it. The children were much
excited over the events of the preceding night--over the play and the
feast which had followed.
Anne, too, was excited. On the way to school she had met Richard, and he
had joined her and had told her of his first patient.
"I had to walk at one o'clock in the morning. I must get a horse or a
car. I am not quite sure that I ought to afford a car. And I like the
idea of a horse. My grandfather rode a horse."
"Are you going to do all the things that your grandfather did?"
He was aware of her quick smile. He smiled back.
"Perhaps. I might do worse. He made great cures with his calomel and his
catnip tea."
"Did you cure your patient with catnip tea?"
"Last night? No. It was a child. Measles. I told the rest of the family
to stay away from school."
"It is probably too late. They will all have it."
"Have you?"
"No. I am never sick."
Her good health seemed to him another goddess attribute. Goddesses were
never ill. They lived eternally with lovely smiles.
He felt this morning that the world was his. He had been called up the
night before by a man in whose household there had been a tradition of
the skill of Richard's grandfather. There had been the memory, too, in
the minds of the older ones of the days when that other doctor had
thundered up the road to succor and to save. It was a proud moment in
their lives when they gave to Richard Tyson's grandson his first patient.
They felt that Providence in sending sickness upon them had imposed not a
penance but a privilege.
Richard had known of their pride and had been touched by it, and with the
glow of their gratitude still upon him, he had trudged down the snowy
road and had met Anne Warfield!
"You'd better let me come and look over your pupils," he had said to her
as they parted; "we don't want an epidemic!"
He was to come at the noon recess. Anne, anticipating his visit, was
quite thrillingly emphatic in her history lesson. Not that history had
anything to do with measles, but she felt fired by his example to do her
best.
She loved to teach history, and she had a lesson not only for her
children, but for herself. She was much ashamed of her mood of Sunday. It
had been easy enough this morning to talk to Richard; and with Evelyn
away, clothes had seemed to sink to their proper significance. And if she
had waited on the table she had at least done it well.
Her exposition gained emphasis, therefore, from her state of mind.
"In this beautiful land of ours," she said, "all men are free--and equal.
You mustn't think this means that all of you will have the same amount of
money or the same kind of clothes, or the same things to eat, or even the
same kind of minds. But I think it means that you ought all to have the
same kind of consciences. You ought to be equal in right doing. And in
love of country. You ought to know when war is righteous, and when peace
is righteous. And you can all be equal in this, that no man can make you
lie or steal or be a coward."
Thus she inspired them. Thus she saw them thrill as she had herself been
thrilled. And that was her reward. For in her school were not only the
little Johns and the little Thomases and the little Richards--she found
herself quite suddenly understanding why there were so many
Richards--there were also the little Ottos and the little Ulrics and the
little Wilhelms, and there was Francois, whose mother went out to sew by
the day, and there were Raphael and Alessandro and Simon. Out from the
big cities had come the parents of these children, seeking the land,
usurping the places of the old American stock, doing what had been left
undone in the way of sowing and planting and reaping, making the little
gardens yield as they had never yielded, even in those wonder days before
the war.
It was Anne Warfield's task to train the children of the newcomers to the
American ideal. With the blood in her of statesmen and of soldiers it
was given to her to pass on the tradition of good citizenship. She was,
indeed, a torch-bearer, lighting the way to love of country. Yet for a
little while she had forgotten it.
She had cried because she could not wear rose-color!
But now her head was high again, and when Richard came she showed him her
school, and he shook hands first with the little girls and then with the
little boys, and he looked down their throats, and asked them questions,
and joked and prodded and took their temperature, and he did it all in
such happy fashion that not even the littlest one was afraid.
And when Richard was ready to go, he said to her, "I'll look after their
bodies if you'll look after their minds," and as she watched him walk
away, she had a tingling sense that they had formed a compact which had
to do with things above and beyond the commonplace.
It began to snow in the afternoon, and it was snowing hard when the
school day ended. Eric Brand came for Anne and Peggy in the funny little
station carriage which was kept at Bower's. Eric and Anne sat on the
front seat with Peggy between them. The fat mare, Daisy, jogged placidly
along the still white road. There was a top to the carriage, but the snow
sifted in, so Anne wrapped Peggy in an old shawl.
"I don't need anything," she said, when Eric offered her a heavier
covering. "I love it--like this----"
Eric Brand was big and blond and somewhat slow in his movements. But he
had brains and held the position of telegraph operator at Bower's
Station. He had, too, a heart of romance. The day before he had seen
Evelyn toss the rose to Richard, and he had found it later where Richard
had dropped it. He had picked it up, and had put it in water. It had
seemed to him that the flower must feel the slight which had been put
upon it.
He spoke now to Anne of Richard. "They say he is a good doctor."
"I can't see why he came here."
"His mother wanted him to come. She hates the city. She went there as a
bride. Her husband was rich, but he was always speculating. Sometimes
they were so poor that she had to do her own work, and sometimes they had
a half dozen servants. But they never had a home. And then all at once he
lost other people's money as well as his own--and he killed himself----"
She turned on him her startled eyes. "Richard's father?"
"Yes. And after that young Brooks decided that as soon as he finished his
medical course he would come here. He thinks that he came because he
wanted to come. But he won't stay."
"Why not?"
"You saw his friends. And the women. Some day he'll go back and marry
that girl----"
"Evelyn Chesley?"
"Is that her name? She threw him a rose;" he forgot to tell her that he
had seen it fade.
They had reached the stable garage. Diogenes welcomed them from his warm
corner. The old dog Mamie who had followed the carriage shook the snow
from her coat and flopped down on the floor to rest. The little horse
Daisy steamed and whinnied. It was a homely scene of sheltered creatures
in comfortable quarters. Anne knelt down by the old drake, and he bent
his head under her caressing hand. Her face was grave. Eric, watching
her, asked; "Has it been a hard day?"
"No;" but she found herself suddenly tired.
She went in with Eric presently. They had a good hot supper, and Anne was
hungry. Gathered around the table were Peter and his wife, Beulah and
Eric, with Peggy rounding out the half dozen. Geoffrey Fox had gone to
town to get his belongings.
Anne had a vision of Richard and his mother in the big house. At their
table would be lovely linen and shining silver, and some little formality
of service. She felt that she belonged to people like that. She had
nothing in common with Peter and his wife and with Eric Brand. Nor with
Beulah.
Beulah was planning a little party for the evening. There was to have
been skating, but the warmer weather and the snow had made that
impossible.
"I don't know just what I'll do with them," she said; "we might have
games."
"Anne knows a lot of things." This from Peggy, who was busy with her
bread and milk.
"What things?"
"Oh, dancing----"
Anne flushed. "Peggy!"
"But we do. We make bows like this----"
Peggy slid out of her chair and bobbed for them--a most entrancing little
curtsey, with all her curls flying.
"And the boys do this." She was quite stiff as she showed them how the
little boys bowed.
Anne seemed to feel some need of defense. "Well, they must learn
manners."
Peggy, wound up, would not be interrupted. "We dance like this," and away
she went in a mad gallop.
Anne laughed. "It warms their blood when the fire won't burn. Peggy, it
isn't quite as bad as that. Show them nicely."
So Peggy showed them some pretty steps, and then came back to her bread
and milk.
"We might dance." Beulah's mind was on her party. "But some of them don't
know how."
Anne offered no suggestions. She really might have helped if she had
cared to do it. But she did not care.
When she had finished supper, Eric followed her into the hall. "You'll
come down, won't you?"
"I'm not sure."
"Beulah would like it if you would."
"I have a lot of things to do."
"Let them go. You can always work. When you hear the fire roaring up the
chimney, you will know that it is calling to you, 'Come down, come
down!'"
He stood and watched her as she climbed the stairs. Then he went back and
helped Beulah.
Beulah was really very pretty, and to-night her cheeks were pink as she
made her little plans with him.
He gave himself pleasantly to her guidance. He moved the furniture for
her into the big front room, so that there would be a space for dancing.
And presently it became not a sanctum for staid Old Gentlemen, but a
gathering place for youth and joy.
Eric made his rounds before the company came. He looked after the dogs in
the kennels and at Daisy in her stall. He flashed his lantern into
Diogenes' dark corner and saw the old drake at rest.
The snow was whirling in a blinding storm when at last he staggered in
with a great log for the fire, and with a basket of cones to make the air
sweet. And it was as he knelt to put the cones on the fire that Anne came
in and stood beside him.
She had swept up her hair in the new way from her forehead. She wore
white silk stockings and little flat-heeled black slippers, and a
flounced white frock. She was not in the least in fashion, but she was
quaintly childish and altogether lovely.
The big man looked up at her. "You look nice in that dress."
She smiled down at him. "I'm glad you like it, Eric."
When the young belles and beauties of the countryside came in later, Anne
found herself quite eclipsed by their blooming charms. The young men,
knowing her as the school-teacher, were afraid of her brains. They talked
to her stiffly, and left her as soon as possible for the easier society
of girls of their own kind. Peggy sat with Anne on the big settle beside
the fire. The child's hand was hot, and she seemed sleepy.
"My eyes hurt," she said, crossly.
"You ought to be in bed, Peggy; shall I take you?"
"No. There's going to be an oyster stew. Daddy said I might sit up."
Beulah in pink and very important came over to them. "Could you show us
some of the dances, Anne?"
"Oh, Beulah, can't they play games?"
"I think you might help us." Beulah's tone was slightly petulant.
Anne stood up. "There's a march I taught the children. We could begin
with that."
She led the march with Eric. Behind her was the loud laughter of the
brawny young men, the loud laughter of the blooming young women. Their
merriment sounded a different note from that struck by the genial Old
Gentlemen or by the gay group of young folk from New York. What was the
difference? Training? Birth?
Anne felt suddenly much alone. She had not belonged to Evelyn Chesley's
crowd, she did not belong with Beulah's friends. She wondered if she
really belonged anywhere.
Yet as her mind went over and over these things, her little slippered
feet led the march. Eric was not awkward, and he fell easily into the
step.
"How nicely we do it together," he said, and beamed down on her, and
because her heart was really a kind little heart and a womanly one, she
smiled up at him and tried to be as fine and friendly as she would have
wanted her children to be.
After the dance, the young folks played old-fashioned games--"Going to
Jerusalem" and "Post Office." Anne fled to the settle when the last game
was announced. Peggy was moping among the cushions.
"Let me take you up to bed, dearie."
"No, I won't. I want to stay here."
The fun was fast and furious. Anne had a little shivery feeling as she
watched the girls go out into the hall and come back blushing. How could
they give so lightly what seemed to her so sacred? A woman's lips were
for her lover.
She sat very still among the cushions. The fire roared up the chimney.
Outside the wind blew; far away in the distance a dog barked.
The barking dog was young Toby. At the heels of his master he was headed
straight for the long low house and the grateful shelter of its warmth.
Richard stood for a moment on the porch, looking in through the lighted
window. A romping game was in full progress. This time it was "Drop the
Handkerchief" and a plump and pretty girl was having a tussle with her
captor. Everybody was shouting, clapping. Everybody? On an old settle by
the fire sat a slim girl in a white gown. Peggy lay in the curve of her
arm, and she was looking down at Peggy.
Richard laughed a big laugh. He could not have told why he laughed, but
he flung the door open, and stood there radiant.
"May I come in?" he demanded of Beulah, "or will I break up your party?"
"Oh, Dr. Brooks, as if you could. We are so glad to have you."
"I had a sick call, and we are half frozen, Toby and I, and we saw the
lights----"
Now the best place for a half-frozen man is by the fire, and the best
place for an anxious and shivering dog is in a warm chimney corner, so
in a moment the young dog Toby was where he could thaw out in a luxurious
content, and Richard was on the settle beside Anne, and was saying,
"Isn't this great? Do you think I ought to stay? I'm not really invited,
you know."
"There's never any formality. Everybody just comes."
"I like your frock," he said suddenly. "You remind me of a little
porcelain figure I saw in a Fifth Avenue window not long ago."
"Tell me about it," she said with eagerness.
"About what?"
"New York and the shops. Oh, I saw them once. They were like--Heaven."
She laughed up at him as she said it, and he laughed back.
"You'd get tired of them if you lived there."
"I should never get tired. And if I had money I'd go on in and try on
everything. I saw a picture of a gown I'd like--all silver spangles with
a pointed train. Do you know I've never worn a train? I should like
one--and a big fan with feathers."
He shook his head. "Trains wouldn't suit your style. Nor big fans. You
ought to have a little fan--of sandalwood, with a purple and green tassel
and smelling sweet. Mother says that her mother carried a fan like that
at a White House ball."
"I've never been to a ball."
"Well, you needn't want to go. It's a cram and a jam and everybody bored
to death."
"I shouldn't be bored. I should love it."
His eyes were on the fire. And presently he said, "It seems queer to be
away from it--New York. There's something about it that gets into your
blood. You want it--as you do--drink."
"Then you'll be going back."
He jerked around to look at her. "No," sharply; "what makes you say
that?"
"Because--it--it doesn't seem possible that you could be--buried--here."
"Do you feel buried?"
She nodded. "Oh, yes."
His face was grave. "And doesn't the school work--help?"
She caught her breath. "That's the best part of it. You see I love--the
children."
He flashed a quick glance at her. "Then you're lonely sometimes?"
"Yes."
"I fancy these people aren't exactly--your kind. I wish you'd come and
see my mother. She's awfully worth while, you know. And she'd be so glad
to have you."
She found herself saying, "My grandmother was Cynthia Warfield. She knew
your grandfather. I have some old letters. I think your mother might like
to see them."
"No wonder I've been puzzling over you! Cynthia Warfield's portrait hangs
in our library. And you're like your grandmother. Only you're young
and--alive."
Again his ringing laugh and her own to meet it. She felt so young and
happy. So very, very young, and so very, very happy!
Mrs. Bower, appearing importantly, announced supper. Beyond the hall,
through the open door of the dining-room they could see the loaded table
with the tureens of steaming oysters at each end.
There was at once a rollicking stampede.
Anne leaned down to wake Peggy. The child opened her heavy eyes, and
murmured: "I want a drink."
Richard glanced at her. "Hello, hello," he said, quickly. "What's the
matter, Pussy?"
"I'm not Pussy--I'm Peggy." The child was ready for tears.
He picked her up in his arms and carried her to the light. With careful
finger he lifted the heavy eyelids and touched the hot little cheeks.
"How long has she been this way?" he asked Anne.
"Just since supper. Is there anything the matter with her? Is she really
sick, Dr. Brooks?"
"Measles," he said succinctly. "You'd better get her straight to bed."