THE BOX FROM FERNLEY.
The box was no ordinary rough affair, knocked together for simple
purposes of transportation. It was neatly and carefully made, the edges
fitting closely together, the lid furnished with hinges.
"We must take care how we open this!" said Bertha. "It would be a shame
to spoil such a fine box."
Peggy was used to tools of every description, and she drew out the
screws deftly, then lifted the lid. Both girls bent eagerly forward.
Nothing was visible but white paper, neatly fitted to the top of the
box. Yes! on the paper lay a card, on which was written, "For Peggy's
housekeeping. From Uncle John and Margaret, with best love."
The handwriting was Margaret's, and Peggy seized and kissed it before
going further. "It is Margaret!" she said. "Dear, darling Margaret, the
best friend I have in the world. Oh, how dear and kind and lovely of
them both! What _do_ you suppose they have sent me?"
"Suppose we see!" said Bertha Haughton. Yet both girls lingered a
moment, tasting the joy of suspense.
It was not a joy to be long indulged, however. Together they lifted the
paper, and lo! more paper, but this time enveloping various mysterious
packages neatly tied with pink tape.
"Margaret's tape!" cried Peggy. "Uncle John gave her a great big spool
of it, because she said she had never seen enough in her life. Oh, what
a fat bundle! You shall open it, Bertha, because you have been so good
to me."
"Open your bundle!" cried Bertha. "Indeed I will not! I never heard of
such a thing. Be quick, though, for I do want to see."
The big square parcel revealed an afghan, knitted in long stripes of
red and blue, the colours rich and warm, and harmonising pleasantly.
"Oh, what a beauty!" cried Bertha, while Peggy gazed in silent delight.
"My dear, it warms the whole room! and the length of it, and the
breadth! why, it will go on double. I never saw such a splendid one."
Indeed, the great afghan had been Margaret's "pick-up work" ever since
she first heard that Peggy was going to school, and loving thoughts were
knitted into every stripe.
"What next?" said Bertha. "My dear, sofa-pillows!"
So they were, four of them, each prettier than the other.
"But what shall I do with them?" said Peggy, with a comical glance
around the room. "There's no sign of a sofa. Never mind! they are
perfect beauties. Oh, and what can this be? Oh, Bertha, see, it is a
bookcase!"
The six pieces of polished wood were quickly fitted together, and there
was indeed a bookcase, not very large, but still ample to contain all
the books Peggy would be likely to need.
"Where are your books?" asked Bertha, innocently; and Peggy hung her
head.
"My Bible is in my drawer," she said. "I--I didn't bring any other
books. I'm a dreadful dunce," she added, timidly. "I might as well tell
you now, for you'd find it out anyhow, the very first time you talked
about books. I don't--care--about them, much."
"Oh!" and Bertha looked a little blank, being a bookworm herself. "But
there must be some books you are fond of, Peggy?"
Peggy shook her head despondently. "I don't believe there are," she
said. "Oh, of course I like 'Treasure Island,' and 'Robin Hood,' and
that kind of thing. But history, and the Waverley Novels--why, Margaret
would like to read the Waverley Novels all day; and they put me to sleep
in five minutes."
She looked anxiously at her new friend, to see the effect of this
dreadful confession; but Bertha only laughed. "Well, I love the
Waverleys very much myself," she said; "but I know everybody doesn't
care for them. But when you want to read, Peggy, what do you do?"
"But I don't want to read," said Peggy, humbly. "It--it seems such a
waste of time; except Coues, of course, and he wouldn't go in my trunk,
and Pa is going to send him by express."
"What do you mean?" asked Bertha, puzzled in her turn. "Cows!"
"Yes, the book, you know! Oh, I couldn't live without that."
"Do you mean a herd-book? Of course, you said you lived on a farm. You
mean that you study pedigrees and that kind of thing?"
Now it was Peggy's turn to laugh, as she explained that she meant Prof.
J. Elliott Coues's admirable book on birds.
"Pa has Samuels," she added, "but I couldn't bring that, because it is
out of print, and too valuable. Besides, he isn't so thorough as Coues,
don't you know, especially in anatomy and that part. Is there a good
class in anatomy here? Of course I shall want to join that."
"Oh, dear!" cried Bertha, in comical dismay, "I don't know! Peggy
Montfort, you are not a dunce at all; you are just shamming. The idea of
any one _wanting_ to study anatomy!"
"The idea of wanting to study anything else," cried Peggy, "except
physics and geometry. It's this horrible literature and stuff that I
cannot bear. But we can't stop and talk, with the box only half
unpacked. Oh, pictures! Now I do like pictures, when they are the right
kind. Bertha, look at this, will you?"
With difficulty she lifted out a large picture which filled the box from
end to end. Both girls uttered a cry of delight. It was the "Automedon"
of Henri Regnault. The great horses rearing and plunging, the heroic
figure of the charioteer, seemed to take Peggy's breath. "It--it's the
kind of thing you dream about, isn't it?" she said. "They are alive; I
believe they'll break through the glass in another minute. Oh, there
can't be anything else as splendid as this!"
[Illustration: "'BERTHA, LOOK AT THIS, WILL YOU?'"]
But when she drew out next a fine photograph of "The Night Watch," she
hardly knew what to say. The gleaming eyes of the lions, prowling
among the ruined columns, fascinated her almost as much as the wild
horses had done. She had less to say to the beautiful photograph of the
Sistine Madonna, which came next; yet she looked at it with eyes of
wistful affection. It was Margaret's favourite picture, and she loved it
on that account as well as its own. Yet her taste was for "critters," as
she freely acknowledged; and she glowed again as Bertha held up an
engraving of "Sheridan's Ride," with the great captain riding straight
out of the picture at her.
"That's the kind of thing she wants!" Mr. Montfort had said, when he and
his niece Margaret were having their delightful "Peggy-lark," as he
called it. "The Sistine by all means, Meg; but no more old masters for
our Peggy. She won't understand them, and she won't like them. What was
it she said about your pet St. Anthony?"
"She said he looked as if he had gone out for clams and fallen into the
mud!" said Margaret, rather ruefully. "I suppose you are right, Uncle
John; but, oh, do look at this lovely Murillo angel! How could she help
loving this?"
"The anatomy of it would distress her," said Mr. Montfort, dryly. "You
know Peggy is strong on anatomy. Better take the 'Automedon.'"
"Which you said was out of drawing!" cried Margaret, with a flash of
mischief. "Oh, if you are going to put false ideas into her head, Uncle
John--" on which she was very properly told to choose her pictures, and
not be saucy.
The last picture in the box had not been chosen in any picture-shop; and
at sight of it Peggy sat down on the bed and began to cry.
"Oh, dear!" she said. "What shall I do? Oh, Margaret, Margaret, what
shall I do?"
Kind-hearted Bertha was distressed. "Don't cry, dear!" she said. "I
know! I know just how it feels. Is it your father and sister?"
"No! oh, no!" said Peggy, wiping her eyes. "Of course it's different
with Pa and the girls, because I shall be going home every vacation,
you know. But I never was so happy in all my life as I was there; and
seeing it--it is Fernley, and Uncle John and Margaret."
The large photograph showed a stately house shadowed by lofty trees.
Standing on the stone verandah were two figures, one, that of a tall man
in a black velvet coat, with bright dark eyes; the other a slender girl
with a sweet, thoughtful face. Both seemed to be looking straight at
Peggy, and she felt Uncle John's kind look and Margaret's tender smile
like warmth at her heart.
"I--I'm only crying because--I'm--glad!" she said. And Bertha seemed to
understand that, too.
But the wonderful box was not yet empty; it really seemed like the
famous bag of the Fairy Blackstick. Out came a gay Oriental cloth, which
made another thing of the chilly little polished table; item, a
bureau-cover embroidered with gold-coloured chrysanthemums; item, a
wonderful work-basket, fitted with everything that a needlewoman's heart
could desire; item, a spirit-lamp and a hot-water bottle, and a neat
little tool-chest. Peggy sighed over the work-basket, and resolved to do
her very best, but at sight of the tool-chest her eyes sparkled, and she
seized upon it with delight, and caressed each shining implement as if
it were a living and beloved creature.
"Did you ever see such a little duck of a saw?" she cried. "Oh, I must
go to work and make something this very day. Only, these two dears have
sent me everything that I could ever possibly need. What is that,
Bertha? There can't be anything more!"
There could, though, and was. The bottom of the box was fitted with a
cushion or mattress of chintz, chrysanthemums again, on a pale green
ground; and the last parcel of all contained several yards of the same
material.
"What do you suppose-- Oh, I see!" cried Peggy. "The box,--we wondered
why it was such a good box, don't you know? It is to be a kind of sofa,
or window-seat, or something; and this is the cushion, and the rest is
for a flounce and curtains. Oh, dear, did you ever hear of anything so
perfectly lovely? Dear Uncle John, dear Margaret!" and she wept again,
and, in default of Margaret, hugged the biggest sofa-pillow, a wonderful
affair of soft yellow silk, with ruffles and puffles.
"Come," said Bertha, "this will never do, Peggy! We must get these all
arranged before tea, mustn't we? The gong will sound in a few minutes."
Peggy dried her tears, and the two girls went to work with right good
will. In ten minutes the dreary room was as cheerful and homelike a
place as heart could desire. The pictures were hung (I forgot to mention
that the fairy box contained picture-hooks and wire, hidden away in a
corner), the cushions fitted, the chintz tacked in a neat flounce around
the box, which straightway became a divan, and looked positively
Oriental with the pillows heaped with careful carelessness on it.
Peggy stood and surveyed the whole effect with shining eyes. "When the
curtains are up--" she said, and looked inquiringly at Bertha.
"When the curtains are up," said Bertha, "it will be one of the
pleasantest rooms in the whole school."
And then the gong sounded, and they went down to tea.
A throng of girls was pouring into the great dining-room. Few of them
noticed the newcomer, being taken up with their own concerns, laughing
and chatting, hurrying to their places; yet Peggy felt as if all eyes
were upon her. She clung close to Bertha Haughton's arm; but now that
friendly arm was drawn away.
"I must leave you here, Peggy," said Bertha.
"Oh, don't leave me! Oh, can't I sit by you?" asked poor Peggy, in an
agonised whisper.
"No, dear, I have to go over there, quite to the other side of the room.
See, Miss Russell is beckoning to you. You are to sit at her table, with
the other freshmen. Cheer up, Peggy, it'll be all right after the first
minute."
Bertha nodded kindly, and took her way across the hall, while Peggy
stumbled along, tripping over several dresses (she always stumbled when
she was embarrassed), to the table where the Principal sat. There were
six tables, twelve girls to each table, with a teacher at the head. Miss
Russell greeted Peggy pleasantly, and it occurred to our friend for the
first time that the Principal was not a Gorgon, but a human being, with
a grave face, it is true, but with kind and friendly eyes.
"I trust you have been resting after your journey, Miss Montfort! Yes?
That is good. Coming so late yesterday you did not meet your classmates,
who had already gone to their rooms. Miss Parkins, Miss Barclay, Miss
Manton,--this is Miss Peggy Montfort. I hope you will introduce her to
the other young ladies after tea."
The three girls nearest Peggy bowed, all more or less shyly; it was
comforting to feel that there were others who felt as strange as she
did. In fact, Miss Parkins, who sat on her left, was so manifestly and
miserably frightened that Peggy felt herself a lion by comparison, and,
by way of improving acquaintance, asked her boldly for the salt.
Miss Parkins gasped, shivered, clutched the pepper-pot, and dropped it
into her own plate. The other freshmen giggled nervously, but Peggy
glowed with compassion and sympathy.
"Never mind!" she whispered. "That's just the kind of thing I am doing
all the time. There is the salt; why, I can reach it myself, and nobody
ever wants pepper, anyhow. There, that's all right!"
The girl lifted a pair of eyes so red with crying, so humble and
grateful and altogether piteous, that Peggy's own eyes almost
overflowed. She put her hand under the table, found a little limp, cold
paw, and gave it a hearty squeeze. "Cheer up!" she said. "It'll be
better pretty soon, I--I guess. I am--homesick--too!"
Then, finding a sob rising in her throat, she hastily filled her mouth
with buttered toast, choked, and caught herself with a wild sound, half
cough, half snort, that brought the eyes of the whole table upon her.
The strange thing was, Peggy did not seem to care this time. They were
only freshmen like herself. Any one of them might have choked just as
well as she, and she was bigger than any of them. If those other girls
had seen, now! not Bertha, but the other two! She glanced over to the
opposite table, where the two V's sat facing her; but they were
chattering away, with no thought of freshmen or their doings. Viola
Vincent looked very pretty in a pale blue blouse and white pique skirt;
she was evidently in high spirits, and was patting her hair and her
waist with perfect satisfaction.
"Perf'ly _fine_!" came to Peggy's ears, in her clear piping voice. "My
_dear_, it will be simply _dandy_!"
Peggy glanced at the Principal, she hardly knew why, except that
Margaret disliked slang; and she saw her brows contract with a momentary
look of vexation. "It does sound rather horrid!" she thought. "I wonder
if I shall have to give up saying 'awfully!' That would be perfectly
awful. Besides, it sounds awfully affected to talk like a book all the
time."
Thus meditating, Peggy let her napkin slip down to the floor. Her
neighbour saw it, and both stooped at the same time to pick it up. Their
heads came together with a violent crack. "Ow!" cried Peggy, and rubbed
her flaxen poll vigorously. Miss Parkins was too frightened to know
whether she was hurt or not. "Never mind!" said Peggy. "It was my fault
just as much as yours. Did you get an awful crack? Oh! I mean, did you
hurt yourself?"
The poor girl murmured something, but it was more like a sob than a
speech; and Peggy could only press the limp hand again, and resolve that
when she knew the girl a little better she would try to put some spirit
into her. Her own spirit was rising. She felt that ten pairs of eyes
were watching her furtively; that her companions were taking notes, and
that every spoonful she ate was counted and criticised; but still her
courage was good, and she was even able to notice that the biscuits were
light and the peach preserves delicious.
I said ten pairs of eyes, for the eleventh had never been lifted above
the level of the table-cloth, save for that one grateful glance over the
spilt pepper. Certainly Miss Parkins was a queer-looking little person.
Very small and slight, with a certain wizened look that did not belong
to so young a face; a long, thin nose, and two small reddish-brown eyes
that looked as if they had always been given to crying. The child--she
did not look more than a child--had no beauty of any kind; yet a certain
gentleness of look redeemed the poor little face from absolute ugliness.
She was queerly dressed, too. Her gown was of good, even rich material,
but in questionable taste, and cut in a fashion that might have suited
her grandmother. Peggy's own ideas of dress were primitive, and she was
not very observant, but she did feel that blue poplin stamped with large
red roses was not a suitable dress for a schoolgirl, even if she were
not small and plain and wizened, and even if it were not cut in a bygone
fashion.
Peggy saw, or fancied she saw, glances of amused contempt thrown at her
poor little neighbour.
"All the more reason," she thought, "why I should make friends with
her."
"Do you--did you come yesterday, or the day before?" she asked, as
cheerfully as she could.
"Oh! yes, I think so!" was the reply, in a gasping whisper. This was not
very encouraging, but Peggy proceeded.
"Did you have far to come? I came all the way from Ohio."
"Oh! no, I don't think so!"
"It took me all day to get here. It's horrid travelling alone, don't you
think so?"
"Oh! I--don't know! I never travelled."
On the whole, the girl seemed so distressed that Peggy felt it would be
a cruel kindness to pursue the conversation. "I needn't talk to the
others," she said to herself. "They came before I did; they can talk to
me if they want to."
But now supper was over, and the girls rose with a whirr, like a flock
of pigeons, and fluttered out of the dining-room. Peggy looked longingly
after Bertha Haughton; indeed, Bertha seemed to be lingering, looking
for her; but at that moment two or three girls swooped down upon the
junior, and began a hubbub of questions. Peggy felt all her shyness
rushing back in a flood. Turning to flee, she almost fell over little
Miss Parkins, who was hastening on her way, too. "Come!" said Peggy. "We
are both strange cats; suppose we stay together! What happens now, do
you know? This is my first evening here. It's awfully queer, isn't it?"
"Oh!" gasped Miss Parkins. "They--she--read something last night. Don't
you think I might go to my room? I want to go to my room! Don't you
think I might?"
"Of course you may!" said Peggy, on fire with sympathy. "It's a pity if
you've got to hear reading when you don't want to. Cut along, young
'un!"
Her brother's familiar phrase rose naturally to her lips; it was
unfortunate that at that moment one of the teachers happened to pass by.
She was a long, sallow woman, with greenish eyes set too near together,
and the gaze she fixed upon Peggy was appalling in its severity.
"Young ladies are required to attend the reading!" she said. "Your
expression is an improper one, Miss Montfort!" and pinching her lips
together she passed on.
"My goodness gracious me!" whispered Peggy. "Who is that?"
"Oh! hush! oh, don't!" whispered Lobelia Parkins, miserably. "She's
going to read to-night, because the Principal has a cold; I heard them
saying so. That is Miss Pugsley!"