THE AGE OF CHIVALRY
Many years later there came days in Elizabeth Gordon's life when she
achieved a certain amount of fame, but never at their height did any
day shine so radiantly for her or bring her anything of the exaltation
of that moment when she and Rosie tremblingly took their places side by
side at the foot of the Junior Fourth class.
For a time Elizabeth strove to live up to her lofty position. The fear
of even yet being sent back to Mary's class, which Miss Hillary held
over her as an incentive to working fractions, drove her to make
desperate efforts even to learn spelling. Rosie helped her all she
could, and Rosie was a perfect wonder at finding royal roads to
learning. If you could spell a word over seventeen times without
drawing your breath, she promised, you would be able to repeat it
correctly forever after. Elizabeth tried this plan with
"hieroglyphics," but reached the end of her breath, purple and gasping,
with only fourteen repetitions to her credit. She attributed her
failure to spell the word the next day to this, rather than to the fact
that, in her anxiety to accomplish the magic number, she had changed
the arrangement of the letters several times.
But as the days passed, and the danger of being returned to the Third
class disappeared, Elizabeth relaxed her efforts and returned to her
habitual employment of drawing pictures on her slate and weaving about
them rose-colored romances. Another danger was disappearing, too.
Miss Hillary, finding that Forest Glen School was not hatching
rebellion, gradually became less vigilant, and there was in consequence
much pleasant social intercourse in the schoolroom.
Of course Elizabeth, like the other pupils, found that one could not
always be sure of the teacher. She might never notice a slate dropped
upon the floor, provided one took care to drop it on a day when she
didn't have a nervous headache. But on the other hand, if one chose
one's occasion injudiciously, she might send one to stand for half an
hour in the corner, even though one was a big girl, now going on twelve.
But Rosie found the key to this uncertain situation, also. Rosie's
farm joined the Robertsons', where Miss Hillary boarded, and the small,
observant neighbor discovered a strange connection between her
teacher's headaches and the actions of a certain young gentleman from
town. She explained it all to Elizabeth one day, behind their slates,
when the complex fraction refused to become simple.
Rosie was very solemn and very important. Martha Ellen Robertson had
told her big sister Minnie all about it, and Rosie had heard every
word. Miss Hillary had a fellow, only Elizabeth must promise for dead
sure that she'd never, never tell. Because, of course, anything about
a fellow was always a dreadful secret. This young man was very stylish
and very handsome, and he lived in Cheemaun, and, of course, must be
very rich, because everybody was who lived there. He came out nearly
every Sunday in a top-buggy and took Miss Hillary for a drive. Minnie
and Martha Ellen both said it was perfectly scand'lus to go driving
Sundays, and the trustees ought to speak to her. The young man wrote
to Miss Hillary, too, for every Wednesday she went to the post-office,
and Mrs. Clegg said she 'most always got a letter. But sometimes she
didn't; and the important point for themselves was just here--Rosie
grew very impressive--they had to watch out on Mondays and Thursdays,
if the young man didn't come, or if the letter failed, for then sure
and certain Miss Hillary would go and get a headache and be awful cross
and strict. Yes, it was true, because Jessie Robertson, and Lottie
Price, and Teenie Johnstone, and all the big girls said so. And Jessie
Robertson had promised to tell them so they could be careful, and
Lizzie could just look out and see if she wasn't right.
Elizabeth did look out, and found as usual that Rosie was correct.
Rosie was so wonderful and so clever that, though she was only half a
year older than her friend, the latter lived in constant admiration of
her sagacity. For, as far as worldly wisdom was concerned, Rosie was
many, many years older than the precocious Elizabeth.
The young man of the top-buggy soon became a fruitful source of gossip
in the schoolroom, especially amongst the older girls. Jessie
Robertson, who lived right at the base of supplies, issued semi-weekly
bulletins as to whether they might expect a headache or not, and Forest
Glen conducted itself accordingly.
So, having settled exactly the periods of danger, and finding that
often Mondays and Thursdays were days of happiness and license, Forest
Glen settled down securely to its intermittent studies.
Elizabeth soon ceased to trouble much even over spelling, and she and
Rosie gave themselves up to the fashion of the hour. And every hour
had its fashion. For like most rural schools, amongst the girls at
least, Forest Glen was a place of fads and fancies.
No one ever knew just how or why a new craze arose, but there was
always one on the tapis. At one time it was pickles. No one could
hope for any social recognition unless one had a long, green cucumber
pickle in one's dinner-pail--the longer the pickle the higher one's
standing. Fads ranged all the way from this gastronomic level to the
highly esthetic, where they broke out in a desire for the decorative in
the form of peep-shows. A peep-show was an arrangement of flowers and
leaves pressed against a piece of glass and framed in colored
tissue-paper. Every girl had one on her desk; even to dirty, unkempt
Becky Davis. Elizabeth was not a success at such works of art. She
was a wonder at inventing new patterns, and gained recognition from
even the big girls by suggesting a design of tiny, scarlet maple
leaves, green moss, and gold thread. But when it came to construction,
she left that to Rosie and took to drawing new designs on her slate.
No one could compete with Rosie anyway. She had something new and more
elaborate each morning.
But the craze for peep-shows was superseded early in Miss Hillary's
reign by an entirely new fad, such as had never manifested itself
before in any marked degree in the school. Miss Hillary, quite
unwittingly, started it herself.
It was a warm, languorous afternoon in October, and time hung as
heavily over the heads of the pupils as the mists hung over the
amethyst hollows and sunny hills of Forest Glen. It was Thursday and
Miss Hillary was writing at her desk. Lottie Price, the biggest girl
in school and the most curious and observing, wrote a note to Teenie
Johnstone to say she bet anything the teacher was writing to her
fellow. Lottie knew, because Miss Hillary often looked straight at you
and didn't see you at all. That was a sure sign. In the back seat,
John Gordon and the Pretender, as everyone now called Charles Stuart,
were silently but busily whittling away, constructing part of a
wonderful new kind of ground-hog trap. Elizabeth had filled one side
of her slate with an elaborate picture of a castle on a hill, a stream,
a lake, a ship, and an endless vista of town and road and church-spire
stretching away into the distance. She had never heard of that school
of artists that painted the classic landscapes, but she belonged to
them as surely as any of the old Italian masters. She was now drawing
Mrs. Jarvis in a trained gown standing on the steps of the castle,
while Elizabeth Joan of Arc Jarvis Gordon, blowing a bugle, came riding
down a perpendicular mountain-path on a stiff-legged steed. Rosie had
just housecleaned her desk for the second time that day. She had
rubbed all the ink-spots off the top and put a new paper frill around
the ink-well. She was re-arranging her books once more and had them in
an unsteady pile on the edge of her desk, when Elizabeth leaned over to
her side, to display her finished landscape. Rosie's arm came against
the toppling pile of books, and they went crashing to the floor.
Miss Hillary looked up. The two culprits sat up very straight and made
a frantic show of figuring on their slates. For Jessie had reported no
letter that morning, and who knew what might happen? The teacher arose
frowning, and Rosie made a desperate dive towards the truant books, but
Miss Hillary stopped her. Then, to the amazement and relief of the two
tremblers, she began to rebuke, not Rosie, but Joel Davis! Joel was a
big, sleepy, fat boy who sat opposite the two little girls, and the
books had bounced over towards his seat. No boy was a gentleman, Miss
Hillary stated, who would allow a lady to pick up anything that had
fallen. She was grieved, after all the lessons she had given in
manners and morals, to find that one of her pupils could be so lacking
in refinement. Joel would, therefore, please gather up Rosie Carrick's
books, and put them on her desk, as a gentleman should always do for a
lady.
Joel scratched his shaggy head in perplexity, and gazed sleepily at his
teacher, then at the debris of books and pictures and tissue-paper
squares that littered the floor. He muttered growlingly that a kid
like Rosie Carrick wasn't no lady anyhow; but he good-naturedly scooped
up an armful of the fallen, and without moving himself unduly reached
them out towards their owner. The school giggled, poor Rosie blushed,
and in a spasm of embarrassment strove to take them. Between them the
books once more descended to the floor in an avalanche of gayly-colored
cards and papers. Rosie stooped for them, so did Joel, and their heads
bumped together. The young gentleman, now blushing as furiously as the
young lady, grasped the books in a promiscuous heap and slammed them
down upon Rosie's desk with, "There now, butter-fingers." The school
laughed aloud, and Rosie curled up behind the pile of books and cried
with vexation. Joel Davis was such a horrid, horrid, dirty, fat boy
that it was just real nasty mean of Miss Hillary to let him pick up her
books, so it was. Elizabeth, all sympathy, patted her comfortingly,
and twisted one of Rosie's curls round her fingers as she whispered
soothing words.
But Miss Hillary was again talking, and she slid over to her own side
of the seat and gave scared attention. It was time she gave another
talk upon manners and morals, the teacher declared, and Elizabeth's
heart sank. She knew she had no manners to speak of, and on Sundays
she was often doubtful of her morals. And when Miss Hillary gave
semi-monthly lectures on these two troublesome subjects they caused her
acute misery. But to-day the address was chiefly to the boys.
Evidently it was only the masculine side of the school that was lacking
in manners and morals. Miss Hillary declared she must strive to
inculcate a spirit of chivalry in them, and teach them the proper
attitude towards girls.
Elizabeth gave a sigh of relief. This was no concern of hers, except
that she devoutly hoped it might make John and the Pretender stop
pulling hair. So she gave her attention to softly taking down the
longest words the little lecture contained. Miss Hillary had gone
sufficiently far on the road of understanding to make this safe. She
sometimes even glanced approvingly at her disciple's flying fingers
when she uttered a polysyllable of more than usual distinction. Rosie
came from behind her shelter of books, and, wiping away her tears,
attempted to help Elizabeth. There was a word that Lizzie had missed,
she cautioned. Something like "shivering"--a spirit of shivering or
"shivaree." But Elizabeth, in the midst of "gallantry," shook her
head. That was just chivalry. She knew all about that. It was a
glorious word that took in Ivanhoe, and the ladye that went ower the
border and awa', and Joan of Arc, yes--and Elizabeth herself. But
there was no use trying to explain it to Rosie, for, though Rosie was
the dearest dear that ever sat with anybody in school, there were many
things that even she did not understand.
Meanwhile, the talk on manners and morals had drawn to a close and
Elizabeth went back to her classic landscape and Rosie to her
house-cleaning. But the effect of the lecture did not end there.
Hector McQueen, who was the handsomest boy in the school, as well as
the only one who was really well-behaved, gave Rosie Carrick the tin
dipper before he drank himself, at the pump the next day. Wully
Johnstone's Johnny followed by opening the gate for Sissy Clegg one
morning, which was quite gratuitous, for Sissy always climbed the fence
anyway. Soon the older boys were vying with each other in acts of
gallantry. The spirit of chivalry had been awakened and it took effect
in a way the teacher had not anticipated.
For a time Elizabeth was all unconscious of the turn affairs were
taking. John and Charles Stuart were not the kind who attracted
attention by acts of elaborate politeness, and other boys did not enter
into her world. So it was a great surprise to her one morning, when
Rosie whispered, as she packed away her latest peep-shows in the desk,
that the girls were not going to make any more; they were going to have
beaux instead.
"Bows?" queried Elizabeth absently, all absorbed in a winding river, a
moat, and a drawbridge. "Aunt Margaret won't let me have one, I know.
Will they wear them on their hair?"
Rosie dived down behind her slate and her curls shook violently with
convulsive giggles. Elizabeth had no idea what the joke was, but
laughter was always contagious, and she got behind her slate and
giggled, too; so loud, indeed, that Miss Hillary--it was Monday and the
top-buggy had not come out from Cheemaun--rapped sharply on her desk
and looked very severe. The giggles subsided immediately, but when a
safe interval had elapsed Rosie explained the nature of the bows, and
another spasm ensued.
"What are they going to have them for?" asked Elizabeth, drying her
eyes on her pinafore. She could understand one desiring a bow on the
hair, but what would be the function, either useful or ornamental, of
the kind Rosie indicated was hard to understand.
Rosie twisted one of her curls coyly. "Oh, just because," she
explained. "All the girls are getting them."
Elizabeth became interested. "Have you one, Rosie?" she whispered, and
Rosie tossed her curls and giggled, but gave no answer. Elizabeth
looked puzzled. Often Rosie seemed so old and wise and far away,
making her feel as if she were Jamie's age.
"How do you get one?" was the next question.
"Oh, my goodness!" giggled Rosie. Such ignorance did not admit of any
enlightenment. "They just--come," she explained vaguely.
The Junior Fourth class was being called forward and there was no more
opportunity for explanations. But, as they passed up the aisle,
Elizabeth noticed Rosie flirt her curls and glance towards Hector
McQueen's seat, and Hector's admiring eyes followed Rosie all the way
to her class. "Is yours Hector McQueen?" Elizabeth whispered as soon
as they reached their scat again, and Rosie nodded radiantly.
Elizabeth was both proud and pleased. She did not know much about
boys, apart from John and Malcolm and the Pretender. All outside this
list were classed in her mind as "other boys," and were an unknown
waste. But Hector McQueen, everybody knew, was quite the nicest boy in
school. It was just like Rosie to carry off the prize.
As the days went on, Elizabeth, now fully awake to the fashion of the
hour, noticed that Rosie had been quite right--"all the girls" had
beaux. Even big, untidy Becky Davis was receiving attentions from Noah
Clegg, Junior. She furthermore discovered that your beau brought you
apples and butter-nuts to school. That you trimmed his hat with
colored maple leaves at recess, and always chose him as your partner in
games; that he wrote you notes in school, when Miss Hillary was
answering her Wednesday letter, and you wrote back; and, above all,
that the other girls wrote your name and his side-by-side on a slate,
struck out all the common letters, and over the remainder chanted,
"Friendship, Love, Hatred, Marriage." If the result on both sides was
satisfactory, there was nothing more to be desired.
Elizabeth noticed all this commotion and felt rather forlorn.
Personally she would have preferred very much not to have a beau. It
was something quite unnecessary; but then one hated to be different,
and she was the only girl in her class, except Eppie Turner, who was
too shy to speak to a boy, who was in a beauless state. Rosie, in her
loyalty, felt Elizabeth's undesirable condition and strove to better it.
"I'll tell you, Lizzie," she advised one day. "You pick out a boy and
I'll cancel your names and then you can have him for your fellow."
Elizabeth looked about her reluctantly. This was a most distasteful
task. Yet, when pickles were the fad, though green cucumbers made her
deadly sick, she had always had one in her desk; so surely a beau could
not be worse. Rosie followed her eyes trying to assist. "You must
have somebody older than yourself," she admonished, as her chum's eyes
rested fondly on the row of little fellows in Archie's class.
Elizabeth sighed; to have Rosie's little, curly-headed brother Dicky
for one's beau would have been perfectly lovely. She glanced further
down the aisle. Rosie indicated those who were "taken." The rights of
property were strictly observed and there were no flirts in the Forest
Glen School.
Suddenly Rosie exclaimed joyfully: "Why, I know who you'll have,
Lizzie, Charles Stuart MacAllister, of course. Nobody's took him or
your John, but you couldn't have your brother." But Elizabeth shook
her head hopelessly. No, never, never. She would go down to history
as the only unbeaued girl in Forest Glen School forever and ever before
she would have Charles Stuart. Why, she had tried him. Yes, she
really, truly had, long ago last summer. He'd been her beau for most
nearly an hour. But it hadn't worked at all. He had told her she had
green eyes right after she had promised to marry him, and she didn't
like him anyway. Rosie looked disappointed. Couldn't she just cancel
their names anyway? But Elizabeth was obdurate. No, she couldn't.
Besides there was one boy whom she liked just a teenty, weenty bit, if
Rosie would promise really, truly she'd never, never tell. Rosie
snuggled up to her joyfully, making wholesale promises that sure
certain, cross her heart, she'd never think of it again.
Well--Elizabeth made her confession hesitatingly--it was--Charlie
Peters.
Rosie drew back with a gasp of dismay and bit her lip. Now every girl
in Forest Glen School knew that when another girl took her lower lip
between her teeth and looked sideways, girl number one had done or said
something requiring a deadly reproof. Elizabeth was startled. "Why
not?" she asked anxiously.
Rosie looked at her helplessly. Lizzie was so queer about some things.
Poor, dirty Charlie Peters! What in the world had possessed her? He
was a quiet, sickly boy, who came from a place away back in the swamp
where his father worked a portable saw-mill. He was always unkempt and
ragged; his long, straight hair clung round his pale face and his right
sleeve hung empty, his arm having been cut off in the mill when he was
quite little. Elizabeth could not explain the fascination that poor
Charlie's empty sleeve had for her, nor the great compassion his pale
face and his pitiful efforts to write with his left hand raised in her
heart. But he aroused far more interest in her mind than all the
"other boys" put together. Rosie argued the matter, but at last
consented. A dirty, ragged sweetheart was perhaps after all better
than none. "Besides it doesn't matter much," she concluded
practically. "'Cause it's only to tease you about, and cancel your
names." She added cautiously that Lizzie had better not tell anybody
else, it would be a secret between them, thus loyally saving her friend
from public disgrace.
Elizabeth consented, and Rosie wrote Elizabeth Jarvis Gordon and
Charles Henry Peters on her slate and performed the necessary ceremony.
It turned out quite satisfactorily, and Rosie's next duty was to chant
the usual incantation over the buttons of her friend's pinafore:
"_Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief,
Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief._"
There were just eleven buttons, which brought the ominous result,
"beggar man." Rosie gave herself up to renewed dismay, but Elizabeth
grew more joyful every moment. It would be very romantic to marry a
beggar man, and likely poor Charlie would have to be one, seeing he was
so sick and had only one arm. It would be just like the story in the
_Chronicle_, of the lovely Lady Evelina, who ran away with the
coachman, and he turned out a count! She accordingly set to work at
her slate, and drew a picture of herself riding up in all her grandeur
of velvet-cloak, armor, and spear to rescue a ragged, one-armed boy
from an enemy's camp. Elizabeth's instincts were right, the touch of
self-sacrifice she dimly divined was necessary to make an act of
perfect heroism.
For the next few days Rosie lived in distress, lest Elizabeth's
unfortunate love affair became public and both she and her chum be
disgraced. But, before disaster could descend, Elizabeth's clouded
destiny changed to one of dazzling splendor in the most miraculous way.
One morning there appeared in school, with Noah Clegg, Junior, a new
boy; a wonderfully handsome boy, in a black velvet suit and broad white
collar, altogether such a magnificent creature as had never before been
seen in Forest Glen.
He had not been in school ten minutes before everybody knew all about
him, Hannah Clegg proudly giving the information. He was from
Cheemaun. His name was Horace Oliver, and his father was a rich
lumberman. The Cleggs had supplied Mrs. Oliver with fresh butter and
eggs for years, and Hannah herself had been at their house, which was a
very magnificent mansion on the hill overlooking the lake. He had a
sister older than himself, whose name was Madeline, and she had four
silk dresses besides dozens of other kinds. And this Horace had been
sick, so when Hannah's father and mother went into town with the butter
and eggs on Saturday they had brought him back with them to stay on the
farm and drink plenty of milk until he should get strong again.
The new boy was the center of interest during the morning. The girls
were all admiration, and the Cleggs rose in popular favor, to be the
envied of all the school. Enthusiasm amongst the boys was much milder.
John Gordon and Charles Stuart MacAllister were scarcely enthusiastic
at all. John privately informed his friend that any fellow of
twelve--and he must be that if he wasn't thirteen--who would wear a
white collar and velvet rig-up like that to school must be a baa-lamb,
and ought to stay home and sit on his mother's knee. The Pretender
discovered, to their further disgust, that the stranger could play a
piano. This innocent accomplishment raised a strange feeling of
irritation in the breast of Charles Stuart. He mentally resolved to
watch the new boy, and if he showed signs of becoming too popular he
would take him out behind the woodshed and settle him.
But to the school, as a whole, the new boy was all that could be
desired. Even Miss Hillary shared in the popular adulation and smiled
upon him at every chance. He was such a nice boy, no teacher could
resist him. He had evidently been brought up on morals and manners,
for when Miss Hillary dropped her brush he sprang from his seat and
handed it to her before she could stoop for it.
Altogether things went very pleasantly that first day, so pleasantly
that in the afternoon Lottie Price dared to hold up her hand and ask if
they mightn't have a spelling match. Now no one had ever heard of such
a thing on any day but Friday, and Jessie Robertson and Teenie
Johnstone nudged each other. Lottie Price was the most disagreeable
girl in Forest Glen School; indeed, all the Prices were noted for their
capacity for making mischief. Lottie had not spoken to the girls in
her class for three days, and her two chief rivals understood this move
for a spelling match. Jessie whispered to Teenie that it was just like
Lottie Price. She was the best speller in the school and wanted to
show off before the new boy.
To the surprise of most, Miss Hillary smilingly granted the request.
Jessie, however, nodded her head significantly. She wasn't surprised,
not she. Why, the top-buggy had come early in the morning yesterday
and stayed both to dinner and tea, and she thought it was just horrid
mean of Lottie Price, so she did. She had done it just because she
knew Jessie couldn't spell.
Meanwhile, the spelling match was being arranged. Of course, Lottie
was sent as captain to one side, and then Miss Hillary asked would the
school choose a boy for captain on the other side. A swarm of hands
went up, and almost unanimously the new boy was chosen.
This was indeed a triumph for Lottie, and as the two took their places
she swept a glance of disdain towards a seat where two young ladies sat
gazing with averted faces far out of the window.
Rosie was "mad at" Katie Price, so she also stared in the opposite
direction. But Elizabeth never had time nor opportunity to quarrel
with anyone, and she gazed at Lottie with frank admiration, and wished
she could spell half so well. It seemed such a pity that the grand
stranger should find out so soon how stupid she was. She was always
chosen the very last in a spelling match, except when Mary or Rosie
happened to be a captain and selected her for private reasons.
The captains were in place, and Miss Hillary smilingly nodded to
Lottie. Since the age of chivalry had dawned, the girl-captain in a
spelling match was always given the first chance to select. Lottie
hesitated. She had her beau, but he could not spell, and her bosom
friend, but they had vowed never to speak again so long as they both
should live. Miss Price was too wise to allow sentiment to injure her
campaign, but too bad-tempered to permit any magnanimity to assist it.
Therefore, she called Hannah Clegg. No one ever quarreled with the
Cleggs, not even the Prices; they were too good-natured. Besides,
Hannah was a fair speller.
Miss Hillary nodded approvingly and turned to the boy, who was standing
regarding the sea of strange faces in a puzzled manner. He had been
relying upon Hannah as first choice. Miss Hillary came to his aid.
"Now, Horace, you are in a rather difficult position, as you do not
know who are our best spellers. So you may call up anyone you like who
will help you in your further selection." The visitor's face
brightened. He looked right across the school and electrified everyone
by calling out, "Elizabeth Jarvis Gordon."
The owner of the name could not believe her ears. She had to be poked
twice by Rosie before she finally arose and took her place beside the
velvet boy, overcome with wonder. It was as though one had suddenly
been called out to be a Joan of Arc without any warning. Lottie Price
giggled. Everyone knew Lizzie Gordon couldn't spell c-a-t without a
couple of mistakes, and she saw her victory assured.
But there was one thing Elizabeth could do, and that was name all the
spellers in the room. Who knew them as well as she, when each one was
a reproach to her? When the velvet boy's turn came, he looked at her
and she proved a fine support. Rosie came first, of course, but then
Rosie not only knew every word in the Complete Speller, but was a
Complete Speller herself in curls and a pink pinafore. John and
Charles Stuart were next. Elizabeth was devoutly thankful she could
ask them with a clear conscience. She longed for Susie Martin and
Eppie Turner also, but Susie had had five mistakes yesterday, and Eppie
seven; it wouldn't be fair to the velvet boy. An exalted position, she
realized, brought heavy responsibilities. She really made a very fine
campaign, for she had almost all the Senior Fourth girls at her
command, seeing that Lottie disdained to call them. She whispered
their names to Horace, and as he summoned them to his ranks Lottie's
face grew dark with anticipation of defeat.
At last everyone in the three highest classes was on the floor and the
battle began. From the first the sullen face of the lady-captain, and
her rapidly thinning ranks, showed upon which side the laurels were
likely to rest.
Of course Elizabeth fell at the second volley, but as she left,
overcome with humiliation, the velvet boy whispered: "Never mind. It
was a beast of a word." Further comfort came to her when he himself
went down on the next word and smiled at her sympathetically. But they
left behind them plenty of veterans to carry on the war, and at last
Lottie was left alone and there still stood on the other side a
splendid array of six, headed by John Gordon. It was the hour for
closing, and Miss Hillary announced the spelling match won by Horace
Oliver; and Lottie Price almost tossed her head out of the window, the
girls declared, as she passed Jessie and Teenie on her way to her seat.
When school was dismissed, the new boy paused at Elizabeth's seat,
where she and Rosie were putting their books together.
"I remembered your name," he said triumphantly.
"How did you?" asked Elizabeth, amazed.
"Papa told us. Do you remember my papa? He was out here one day last
summer with our lawyer. His name's Mr. Huntley. Mr. Huntley calls you
'Queen Elizabeth.'"
It was all clear to Elizabeth now. So that jolly, fat man, who didn't
seem to care whether Eppie and her grandpa kept their farm or not, was
the velvet boy's father; and the nasty man who was trying to take it
from them was his friend. And, further, this must be the dreadful bad
boy whom Sarah Emily called the "Centipede," and for whom she used to
iron all day, and whose mother was so proud and haughty. She felt
rather disillusioned. She wished, too, that he hadn't said "papa."
She was afraid John and Charles Stuart would do something violent if
they heard him.
But when Elizabeth reached home that afternoon, and Mary related all
the day's exciting experiences, to her surprise, her aunt seemed almost
joyful. She even smoothed Elizabeth's hair, and said she had behaved
very discreetly. Mrs. Jarvis might hear about her from the little boy,
when she returned, and perhaps something might happen. Further, she
was sure the little Oliver boy was a gentleman and had a genteel
bringing-up. Elizabeth looked vastly pleased, but John hung his head
and scowled, and Sarah Emily snorted quite out loud. When supper was
over, Annie drew Elizabeth away from the others and questioned her.
"Did the Oliver boy say anything about Mr. Huntley--or--or anyone else?"
Elizabeth understood perfectly. There was a strong tie between these
two since the younger sister had delivered a certain precious note with
such care and discretion. Elizabeth knew who "anyone else" meant. No,
the velvet boy had not said anything about other people; but to-morrow
she would ask him.
The velvet boy proved a source of valuable information, being very
willing to talk. Of course, he knew Mr. Coulson. He had often seen
him in Mr. Huntley's office; he was fine fun and could tell dandy
stories. And Mrs. Jarvis, for whom Elizabeth was called, was his
mamma's aunt. She was ever and ever so rich, and was away in the Old
Country now, just pitching her money around, mamma said; and she might
have taken her and Madeline along. Aunt Jarvis was very fond of
Madeline, and mamma said she would be sure to leave her and Horace all
her money when she died, though why she couldn't give them a little
more of it now, was something she couldn't understand.
All this information and more, Elizabeth carried home, distributing it
judiciously where it was most appreciated. She found that any news of
Mrs. Jarvis warded off a scolding, and when a torn pinafore or
unusually untidy hair made her dread her home-coming, she made Horace
walk with her as far as Eppie's bars and gathered from him sufficient
news of the great lady to insure her a welcome from her aunt.
Meantime in school she was living in a new world. She was wonderfully
popular. There was no more talk of a poor makeshift for a beau like
Charlie Peters. All the girls in the school canceled her name with
that of the velvet boy, and Rosie was so proud because Katie Price was
so envious that she fairly hugged Elizabeth for joy.
But the latter was not altogether happy. Of course it was fine to be
the chosen one of the boy from town, but there were drawbacks. Horace
was not strong enough to play baseball, and his mamma had forbidden him
to play shinney, so he always stayed with the girls at recess, which
was often very inconvenient when Elizabeth and Rosie wanted to teeter
by themselves or stay indoors and tell secrets. Then, too, John and
the Pretender teased her unmercifully. They called her beau "Booby"
Oliver and said he should have been a girl. She took his part
valiantly, but she did wish he wouldn't say "papa" and "mamma," it made
her ashamed of him.
On the whole, Elizabeth was not sorry when his two-weeks' visit to the
Cleggs' ended and he went back to Cheemaun. Rosie did not regret his
departure either; he had served his day. For there was no doubt the
age of chivalry was drawing to a close. Winter was coming on and the
mantle of squire of dames was slipping off the boys' shoulders. The
spirit of chivalry did not thrive in the day of snowballs.
The first news of the change in affairs came to Elizabeth, as usual,
through Rosie. The latter confided to her friend that she didn't
believe she liked Hector McQueen half so well as she used to. He had
just been horrid mean only that morning. He had thrown a snowball
right at her. Of course he didn't hit her, but she was mad at him, so
she was, and if he wrote her a note she just wouldn't answer it, see if
she would.
This was but one indication of the decay of chivalry. There were many
others, and at last it was swept away altogether in a new fashion that
shortly broke out. Jessie Robertson's uncle from Vancouver came home,
bringing all the Robertsons presents, Jessie's being an autograph
album. She brought it to school and each of her friends proudly
inscribed their names therein, attached to verses sentimental or
otherwise.
Within a week every girl in the Fourth Book had an autograph album,
even if it were only one made of foolscap and trimmed with tissue-paper
such as Rosie made for Elizabeth. It proved far more interesting and
twice as tractable as a beau. A new era dawned in Forest Glen, an age
of learning, when one racked one's brains to compose a poem for a
friend's book, and the age of chivalry was forgotten.