She was lying looking up through the green branches of the trees. She
had been reading, but her book was now closed, and she was lying quietly
looking up at the blue sky between the branches. Her thoughts were not
quite so quiet as her position would seem to indicate. She had, as Will
Wentworth had said, heard all that talk about the Pelhams. Whatever her
class in life, she was certainly a delicate and honorable young girl;
for at the very first, when she found that it was a talk between a party
of friends, and they were unconscious of a stranger's near neighborhood,
she had done her best to make her presence known to them by various
little coughs and ahems, and once or twice by decided movements, and
readjustments of her position. As no attention was paid to these
demonstrations, she finally concluded that none of the party cared
whether they were overheard or not, and so settled herself comfortably
back again into her place, and opened her book.
But she could not read much. These talkers were all about her own age,
and if they did not care that a stranger was overhearing what they said,
she need not trouble herself any more; and it was quite certain she
found the talk amusing, for more than once a ripple of merriment would
dimple her face, and the laughter would nearly break forth from her
lips. Even at the last, when Agnes spoke so scornfully of the little
yellow dog, the girl seemed to be more amused than annoyed; and she
quite understood Miss Agnes's unfinished sentence, too, and Dora's
little device to make it unfinished.
It was then only that she saw that her attempts to inform the party of
her near neighborhood had been unsuccessful. She got rather red as this
knowledge was forced upon her; then, like Will Wentworth, she burrowed
down deeper than ever in the hammock, and gave way to a little burst of
laughter, though, unlike Will's, hers was no noisy explosion.
All the time she was watching Will and the girls as they took their way
across the lawn; and as soon as they disappeared from her view, she
jumped from the hammock, and with the fleetest of fleet footsteps ran
into the house. Coming down the long wide hall, she met the very person
she was going in search of,--the person that Dora Robson had called
"that stuffy old woman;" and trotting after her was the little yellow
dog, who had just been washed and brushed until his short hair shone
like satin.
"Oh, Pete, Pete, come here!" and Pete at this invitation flew to his
young mistress's arms with much demonstration of delight.
"And they called you a vulgar plebeian dog, Pete, just think of that!"
cried the girl, as she fondled the little animal.
"Who called him that, Peggy?" asked her companion, in a surprised tone.
"One of those girls at the table by the window. Oh, auntie, I want to
tell you about it. I was coming to find you on purpose to tell you.
Let's go in here, where we shall be all by ourselves," turning towards a
small unoccupied reception-room.
There, cosily ensconced beside her aunt, with the little yellow dog at
her feet, the dog's mistress told her story, with various exclamations
and interjections of, "Now wasn't it horrid of them?" and "Did you ever
know anything so ridiculous?" while auntie listened with great
interest, her only comment at the end being,--
"Well, they're not worth minding, Peggy, and I wouldn't act as if I'd
heard what they said when you meet them. I wouldn't take any notice of
them."
"I? Why, it's they who won't take any notice of me, auntie. I'm like my
little dog,--a vulgar plebeian. What would they say, what would they
think, if they could hear you call me Peggy?--that's as bad as Pete,
isn't it?"
"I'm afraid it is;" and auntie laughed a little as she spoke.
The great summer hotel was not nearly full yet, for it was only the last
of June; and as Peggy went down to luncheon, her hand closely clasped in
"auntie's," whom should she meet face to face in the rather
deserted-looking hall but "those girls"? It was a little embarrassing
all round, and they all colored up very rosily as they met.
"I wonder where the boy is?" thought Peggy; "he and that New York girl
were nice." She glanced over her shoulder at this thought. There was the
boy; and--yes, he was standing at the office desk, carefully examining
the hotel register. "He's looking for our names!" flashed into Peggy's
mind, "and those girls set him up to it. I wonder what they'll say to
'Mrs. Smith and niece'? I know; they'll say, or the girl they call Agnes
will say, 'Smith, of course! I knew they had some such common name as
that.'"
Something very like this comment did take place when Master Will, in
obedience to Dora Robson's request, brought the information that the
people at the corner table were Mrs. Smith and her niece. But if Peggy
could only have heard Will flash out upon this comment the further
information that very distinguished people had borne the name of
Smith,--could have heard him quote the famous English clergyman Sydney
Smith, whose wit and humor were so charming,--if Peggy could have heard
Will going on in this fashion, she would have thought he was very nice
indeed, and been quite delighted with his independent outspokenness.
Agnes, however, was anything but delighted. She was, in fact, very angry
with Will by this time, and what she called his meddlesome, domineering
airs, and quite determined to let him know at the very first opportunity
that she was not in the least to be influenced by his opinions.
The opportunity presented itself sooner than she expected. It was just
after luncheon, and a couple of Indians had come up from their
neighboring summer camp with a load of baskets for sale.
Dora and Tilly, with Mrs. Brendon and Agnes and Amy, went out to them at
once. Others soon followed, and a brisk bargaining began. When the
Indian woman held up a beautiful little basket skilfully woven to
imitate shells, there was a general exclamation of pleasure, and one
voice cried out with enthusiasm, "Oh, how lovely!" and the owner of the
voice reached forth to take the basket in her hand. Agnes Brendon,
turning quickly, saw that it was Mrs. Smith's niece.
"The idea of that girl pushing herself forward like this!" was Agnes's
whispered remark to Amy.
"Hush: she'll hear you," whispered back Amy.
"I don't care," answered Agnes, at the same time crowding herself to the
front and inquiring the price of the basket, with the determination to
get possession of it before any one else had a chance. But when the
price--two dollars--was named, Mrs. Brendon pronounced it exorbitant,
and offered half the sum, never doubting its acceptance. The Indian
woman, however, shook her head with an air of grim decision; and at that
very moment, catching sight of Mrs. Smith and her niece, she nodded
smilingly, repeated the price, and held the basket up again;
"Yes, yes, I'll take it," called out Peggy, nodding and smiling
responsively; and the next instant the basket was in her hands.
Agnes, not only disappointed, but deeply mortified and angry, turned
hastily to Dora Robson, and gave vent to her feelings by remarking in a
perfectly clear undertone,--
"The worst of a place like this is that you meet such common people,
with nothing to recommend them but their money."
Dora and Amy flushed with annoyance at this speech; but Tilly was so
disgusted and indignant that she broke away from them all with an
impatient exclamation, and started off across the lawn towards the
house. Halfway across she met Will Wentworth, with Tom Raymond,--a great
chum of his, who had just arrived by the noon boat.
"Hullo, what's up, what's the matter?" asked Will, as he perceived the
expression of Tilly's face.
Tilly stopped, and in a few graphic words told her story, winding up
with, "Wasn't it horrid of Agnes?"
"Horrid? It was beastly," sputtered Will. "_She_ to call people common!"
"But that girl is not common," said Tilly. "She may belong to people who
have just made a lot of money,--for that's what Agnes meant to fling
out,--but there isn't any vulgar common show of it. Look at her, how
plainly she's dressed, and how quiet she is."
"Wonder what Agnes is up to now? Let's go and see," said Will, wheeling
about and nodding to Tilly and Tom to follow.
As they came along together, Will a little ahead, Tom Raymond was quite
silent until they approached the group collected around the Indians;
then he suddenly ejaculated, "Well, I never!"
"What? What do you mean?--what--who do you see?" asked Tilly, very much
surprised at this outbreak.
"Is that the girl--the Smith girl you were telling about--there by the
tree--holding a basket?" asked Tom.
"Yes; why--do you know her?"
"N-o--but--I was thinking--she doesn't look common, does she?"
"Of course she doesn't, only plainly dressed."
"Yes, that's all;" and Tom gave a little odd chuckling laugh.
"How queer Tom Raymond is!" thought Tilly. She thought he was queerer
still, as she caught his furtive glances toward that Smith girl.
Presently Miss Tilly saw that the Smith girl was regarding Tom with
rather a puzzled observation.
"I see how it is," reflected Miss Tilly; "they have met before
somewhere, and Tom doesn't want to know her now. He thinks she isn't
fine enough for this Boston set, though he owns that she doesn't look
common. Oh, I do believe that Will Wentworth is the only one here who
has any sense or heart."
As Tilly arrived at this conclusion of her reflections, Will came
running up to her.
"Come," he said, "there's no fun here. Let's go and have a game of
tennis."
"But where's Agnes? I thought you wanted to see what she was doing."
"She's gone off in a huff because I asked her if she'd bought any
baskets," answered Will, grinning. Tilly laughed, and Tom Raymond gave
another odd little chuckle. Then the three strolled away to the tennis
ground. As they were passing the rustic bench under the tree where Mrs.
Smith and her niece were sitting, Tilly took a sudden resolution, and,
stopping abruptly, said,--
"We're going to have a game of tennis; won't you join us, Miss--Miss
Smith?"
The girl looked up with a smile, hesitated a moment, and then accepted
the invitation. Will, nodding to Tilly a surprised and pleased approval
of her action, started off ahead of the others to see if the tennis
ground was occupied. As he turned the corner, he met Dora Robson with a
racket in her hand.
"Oh," she cried, "here you are! I was just coming after you, for Amy and
I have got to go in,--mamma has sent for us, and Agnes was so
disappointed,--now it's all right, for there's Tilly, and--what
luck--Tom Raymond; he's such a splendid player, and you can--" But Dora
stopped, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Who--who was that behind Tilly?