THE IMP HAS THE BEST OF IT
December 31. This is New Year's Eve and it's nearly twelve o'clock.
Carol and I promised each other that we'd sit up and see the old year
out, and write in our journals. Carol is finishing a lovely poem she's
been writing, called, "On New Year's Eve." It begins:
The silent snow is falling light,
On New Year's Eve, on New Year's Eve,--
That's all I can remember of it. The only trouble is that there isn't
any snow falling to-night. There's a regular thaw on, and it's
dreadfully warm and mushy.
There's something awfully solemn about New Year's Eve. It makes you feel
sorry for all the mean things you've done, and you form all sorts of
good resolutions for the future. At least, I do, and so does Carol. But
I have my doubts about the Imp. I don't believe she is sorry for a
single thing she's ever done. She doesn't act so, anyway.
And speaking of her, I've made it my principal resolution for the new
year to be more patient with her. I suppose every one has to have some
great trial in life, and the Imp is certainly the chief one for Carol
and me. Lately she has been more than usually infuriating. Every
afternoon during the past month she has inquired of us, "Have you
written in your journals to-day, my dears? If not, run and do so at
once."
When she first began to say that, I made the mistake of asking her how
she knew I was keeping a journal. She retorted:
"Oh, that's easy. I found out that Cad was, so of course I knew you were
up to the same trick. You're as like each other as two penny hat-pins."
All I could think of to answer was:
"Well, I don't see that it is any one's affair but our own, if we _are_
keeping them."
To this she returned:
"Who said it was?"
"You did," I retorted, "and I'll be obliged to you not to take it upon
yourself to remind us about writing in them."
All she replied to this was:
"Louis's folks got another cablegram this morning. You'd better put that
in."
Then she walked off and wouldn't say another word. That's just exactly
like her. She's bound to light on the very thing you'd rather she didn't
know about. And she always seems to have inside information about
something you'd give your head to know about and never seem to get hold
of. How she knew about the cablegram, I can't think, unless she saw the
messenger-boy come up with it and questioned him afterward.
We've never said a word to Louis about the queer thing Dave told us he
saw on that rainy night nearly a month ago. At first I wanted to, but
Carol said that it would look as if we had been spying on them, and, in
thinking it over, I agreed with her. Another thing, I felt sure that if
he wanted us to know, or thought we ought to know, he'd tell us himself
and explain what it was all about. But he never has, so either he thinks
we oughtn't to know, or his folks have warned him not to speak of it.
I'm quite certain it must be the latter, because several times he has
almost been on the point of speaking of something and suddenly stopped
short, as if he remembered he oughtn't to. Dave, of course, has been as
mum as an oyster ever since. He's a dear fellow in lots of ways, but he
does act too absurdly at present about us girls. You would think we
hadn't any more sense than babies in a nursery, the way he treats
us,--not exactly unkind, but just sort of condescending and superior.
Mother says he'll grow out of it soon. He and Louis are still great
chums, but they don't see as much of each other since Dave left high
school.
Nothing further that's strange seems to have happened over at the house
across the Green, except for one little thing. A few days before
Christmas I went over to return to Miss Yvonne a package of spice that
Mother had had to borrow in a hurry, and I found the place in the
greatest upset. Miss Yvonne seemed to be giving the whole establishment
a thorough housecleaning, which is rather strange, for she gave it the
usual autumn cleaning only this last October. I can't for the life of me
see why she wanted to do it all over again so soon. I spoke to Louis
about it next day, and he said she was having some papering and painting
done, too.
They were all upset during the Christmas season, and had to eat their
Christmas dinner in the kitchen. Louis says it was a miserable holiday
for him, all except our party in the evening. I can't imagine why Miss
Yvonne should do such a curious thing. And Louis says she's having one
big room that they've never used fixed up in great style,--fresh,
handsome wall-paper and new furniture and a brass bed, and everything to
match.
"Do you think she expects any visitors?" I said.
"Why, no!" he answered, looking awfully surprised. "She hasn't said
anything about it to me."
Then I asked him if he knew they had received a cablegram two weeks
before, and he was astonished and said that he didn't, and asked how I
knew. I told him what the Imp had said, and as soon as he heard this, he
answered:
"It's more of that beastly mystery, Sue, and I suppose I oughtn't to
talk about it, because I've promised them I wouldn't. I hate it! _I hate
it!_"
I never saw Louis so worked up before. But he wouldn't go on talking
about it any more,--because of his promise, I suppose,--so there matters
rest for the present.
New Year's Day, January 1, 1914. I just stopped a while ago to listen to
the village church-bells ring twelve o'clock. I turned out the light and
opened the window and leaned out. It all sounded very solemn, but it
would have been much more impressive if there had been a lovely white
fall of snow, with full moonlight glistening on it. Instead of that, it
was raining and everything smelled damp and drippy. I like things to
seem appropriate, but somehow they never seem to be,--at least, not the
way you read about them in books.
While I was looking out, I happened to glance over at Louis's house and
saw such a queer thing. Way up in one of the little attic-windows there
was a light. After a moment I made out that it was from an oil-lamp that
some one was carrying about, for it didn't remain steady long at a time.
I hated to be spying on our neighbors, but I couldn't have taken my eyes
away from that sight if I'd been offered a thousand dollars. It was
_too_ uncanny. In another moment I discovered that it was Miss Yvonne
moving slowly about in front of the immense chimney that is opposite the
window, feeling carefully of every brick and picking at them with her
fingers, as if to learn if any were loose. It seemed the strangest thing
to be doing at midnight on New Year's Eve, but all of a sudden it dawned
on me that she must be trying to discover if any brick was loose
_because_--something might be hidden behind it!
I got so excited about it that I could hardly stand still. But the next
minute the light disappeared, and I realized that she had given up the
search and gone downstairs. Whether she found what she was looking for
or not, I don't know. Probably she didn't, or she would have stayed
longer.
After that I shut my window, lit my light, and now am finishing this. I
wonder if Carol saw what I did? She was going to look out of her window
at midnight, too. But she couldn't have seen it, I'm sure, because her
house is on the other side of Louis's, and that attic-window wouldn't
have been visible to her. My, won't I have something exciting to tell
her to-morrow!
Mother has just opened her door and called out "Happy New Year!" to me.
She told me to put out my light and go to bed, or I'd fall asleep at
Anita Brown's party to-morrow night--no, I mean _to-night_. I guess I'll
have to end this for the present, but I don't believe I'll be able to
sleep. Life is certainly growing more and more exciting, with your
neighbors receiving mysterious cablegrams from abroad and digging in the
cellar and hunting about in the attic at midnight and all the other
curious doings. I hope it doesn't seem like prying into their affairs to
have discovered all these things. Each time it was quite by accident.
But Mother and Father have always taught us how horrid it was to be
curious about your neighbors. Well, as long as I don't deliberately pry
or talk about it to any one except Carol, I'm sure no harm will be done.
As this is my first entry in my journal for 1914, I'll wish everybody a
"Happy New Year" and hope this will be a glorious _good_ year for every
one in the world.
Sue Birdsey lay on the davenport by the fire. She was covered by an
afghan and her face was propped up on a hot-water-bag. On the table near
her was a huge packet of absorbent cotton and several bottles of
medicine. Near her hand lay a book, unheeded. Unheeded, also, was the
brilliant mid-January sun streaming in at the west windows. Of what use
are books and sunlight, indeed, in the face of a raging toothache! On
the opposite side of the hearth sat Carol, disconsolately urging a
renewal of some one of the medicines.
"It's no earthly use!" moaned Sue. "I've tried it a dozen times. Wait
till the Imp gets back with that stuff your Aunt Agatha recommended.
I'll try that, and if it doesn't stop it, I'll walk straight down to the
dentist and have it out."
"I believe it's going to ulcerate," remarked Carol, like the "Job's
Comforter" she was always inclined to be.
Sue's only reply was to hurl a sofa-cushion at her and subside again on
the hot-water-bag. No further remarks were exchanged. The sun sank in a
few moments and the room grew dark. Carol turned on the light and
muttered something about how long the Imp was. After a few more gloomy
moments, punctuated by groans from Sue, the door was flung open and the
Imp rushed in, bringing a blast of chilly air with her.
"Here it is!" she cried. "I had to wait an awful while for him to get it
ready. You fix her up, Cad."
While Carol administered the remedy according to directions, the Imp
straightened out the rumpled afghan and refilled the hot-water-bag. She
could be singularly helpful in case of sickness or an emergency, and
seemed actually to delight in being of use,--a change of demeanor that
never failed to astonish the other two girls. So accustomed were they to
regard the Imp as their sworn enemy that this angelic demeanor quite
disarmed them.
Five minutes after the remedy had been applied Sue sat up with a jerk.
"Hurrah! The pain's all gone. It went like magic. I feel like a new
creature. No more of this for me!" She rose from the couch, pushing away
the signs of her temporary invalidism. "Imp, you certainly are a trump.
Come, Carol, let's get at our work for to-morrow."
Ten minutes later they were busy at the long table, and the Imp again
settled on the couch, apparently deep in a book. It was Sue who looked
up after a while, to find her eyeing them with the pleased, quiet,
provoking smile whose meaning they had come to know so well. The desire
to investigate its cause proved, as usual, irresistible.
"What are you grinning at, Bobs?" Sue demanded. "You look as pleased as
Punch. Anything happened?" It was well always to placate her by
appearing agreeable.
"Oh, nothing special!" she replied, in a manner that made them perfectly
certain there was something very special. "I happened to notice a while
ago that an automobile drove up to Louis's gate, and that Miss Yvonne
got out and began to give the chauffeur a regular tongue-lashing in
French, because he'd driven up from the station over the joltiest road,
instead of taking the smooth one. He doesn't understand French, so he
didn't in the least get what she was driving at. It made me laugh."
"But what under the sun was Miss Yvonne coming up from the station in
an automobile for?" Carol exclaimed. "She hasn't been away. She hasn't
even been to Bridgeton, for I've seen her around early this afternoon.
She always walks up from the village. You must be crazy."
"She walked down to the village about four o'clock," the Imp informed
them. "I saw her start off. And I guess she had good reason to come back
in an auto." The Imp went on reading after this, just as if she hadn't
any idea that she was driving them wild.
"Well, what _was_ the reason?" inquired Sue, trying to look only mildly
interested. "Was she ill, or did she have a lot of bundles to carry, or
was she in a great hurry?"
"I'll tell you the reason," answered the Imp, "if you'll give me that
nice, fat, new blank-book you bought the other day. It's worth it, too."
"I'll do nothing of the sort!" Sue cried indignantly. "I have a special
use for that book,"--as a matter of fact, she was going to re-copy her
journal in it--"and I'll find out some other way."
"You won't find out anything before to-morrow afternoon, probably," the
Imp returned, "for Louis isn't going to school. He told me so."
Sue made up her mind that she wasn't going to give in to her, but Carol
broke up that intention.
"Oh, give it to her!" she whispered. "I've another just as good that you
can have. And I'm wild to hear what's up across the Green."
Sue handed the blank-book across to the Imp, and said, as witheringly as
she could:
"Here, take it, if you want it as badly as that! Of course you know
you're taking a mean advantage of us, but that's nothing to you. Fire
away!"
"I thought you couldn't wait till to-morrow," the Imp retorted. "Well,
here goes. Miss Yvonne rode up in an auto because--she had some one with
her."
"Who _was_ it?" cried Carol impatiently. "Don't dole out your
information in little drops. Tell us the rest."
"I didn't ask the person's name," said the Imp, in that maddeningly
polite way she sometimes assumed. "It didn't seem any affair of mine."
"Naturally," Sue answered, as calmly as she could. "We'd only be much
obliged to know whether it was a man, woman, girl, boy, or baby. Please
remember you've got the book and that you haven't paid for it yet."
"I always pay my debts," she answered, trying not to giggle, "and I only
agreed to tell you the reason why Miss Yvonne came up in the auto. I've
done that. But since you're so hard up for information, I'll hand out a
little more small change--just because I'm sorry for you. It was a man,
a very old man, all wrapped up in a big fur coat."
"Did Louis know he was coming?" Carol demanded.
"Oh, no! Louis didn't know," answered the Imp, "but I did; for I heard
Miss Yvonne telling old Mr. Meadows yesterday, when they were out by
the barn, that all was ready for 'Monsieur's' arrival to-morrow."
"You're a mean little thing to be always eavesdropping about," cried
Sue, "and meaner yet never to tell us a word of what you hear."
"You're quite mistaken if you think I eavesdrop, as you call it,"
retorted the Imp indignantly. "I was in plain sight all the time
yesterday, patching up that snow-fort of Louis's, and they both saw me.
Only Miss Yvonne spoke in French, and I guess she doesn't know that I
understand it. As for not telling you two anything, I'd like to know why
I should. You never tell anything to me, that is, if you can possibly
help it." This was entirely true, as they were bound to confess.
The Imp took up her book and marched huffily to the door. But before she
left the room she turned and called back:
"It's a thankless job trying to be nice to you two. You're absolutely
ungrateful. And I'll tell you right now, I know one piece of
information, besides all this, that you'd give your eye-teeth to
hear,--but you won't. It's about who this mysterious 'monsieur' _is_!"
With that she went out, slamming the door behind her.