THE TELEGRAM,
The girls went out into the grounds. The afternoon happened to be a
perfect one; the air was balmy, with a touch of the Indian summer
about it. The last roses were blooming on their respective bushes; the
geraniums were making a good show in the carefully laid out beds. There
were clumps of asters and dahlias to be seen in every direction; some
late poppies and some sweet-peas and mignonette made the borders still
look very attractive, and the chrysanthemums were beginning to appear.
“In a week's time they will be splendid,” said Linda, piloting her two
friends through the largest of the greenhouses.
“Do come away,” said Molly; “when Linda speaks in that prim voice
she's intolerable. Come, Nora; come, Stephie--we'll just have a run by
ourselves.”
Nora was still looking rather pale. The shock of the morning had caused
the color to fade from her cheeks; she could not get the utterly changed
O'Shanaghgan out of her head. She longed to write to her father, and yet
she did not dare.
Stephanotie looked at her with the curious, keen glance which an
American girl possesses.
“What is it? Do say,” she said, linking her hand inside Nora's. “Is it
anything that a bon-bon will soothe, or is it past that?”
“It is quite past that; but don't ask me now, Stephie. I cannot tell
you, really.”
“Don't bother her,” said Molly; “she has partly confided in me, but not
wholly. We'll have a good time by ourselves. What game do you think we
had best play, Stephie?”
“I'm not one for games at all,” answered Stephanotie. “Girls of my
age don't play games. They are thinking seriously of the business of
life--the flirtations and the jolly time they are going to have before
they settle down to their staid married life. You English are so very
childish.”
“And we Irish are childish too,” said Nora. “It's lovely to be
childish,” she added. “I hate to put away childish things.”
“Oh, dear! so that is the Irish and English way,” said Stephanotie. “But
there, don't let us talk nationalities; let's be cozy and cheerful. I
can tell you I did feel annoyed at coming here such a dowd; it was not
my fault. I meant to make an impression; I did, really and truly. It
was very good of you, Molly, to ask me; and I know that proud lady,
your mother, didn't want to have me a bit. I am nothing but Stephanotie
Miller, and she doesn't know the style we live in at home. If she did,
maybe she would open her eyes a little; but she doesn't, and that's
flat; and I am vulgar, or supposed to be, just because I am frank and
open, and I have no concealment about me. I call a spade a spade.”
“Oh, hurrah! so do I,” said Molly, the irrepressible.
“Well, my dear, I don't use your words; they wouldn't suit me at all,”
said the American girl. “I never call out Jehoshaphat the way you do,
whoever Jehoshaphat _is_; but I have my little eccentricities, and they
run to pretty and gay dresses--dresses with bright colors and quantities
of lace on them--and bon-bons at all hours, in season and out of season.
It's easy to content me, and I don't see why my little innocent wishes
should not be gratified.”
“But you are very nicely dressed now,” said Nora, looking with approval
at the gray cashmere.
“Me nicely dressed!” screamed Stephanotie. “Do you call this dress nice?
Why, I do declare it's a perfect shame that I should be made such a
spectacle. It don't suit my hair. When I am ordering a dress I choose
shades of red; they tone me down. I am fiery to-day--am I not, Molly?”
“Well, you certainly are,” said Molly. “But what--what did you do to
it?”
“To my locks, do you mean?”
“Yes. They do stick out so funnily. I know mother was shocked; she likes
our heads to be perfectly smooth.'
“Like the Armitages', for instance,” said Stephanotie.
“Well, yes; something like theirs. They are pretty girls, are they not?”
“Yes,” said Stephanotie; “but don't they give you the quivers? Don't you
feel as if you were rubbed the wrong way the moment you speak to them?”
“I don't take to them,” said Molly; “but I think they're pretty.”
“They're just like what O'Shanaghgan is now,” thought Nora, who did
not speak. “They are all prim and proper; there's not a single wildness
allowed to come out anywhere.”
“But they're for all the world like anybody else,” said Stephanotie.
“Don't they love sweeties just! If you' had seen them--the greedy way
they took the bon-bons out of the little boxes I gave them. Oh, they're
just like anybody else, only they are playing parts; they are little
actors; they're always acting. I'd like to catch them when they were
not. I'd like to have them for one wild week, with you, Molly, and you,
Nora. I tell you there would be a fine change in them both.”
“There's a telegraph-boy coming down the avenue,” cried Molly suddenly.
“I'll run and see what is the matter?”
Nora did not know why her heart beat. Telegrams arrived every day at The
Laurels. Nevertheless she felt sure that this was no ordinary message;
she stood now and stared at that boy as though her eyes would start from
their sockets.
“What is the matter?” said Stephanotie.
“Nothing--nothing.”
“You're vexed about something. Why should you be so distant with me?”
“I am not, Stephie. I am a little anxious; it is difficult always to be
just the same,” said Nora.
“Oh, don't I know it, my darling; and if you had as much to do with Aunt
Vi Truefitt as I have, you would realize how often _my_ spirits turn
topsy-turvy. I often hope that I'll be Englishized quickly, so that I
may get back to my dear parents. But there, Molly is coming back.”
“The telegram was for mother,” she said. “Do let us play.”
Nora looked at Molly. Her face was red; it was usually pale. Nora
wondered what had brought that high color into her cheeks. Molly seemed
excited, and did not want to meet her cousin's eyes.
“Come, let us have a race,” she said. “I don't want to put away childish
things. I want to have a good game while I am in the humor. Let us see
who will get first to the top of that hill. I like running uphill. I'm
off; catch me who may!”
Molly started. Her figure was stout, and she ran in a somewhat awkward
way. Nora flew after her. She soon reached her side.
“There, stop running,” she said. “What is up?”
“What is up?” echoed Molly.
“Yes; what was in that telegram?”
“The telegram was for mother.”
“But you know what was in it. I know you do.”
“Nothing--nothing, Nora. Come, our race isn't over yet. I'm off again;
you cannot catch me this time.”
Molly ran, panting as she did so.
“I cannot tell her; I won't,” she said to herself. “I wish her eyes were
not so sharp. She is sure to find out; but I have begged and prayed of
mother not to tell her, at least until after Stephanotie and the others
have gone. Then, I suppose, she must know.”
Molly reached the top of the hill. She was so blown that she had to
fling herself on the grass. Nora again reached her side.
“Tell me, Molly,” she said; “there is something the matter?”
“There is a telegram for mother, and I cannot tell you anything whatever
about it,” said Molly in a cross voice. “There, I'm off once more. I
promised Linda that I would help her to look after the Armitage girls.
Prim and proper as they are, they are sometimes a little bit too much
for my dainty sister Linda. You take care of Stephie; she's right good
fun. Let me go, Nora; let me go.”
Molly pulled her hand almost roughly out of her cousin's grip, and the
next moment was rushing downhill as fast as she could in the direction
of the summer-house. There she knew she would find Linda and her two
friends.