MISS CYNTHIA
"Come down to the pond with me this afternoon," said Dorothy as
she and Ruth parted on their way home from school a few days after
the skating-party, "and we'll go into a quiet comer and practice
until you feel sure of yourself."
"All right; I'll go," Ruth answered, "but I can't stay long; I must
study for at least an hour before dinner."
"Well, be at my house by two, and then we shall have the pond
almost to ourselves for a while, and we'll be ready to go home by
the time the crowd gets there."
Dorothy was a good teacher and in the hour they spent on the pond
Ruth gained both skill and confidence.
"I never shall be nervous again about it," she said with enthusiasm
as they took a last swing around the pond together. "It's like
so many other things; you have to get the feeling of it before you
can really enjoy it."
"That's so," assented Dorothy; "you probably never will lose
it now. My, but it's growing colder every minute, isn't it? Let's
hurry home, and I'll make some hot chocolate. You'll have plenty
of time before you need to study."
Ruth stooped to take off her skates at once. "I'm really as hungry
as a bear," she confessed, "and a cup of your chocolate will be
fine."
When the girls entered the house Dorothy stopped short as she
caught the sound of voices in the library. She listened intently a
second, then she frowned, put her finger on her lips, and grasping
Ruth by the hand led her softly across the hall and up-stairs. Not
until they had reached the large room in the third story and had
closed the door did she break the silence which enfolded them.
"For pity's sake," asked Ruth as she took off her coat and hat,
"what is it and who is it?"
"Oh, it's only Miss Cynthia," answered Dolly carelessly. "I didn't
want mother to know I'm in the house."
"Who's Miss Cynthia?" pursued Ruth with great curiosity, "and why
don't you want your mother to know?"
"Why, Miss Cynthia Atwood, of course. Don't you know her yet?
You're fortunate, that's all I can say. She lives in that funny
little house near the library, and she's the last surviving member
of one of the oldest families here. I ought to know, for she's told
me times enough."
"But why don't you like her?" persisted Ruth, who was toasting herself
in front of the open fire while Dorothy got out the materials for
the chocolate.
"Oh, I don't know," answered Dolly with a shrug. "She's tiresome
and inquisitive, and she's always coming round to make visitations
on days when she ought not to be out, and then we girls or the
boys have to see that she gets home safely. I can't help slipping
out of her way whenever I can."
"Well, you certainly slipped this time," said Ruth with a laugh. "I
didn't really know what was going to happen to me. What a good-timey
looking room this is, Dolly," she went on, glancing about her.
"I always feel when I am up here as if I can't go away until I've
tried every one of these games."
It was a huge room, rather bare of ornament except for the pictures
Frank and Dorothy had put up, but wholly suggestive of good times,
as Ruth had said. Nothing was too good for use, and everything
promised pleasure of the most wholesome kind.
"Father and mother like us to have our best times at home," said
Dolly sipping her chocolate with a critical air, "and Frank and I
have had this room for a playroom ever since I can remember."
"It must be fine to have a brother or sister," said Ruth wistfully.
"I don't think only children have half so much fun."
"They miss some quarrels, too," laughed Dolly. "Poor old Frankie!
He's splendid discipline for my temper, for he can be the most
exasperating boy I ever saw. I suppose I'm just as exasperating,
though," she added honestly.
"Is that four o'clock?" asked Ruth suddenly. "Dear me, I must go,
though I'd much rather stay here. Your chocolate is great, Dolly,
and those nice little wafers were perfect with it."
"I hate to have you go, but I'll walk over with you just to get a
little more air," said Dolly, settling her fur turban on her blonde
locks. "Now we must go down softly, for Miss Cynthia may still be
here. I dare say Frank is somewhere about, and mother can get him
to take her home," she added, as if she half felt the need of an
apology. "I'm sure it's his turn to go, anyway."
It was with the feeling of being guilty conspirators that the girls
stole down-stairs and tiptoed softly across the hall, and they
both jumped violently, when, even as Dorothy had her hand on the
door-knob, Mrs. Marshall's voice called:
"Dorothy, is that you, dear?"
"Yes, mother," answered Dorothy in a voice expressive of resigned
despair. Then she added in a tragic whisper, "We are lost! There
is no escape from our unhappy fate!"
"Dorothy, Miss Cynthia is here, and I want you to see that she gets
safely home," said her mother.
"Yes, mother," answered Dorothy again, looking at Ruth with an
I-told-you-so expression. "Don't you dare to leave me, Ruth Shirley,"
she went on fiercely. "You'll have plenty of time to go with me.
Come on in now and be introduced to her."
Ruth hardly knew what picture she had formed of Miss Cynthia, but
she certainly hadn't expected to meet the pretty, pink-cheeked old
lady to whom Mrs. Marshall presented her. She was the smallest,
most delicate of creatures, with snowy hair and bright blue eyes,
which in darting glances seemed to absorb in minutest detail the
person to whom she was talking.
"And so this is Ruth Shirley," she said, holding one of Ruth's
hands in both her tiny ones. "I'm very glad to know you, my dear.
It seems as if Mrs. Hamilton might have brought you over to call
on me before this. But then I'm used to being forgotten. How are
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and how is that dear boy, Arthur?" Miss
Cynthia paused for breath and Ruth gladly released her hand.
"Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton are very well," she answered, "and Arthur
is much--"
"I always said he would be better if he would only make an effort,"
interrupted Miss Cynthia triumphantly. "But I began to be afraid
he never would, and I thought it most likely that he would go off
into a decline, I've often told Mary Hamilton that I should be
worried to death if he were my boy. Do you hear from your father
often? It must be pretty bad to have him so far away; so many things
can happen nowadays that you can't tell from one day to the next
where you'll be or how you'll be. Of course you know that, though,
having lost your mother, poor child."
"She hears very often from her father," said Mrs. Marshall, noticing
Ruth's flushed cheeks, "and he makes the distance seem very short
by sending cablegrams every once in a while. Now, Miss Cynthia, let
me help you on with your cape, and then you can start out with an
escort on each side of you."
"Now, girls, you'll have to excuse me if I don't talk much," said
Miss Cynthia apologetically, as they were leaving the house; "this
icy wind makes my throat feel sore. But I shall be delighted to
hear you talk. Girls always have such a lot to say to each other."
"Please come in and rest yourselves," said Miss Cynthia with urgent
hospitality, as they reached the door of the small old-fashioned
looking house which Ruth had often noticed before.
Dorothy began hasty explanations about being in a hurry to get
home, but Miss Cynthia laid an imploring hand on Ruth's arm and,
looking at her with real appeal in her blue eyes, almost drew her
into the house.
"We'll let Dorothy go if she must," she said decidedly, "but I want
to get acquainted with you, child, and I'm terribly lonesome, too,
these winter afternoons."
Even with every desire to escape Ruth couldn't resist the pleading
old eyes which were looking at her almost tearfully.
"Do come in, Dolly," she begged; "I shall have time before I need
to study to stay a little while." But almost as she spoke Dorothy
vanished unaccountably, and there was nothing left for Ruth but to
follow Miss Cynthia.
"Come right into the parlor and sit down, while I find Luella and
have her light a lamp," said the old lady, hurrying out of the room
with surprising agility.
The room was so dark that at first Ruth hardly dared to move, then
as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom she found her way to a
chair and sat down on the edge of it. She didn't enjoy the situation
in which she found herself, and she wished she were out of it. Even
the algebra which she must study as soon as she got home possessed
a charm for her in comparison with the present moment. She half
smiled as she thought of the suddenness with which Dorothy had
faded from sight.
"She might have waited after getting me into this," she said to
herself impatiently.
Just then with a suddenness which sent her flying out of her chair
a harsh voice said almost in her ear:
"Cheer up! Cheer up! Don't you cry!" and then followed an unintelligible
variety of sounds ending with a cackling laugh.
Ruth knew almost at once that it must be a parrot, but the surprise
had been so great that she stood shaking in the middle of the
room, not daring to move for fear of stepping on the uncanny bird.
She remembered that once when she was a very little girl she had
confidingly held out her finger to a parrot and that the unfriendly
creature had immediately taken a bite out of it. She wished that
the light would come; it made her nervous to be in a dark room with
only a voice for company.
"Who's afraid?" asked the parrot with surprising distinctness.
"I am, Polly," answered Ruth with great truthfulness, and just then
the maid brought in a lamp and her mistress followed.
"Oh, you bad bird," said Miss Cynthia reproachfully, as the friendly
gleam of the lamp disclosed the parrot perched on the back of the
chair next to the one on which Ruth had been sitting. "You bad
Ebenezer, you've opened your cage again. Isn't it clever of him.
to do it?"
"Very clever," answered Ruth politely, but she still kept a safe
distance from Ebenezer, who cocked his head on one side to look
at her. and then burst into a hoarse, chuckling laugh as though he
had seen something very funny.
"That bird is such a comfort to me," sighed Miss Cynthia, smoothing
the gay plumage. "I named him Ebenezer because it's so nice to have
a man's name that you can call naturally in case you think some
one's in the house. I got a man that worked for us to teach him
what to answer when I call his name. Just listen, my dear."
Miss Cynthia stepped into the hall. "Ebenezer! Ebenezer!" she
called loudly, and to Ruth's amusement Ebenezer answered promptly
in a voice that sounded surprisingly like that of a man, "Yes, I'm
coming."
"I guess that would scare a burglar some," remarked Miss Cynthia,
complacently, "particularly as you never could tell but that Ebenezer
might be right close to the man's ear when he answered. I taught
him to say 'Cheer up, cheer up; don't you cry,' because sometimes
I'm dreadfully lonesome. It helps out even to have a bird to talk
to."
She looked very sober as she ended, but Ebenezer, fixing a solemn
eye on her, barked loudly and then mewed like a cat, evidently
desiring to make his mistress feel that she had a large family to
comfort her.
"He thinks he's a whole menagerie," laughed Ruth.
"Shake hands with her, Ebenezer, and settle it," commanded Miss
Cynthia, and at the word the bird stretched out his funny claw,
which Ruth took in gingerly fashion.
"Ebenezer likes young folks as well as I do," said his mistress
soberly, "but somehow they don't care much about coming to see
us. Aren't you the girl who likes lace and embroidery?" she asked
suddenly. "I've heard about your going over to see that Swiss girl
make lace. I've been looking over a chest this morning and I've
left all the old dresses out to air. Would you like to see them?"
Ruth assented eagerly. This would be an easy way for her to finish
her call, and she loved to see old-fashioned things. Miss Cynthia
was pleased at her enthusiasm, and after returning Ebenezer to his
despised cage, an attention which he acknowledged by pecking gently
at her white hair and screaming "Bad bird, bad bird," led the way
up the short, steep flight of stairs.
"What a dear room!" exclaimed Ruth giving a quick glance about
her. Then as her eyes fell upon the treasures spread upon the bed
she cried out with pleasure.
"What a beautiful blue gown! Did somebody really ever wear it?"
"That was my great-aunt's wedding gown, my Great-aunt Cynthia. It
was given to the niece who was named for her, and then to me on
account of the name."
Ruth gazed admiringly at the shining satin, blue as a summer sky,
and made in the quaint fashion of years long past.
"Here are the shoes and the gloves which went with it," continued
Miss Cynthia, "and a fan which she carried. These little lace
tuckers were hers, too. She never lived to wear out all her pretty
fineries, poor little soul, but I've been told that her short life
was a happy one and a very sweet memory to all who knew her."
Miss Cynthia's voice and eyes were strangely gentle as she talked
about the youthful great-aunt whose shining gown had been one of
her choicest treasures for so many years, and Ruth began to like
her.
"Do you know how she looked?" she asked with real interest in her
voice. "I should like to imagine her in this lovely dress."
"My aunt," answered Miss Cynthia musingly, "was too young when
she died to remember her; but she has told me many times that her
father, who was the first Cynthia's brother, often said she was
the prettiest creature the sun ever shone on, with black hair and
rosy cheeks and blue eyes that were like violets. I like to talk
about her," added Miss Cynthia. "Here are more things my Aunt
Cynthia left me."
Ruth, who had an instinctive liking for delicate fabrics and fine
embroideries, reveled in the beautiful pieces of hand-work which
Miss Cynthia showed her. There was a muslin gown embroidered
so profusely that one wondered if the patient needlewoman had any
eyes left when her artistic work was completed. There were fichus,
small and large, with patterns simple and elaborate, looking as
though a breath might blow them out of existence, so fragile was
their substance. Ruth laughed gleefully at the face which looked
out at her from the mirror when Miss Cynthia told her to put on
a queer, old bonnet which she called a calash. There was a ribbon
hanging under her chin which the old lady called a bridle, and when
Ruth pulled it the bonnet stretched like the top of an old-fashioned
chaise.
"How funny," laughed Ruth. "Did you. really ever wear one like
this?"
"That was my dear mother's," answered Miss Cynthia, "but I can just
remember having one when I was a little girl."
"Oh, dear. I hate to leave all these interesting things, but I must
go home," said Ruth, reluctantly laying the calash on the bed, and
taking a last look at the beautiful things displayed there. "I've
had a lovely call, Miss Cynthia, and I thank you so much for letting
me see these wonderful old dresses."
"My dear, if you would prize it I should like you to have this
handkerchief which was my Great-aunt Cynthia's."
"Oh, Miss Cynthia, I couldn't take anything so lovely," protested
Ruth.
"My dear child, there's no one else who will care for these things
as I have done, and it's been a great pleasure to show them to
some one who is sympathetic, and--and I know my little great-aunt
would have liked you to have it if she could have known you."
Miss Cynthia's voice was trembling and her eyes looked clouded and
wistful. Ruth could hardly believe that this was the sharp-voiced,
prying old lady whom she had wished to escape meeting earlier in
the afternoon.
"Dear Miss Cynthia," she answered impulsively, "I never shall forget
your Great-aunt Cynthia, and I shall be delighted to own something
that belonged to her. I'm sure I never had anything half so lovely
as this cobwebby handkerchief. Have the other girls," she went on
hesitatingly, "ever seen these beautiful old things?" She would
have liked to ask that they might all see them together some day,
but she hardly dared.
"No," said Miss Cynthia ungraciously, "they haven't. The girls in
this town don't care anything about me or my belongings, and they
never come here if they can help it. The boys are nicer." And
forthwith Miss Cynthia told Ruth some of the kind things the boys
had done for her, and grew quite gentle and friendly again in the
telling.
"I often wish I knew something I could do for them," she added.
"It's so hard to think of anything that would really please boys."
"If they should see the bundles of letters you have there, Miss
Cynthia," suggested Ruth, "I'm sure they'd ask you if you could
spare any stamps. They're all crazy over their collections."
"Are they really?" asked Miss Cynthia, as if a new idea had been
given her. "Why, my dear, those are letters from all over the
world written to my blessed father. One of his dearest friends was
a sea-captain who sailed everywhere, and always mailed letters to
my father from every port he touched."
Even as she spoke, Miss Cynthia was excitedly slipping the letters
out of their envelopes. "Here," she said, thrusting a package into
Ruth's hands. "You help me, and then you may take them home to
Arthur, and he can divide with the others. Of course I don't know
which ones they will like, so I'll send them all."
"Good-bye, Miss Cynthia. I can hardly wait to show these to the
boys," said Ruth as her hostess came slowly down the steep stairs
behind her, and then she jumped and almost screamed when, "Good-bye,
good-bye; come again," came hoarsely from under her very feet.
"It's only Ebenezer out again," said Miss Cynthia serenely. "I must
have the catch on that door made stronger."
Five minutes later Ruth rang the door-bell at home, and, as she
stepped into the house, Dorothy came toward her from the library.
"Oh, did you think I was perfectly dreadful?" cried Dolly, putting
on a very penitent expression.
"Well, yes, I did just at first. Then Ebenezer told me to 'cheer
up' and after that, to tell the truth, I forgot all about you.
I've had a perfectly lovely time."
"A lovely time!" echoed Dorothy. "Well, you are a funny girl."
"Are the boys here with Arthur?" Ruth went on, noticing for the
first time the hum of voices in the library.
"Yes," answered Dolly. "They're busy over their everlasting stamps
as usual. I've just been in to see if Frank was ready to go home
and I told them where you were."
"Do come in again with me," begged Ruth, "and see if they like what
I have for them."
A stormy discussion was in progress when they entered the room,
but Phil, who never forgot his good manners, got up to find chairs
for the young ladies, and the other boys fired a volley of questions
at Ruth, who could hardly stop to answer them, so great was her
excitement. She laid the old envelopes on the table with an air
of triumph. "I do hope you'll find something there that's really
valuable," she added, "for Miss Cynthia was so pleased at the idea
of giving you something you would like. She said you boys had always
been so nice to her."
Ruth's face and manner were the perfection of innocence, but for
some reason there was a tinge of discomfort in the manner of the
boys gathered around the table.
"That looks like a good one, Phil," said Arthur, pushing an envelope
across the table. "Just look it up in the catalogue, will you?"
"She said that Joe," Ruth went on relentlessly, "had always been
very good about doing errands for her and seeing her home from his
grandmother's."
"I never did anything for her," blustered Joe, turning red, "except
what I had to."
"And she told me that for one whole winter, Frank and Bert kept all
her paths clean," pursued Ruth, purposely refraining from looking
at her unhappy victims, "and wouldn't take a cent for it when she
wanted to pay them."
"We did it just because we happened to want to," growled Frank,
looking as uncomfortably guilty as though he had been discovered
in some bad action.
"Say, there are some dandy stamps here," said Phil, fearing that
his turn was coming next and anxious to change the conversation.
"Did you ever see one like that, Art?"
The boys poked over the stamps in an excited silence, gazed at
them through lenses, and hunted in the catalogue with an absorbed
interest which seemed to make them quite forget their guests. Every
few minutes they found a new treasure.
At last Ruth got up with an air of pretended indignation and walked
toward the door saying, "Come on, Dolly; let's go. We don't seem
to be wanted here."
"Please don't go," said Arthur with an air so distressingly polite
that it wouldn't have deceived any one.
"All right for you," laughed Ruth as she closed the library door
behind her; "just wait until I bring you stamps again."
For a few minutes after the departure of the girls not a word was
spoken. Then Joe gave vent to a sudden groan and put his hand to
his head.
"Is my hair entirely burnt off on the top of my head?" he asked
in comical despair. "These are the hottest coals of fire I've ever
had handed out to me, That wretch of a Ruth knew she was making us
squirm."
"I'm afraid the poor old lady never had any chance to be grateful
to me," said Arthur uncomfortably.
"The worst of it is," confessed Frank, "that father was paying Bert
and me for every bit of that shoveling and Miss Cynthia never knew
it. I feel as if I wanted to go right round there and do something
for her this very minute."
"So do I," agreed Joe and Bert almost at the same time.
"Let's form a secret order," suggested Arthur, "and pledge ourselves
to make Miss Cynthia as happy as possible for the rest of her life."
No one answered for a moment and then Phil said thoughtfully, "We
might call it the 'Order of the Moon.' Cynthia is one of the names
for the moon, you know. Don't you remember, Art, we were reading
in class this morning about 'fair Cynthia's rays' or something like
that?"
"That's great!" said Frank, "and that name will drive the girls
wild, for they'll never guess what it means."
And so the "Order of the Moon" was established then and there,
and to the credit of the boys be it said that the fine purpose for
which it was started was faithfully carried out.