GWEN
Little Sprite Seaford felt so completely "at home," that it seemed to
her as if she had always lived at Avondale. There were times when she
felt homesick. At early morning, before Polly was awake, she would lie
with wide open eyes, gazing around the lovely room, and missing the
dear voices that always greeted her so cheerily. At twilight, when the
shadows grew deeper, there would be a longing for the dear ones at
home, and her loving little heart would ache, and she would have to
struggle to keep back the tears.
She knew, however, that she must be a bright, cheerful little guest.
Had not dear father and mother said so?
Throughout the sunny days she was the life of the merry playmates who
lived so near that they were always together. Polly and Rose she had
played with at the shore in the Summer, and at the children's party
that Mrs. Sherwood had given, she had met the boys and girls who had
come from Avondale for that evening.
They had all liked the "little Sea Nymph," as they had called her, and
now were glad to renew the acquaintance.
There was one small girl who, thus far, had shown no interest in Polly's
guest, and that was Gwen Harcourt.
She had seen Sprite with Polly, and her playmates, but she had watched
them from a distance.
From her own piazza she could look across to Sherwood Hall, and see
the children at play.
In a few days she had tired of watching the merry friends, and she
longed to join them. She had heard Lena Lindsey say that Sprite was
charming.
Leslie Grafton, only the day before, had said that one reason why she
enjoyed playing with Sprite was because she was so _different_ from
any girl that she knew.
What was this "_difference_" that Leslie spoke of?
Harry Grafton had declared that little Sprite was a trump.
"What's a _trump_?" said Gwen, as she sat swinging her feet, and looking
up and down the avenue.
"What's a _trump_?"
She was perched on the top of the stone post at the entrance to the
driveway, and watching intently for a glimpse of little Sprite.
She had been curious about the new little girl ever since the first
day that she arrived at Avondale. _Now_, she was _determined_ to know
her.
"If she'd go by while I'm sitting here I'd _make_ her come into my
garden. I'd like to have her all to myself the first time I talk to
her," she said softly.
Of course Gwen wished to meet Sprite when she was quite alone. Anyone
who had ever known Gwen would know why.
She knew that all of her playmates were aware that she told very large
stories, and that none of them were true.
If she had Sprite, quite by herself, she could tell what she chose.
Luck favored her, for she had sat on the great post but a moment longer,
when a soft voice singing made her look up.
Sprite, her hands filled with flowers, was coming toward her.
She was looking down at her blossoms, and did not notice the child on
the post.
"Bright, glist'ning summer sea,
Bring thou a ship to me,
Sailing so gallantly over the main.
Down deep within its hold
Will there be bags of gold,
Or sparkling gems untold,
All, all for me?
Now my heart cries to thee;
Bring not from o'er the sea
Bright glitt'ring gems for me, nor bags of gold.
I'd rather have a heart,
Mine from all else apart,
From him I'd _never_ part,
Love's more than gold."
Little Sprite Seaford had learned the song in her home by the sea. Its
words were tender, its melody graceful and sweet, but Gwen Harcourt
cared little for music. Her only thought was to startle Sprite. With
this delightful thought in her mind, she waited until Sprite was about
to pass the post, when she slipped to the ground directly in front of
her, causing her to "jump," and drop half of her flowers.
"Oh, how you frightened me!" she cried, as Gwen peeped impudently right
into her face.
"Mustn't be a 'fraidie cat'!" she cried, then--"Here! I'll pick up
your flowers."
With haste she snatched the flowers from the sidewalk, and thrusting
them into Sprite's hand, she said:
"This is where I live. Come in. I want to know you. My name is Gwen
Harcourt. What's yours?"
"I am Sprite Seaford," was the gentle answer.
"My whole name is Gwendolen Armitage Harcourt. Rather grand, isn't
it?" Gwen asked, her hands on her hips, and her feet wide apart.
"Mine is just Sprite Seaford," she said, quietly.
"Don't you wish you had a middle name?" said Gwen. "It sounds fine."
"I don't think I care," said Sprite.
Gwen was rather surprised that Sprite seemed little interested.
"Come over here," she said, "and I'll show you something I guess you
never saw before."
Without waiting to learn if Sprite cared to go, Gwen grasped her arm,
and literally tugged her inside the gateway.
"See these rose bushes?" she asked.
"Well, they're out of blossom now, but they had much as, oh, I guess
a hundred roses on them all at one time!"
Then seeing Sprite's look of surprise, she decided to enlarge her
story.
"I guess there must have been a _thousand_, now I think of it," she
said. "Papa paid twenty dollars a piece for them, and maybe it was
more than that. I'm not quite sure."
Sprite made no comment.
"And _I_ planted one of the bushes, and I'll tell you something real
funny about it," Gwen said. "I planted it upside down just to see what
it would do, and what do you s'pose? After it had been there 'bout a
month I dug it up, and there were roses on it! It had blossomed down
in the _dirt_! They were bigger than the ones that had been planted
the right way, and they _might_ have been even bigger if I hadn't dug
them up so soon."
Sprite's truthful eyes were looking straight into Gwen's bold blue
ones. "Are you _sure_ that happened?" she asked.
"Well, what do you s'pose?" Gwen asked pertly, and then, without waiting
for a reply she caught Sprite's hand and hurried with her into the
great hall.
"I brought you in here to show you the pictures," she said, pointing
to the family portraits that adorned the walls.
Sprite looked in admiration at the ladies in their quaint gowns of
stiff brocade, and at the men in their lace frills, and satin
waistcoats.
"The pictures are lovely," she said, "and are they portraits of people
that really, truly lived once?"
"Oh, yes," cried Gwen, "and I'll tell you all about them.
"This lady with the pink gown was my great aunt Nora, and that man in
the yellow waistcoat was my great uncle Nathan.
"That lady in green velvet was my great aunt Nina, and that young girl
beside her was her daughter, Arline.
"That little old lady in velvet and lace was my great grandmother, and
the next picture was my own grandma, and I've forgotten who that next
one is, but the next lady's name was Jemima, and the one in yellow
silk was Elvira, and the one in pink muslin was Honoriah, and the next
one,--oh, let me think. What _was_ her name? Oh, I know, it was
Anastasia."
"Why, their names grow worse, and worse the farther you go down the
hall!" cried Sprite.
"Why no they don't," said Gwen, "for over on this wall, the first
picture, this one of the lady with the dog is called Lucretia, and
that next one's name was Abagail."
"Well, their gowns are lovely," said Sprite, "but didn't they use to
have just horrid names?"
"My mamma says those names are 'quaint,'" Gwen replied, "but come and
see this portrait of a little girl. Guess who that is?"
"Oh, how could I?" said Sprite, "I've never known your people."
Gwen moved along until she stood close beside her, then she looked
straight into Sprite Seaford's eyes, and nodding as she spoke, and
shaking her forefinger, she said in a whisper:
"That's a portrait of _me!_"
"Why--ee!" exclaimed Sprite.
"That _is_ a picture of me!" declared Gwen. "Do you _dare_ to say it
doesn't look like me?"
Gwen's eyes were flashing, but the sea captain's little daughter was
no coward.
"Of course I dare," she said, "for your eyes are blue, and your hair
is light, while the little girl in the picture has brown eyes, and
brown curling hair."
"How do you know that my hair hasn't been that color, some time or
other?" Gwen asked sharply.
"I don't s'pose I do know," Sprite said simply, "but I don't _believe_
folks have brown hair and have it turn light yellow, and I don't believe
brown eyes turn blue, so I don't see how that little girl in the picture
is you."
Gwen was breathing fast. She was very angry, but she dared not say
harsh words yet.
She wanted this little Miss Seaford to like her, and to be willing to
play with her, so she only repeated: "I say that that little girl in
the picture _is me_!"
Sprite turned toward the door.
"Princess Polly may be looking for me," she said, "so I'll go, now."
As she stepped out into the sunshine she remembered something that she
should have said, and she turned.
"Thank you for letting me see the portraits," she said. "I'm glad you
showed them to me."
"Well, _I'm_ not," Gwen said, rudely. "I wish I _hadn't_, 'cause you
don't b'lieve that pretty portrait is me."
Sprite looked at her with wondering eyes. She was thinking that it was
strange that a little girl who wore lovely frocks, and lived in a
handsome house was willing to be as rude as any little vagrant who
roamed the beach at Cliffmore, gathering sea weed.
"Our house is just an old ship's hull turned upside down, and fixed
up for a house, but mother never let me speak like that to anyone, and
besides, I wouldn't want to," she thought.
She walked toward the avenue, Gwen close beside her.
"Good-bye," Sprite said, with a pleasant smile.
"I'll not say 'good-bye!'" cried Gwen. "All I'll say is: 'That portrait
_is_ a picture of _me_!"
Her voice had risen to a shriek, and she stamped her foot.
Sprite, now wholly disgusted, turned and ran.
Mrs. Harcourt, from an upper window, saw Sprite running away from the
house, just as Gwen's angry voice made itself heard.
"Oh, dear!" she sighed, "What a pity that of all the children that
Gwen knows, not one really understands her."
The lady, to whom she spoke, looked up into her handsome face, and
wondered how any intelligent woman could be so blind regarding her own
child.
"She's so very high strung," continued Mrs. Harcourt, "that she is
easily excited, and she's so _very_ sensitive that her playmates are
constantly hurting her."
"Why do you not urge her to bear with her little friends patiently,
and thus help matters to glide more smoothly?"
"Ah, you, dear friend, like all the rest, fail to understand how fine,
how _extremely_ sensitive my little Gwen is," Mrs. Harcourt responded.
At this point Gwen rushed up the stairs, stamping on every stair, and
dashed into the room.
"I'm glad she's gone!" she cried, flinging herself down on a chair
near the window, a frown making her look as unpleasant as possible.
"Who was that child?" her mother asked, as she bent over her, kissing
her flushed face, and brushing a yellow curl back from her forehead.
"She's come to Avondale to stay all Winter with Princess Polly, and
with Rose Atherton. I wanted to know her, I mean I _thought_ I did,
but now I don't. I brought her in to see the portraits in our hall,
and just for fun I told her that the picture of the little brown eyed
girl was me.
"She wouldn't believe it, and that made me mad. Of course it really
wasn't a portrait of me, but if I _said_ it was, she ought to believe
it?"
"My precious darling!" cried Mrs. Harcourt, "the children _never_ seem
to be able to understand your wonderful imagination. The child was
absurd to go off leaving you so unhappy. I'll ask Mrs. Sherwood what
sort of child she is."
Gwen, having been petted and assured that her mother thought her
perfect, ran from the room, and down to the garden where she sought
something with which to amuse herself.
The cook, looking from the rear window, frowned darkly.
Gwen did not see her, because, with her back toward the house, she was
trying to see if it would be possible to tie a knot in the cat's tail.
The old cat objected, and struck at her, missing however, because Gwen
jumped back.
"Ah, ye little varmint!" cried the cook, "if they's no person handy
fer yez ter pester, thin yez fall back on the owld cat, poor crayture."
A few moments she watched Gwen in silence, then again she spoke.
"There she goes tryin' to climb up onto the fountain basin. Sure I'll
hov ter shpake ter her, and I don't want ter, but she risks anything."
Throwing up the window she shouted:
"Hi! Miss Gwen! Coom down off'n there, 'fore ye do be gittin' a big
fall!"
Gwen turned and made an outrageous face, thus giving proof of her
sweetness.
"Coom doon!" shouted the cook, but Gwen only giggled and remained
exactly where she was.