With a deep revulsion of feeling, Ellen gave up girls, sewing, and
Zinias, and made a dash into childhood with Alec Yorke. Alec at this
time was a strong lad of thirteen, a head shorter than Ellen. I
remember even then he seemed more a person than the other boys, though
at the monkey-shining age.
They egged one another on until the ordinary obstacles that stand in
people's way did not exist. They became together drunken with the joy
of life. In this mood, they disappeared together one day, to the
scandal of Miss Sarah. She was particularly annoyed because Mrs. Payne
refused to be disturbed by the event.
"While he and Ellen are off together, they are somewhere having a good
time. Why should I worry?" said she. They had come together to find
out if Ellen was at my house.
"If I had known Ellen was gone with Alec, Sarah, I should never have
gone to look for her. I wasn't worried about her, anyway; I only
wanted company," said she, with more asperity than usual.
The two returned at sunset, the glamour of a glorious day about them.
They merely told vaguely: "They had been off on the mountain."
It leaked out that they had been as far as the village, ten miles
away, and that the peddler had given them a lift back. This last was a
scandal.
An Irish peddler lived on the outskirts of our village, and this was
before the day when foreigners were plenty. He lived contrary to our
American customs,--the pig roamed at will, in friendly fashion,
through his cabin. He sang in Gaelic as he drove his cart with its
moth-eaten, calico horse,--songs that were now wildly sad, now wildly
gay. He was alien, so we disapproved of him.
I remonstrated with Ellen on this.
"I like him," was her only answer.
This had not been all the adventure, nor was this the end of it. To
tell the story in Ellen's own words:--
"Alec and I were picking currants at Aunt Sarah's when I heard
a voice behind me, and I never knew before what it meant when I
read in books, that 'their hearts were in their mouths.' I
thought mine would beat its way right out of me and lie thumping
at my feet when I heard a voice say: 'Oh, here are my little
friends from Erin's Isle.' I suppose it is because I am very bad
that it never occurred to me until that minute that fooling a
minister, by pretending to be the peddler's children, was not
right, especially when it was Alec's and my singing songs in
what we made him believe was Gaelic that made him buy so many
more things. I wonder if all people who do wrong only feel badly
when they are found out? I turned around and I thought I should
fall, for my mother was with him, and Aunt Sarah and uncle and
our own minister. Uncle Ephraim had not heard what he said, and
now, 'Permit me, Mr. Sweetser,' he said, 'to present my little
niece, Ellen, Mrs. Payne's little daughter, and our neighbor,
Master Alec Yorke.' I saw him wondering if we really could be
the same children, because, while we were playing that we were
the peddler's children, we had taken off our shoes and stockings
to make ourselves look like wild Irish children, and had
succeeded very well, indeed. I thought for a moment that perhaps
he wouldn't say anything, but Aunt Sarah's ears were open. 'What
was that? Did I hear you say "your little friends from Erin"?
Have you seen these children before?' This was an awful moment.
'These are the same children that came with the Irish peddler to
my house.' 'Ha! Ha! I knew that those children were gone for no
good, Emily, and that they were strangely silent about their
exploits,' Aunt Sarah said. 'Do you mean,' said Uncle Ephraim,
'that my niece and Horace Yorke's son made believe to be the
children of a drunken, Irish peddler, and thus appeared before
you?' 'Not only that,' said Mr. Sweetser sadly, 'but they sang
to us in Gaelic.' 'Gaelic,' snorted Aunt Sarah; 'never a word
does she know of Gaelic. I have heard her making up gibberish to
the tunes that that peddler sings on his way.' Here Alec acted
extremely noble, though it annoyed me very much, and I am sure
that I am a very ungrateful girl that it did annoy me. He spoke
right up and said: 'Mr. Grant, it is all my fault. It was I who
thought of being children of the Irish peddler and I who
suggested that we hop on his cart. I should take all the blame.'
There was not one word of truth in this, for we had often ridden
with the peddler before, and the idea of playing that we were
his children was my own, and without thinking I told them so.
'Let us say no more about this childish prank,' said Mr.
Sweetser. 'These children have shown real nobility, the little
lad in desiring to shield Miss Ellen and Miss Ellen in not
permitting herself to be shielded.' Well, I knew that we should
have more of it and plenty later, and we did when Aunt Sarah
came ravening--there is no other word to use for it, though I
know it is not polite--down to our house. It all oppressed me
very much, even though Alec whispered: 'We can make-believe we
are being persecuted by the Philistines.' I know I have
disgraced the family, but I shall never understand why riding
with the peddler should do this. If our family is any good, it
should take more than this. Uncle Ephraim and Aunt Sarah have
said that I am really too old to act as I do. When I answer,
'But if I act so, doesn't it show that I am not too old, Aunt
Sarah?' she says: 'Mercy, my child, as tall as any flagpole and
with legs like a beanstalk, you've got to be acting like a young
lady. We can't have young women of our family getting a
ridiculous name.' This means that I must give up Alec. 'Why you
want that child around all the time is incomprehensible to me,'
said my aunt. 'You are a good head higher than he is.' People
are always measuring things in length and breadth. How can one
measure one's friends by the pound? Roberta agrees with them.
She thinks I am giddy, and feels that she must be good for me. I
love Roberta more than any other earthly being beside mamma, but
when Roberta tries to be good for me, I am so wicked that I try
to be bad for Roberta, and can very easily be so."
This episode stopped the free skylarking with Alec. As you have seen,
it was explained to Ellen that since she was fourteen and nearly a
young lady, she must behave as such. When I think how many lovely
spontaneities have been offered on the sad and drab altar of young
ladyhood, I could weep, as Ellen did. Alec's suggestion that they were
being persecuted by the Philistines did not comfort her, and little
Mrs. Payne said sadly:--
"Your aunt and uncle are right, Ellen, and I suppose I'll have to
punish you to satisfy them, but I can't help knowing that you must
have had a perfectly wonderful day, and they are few in this world.
Don't let your punishment cloud your memory."