HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF
"Well, Jean!"
"Well, Peggy!"
"What do you think of them?"
"Oh, I think they are just lovely. I like the tall one best, don't you?
Though the red-haired one is awfully nice, too."
"Goose! I didn't mean them. I meant Uncle John and Margaret. Aren't they
dear? Did I say half enough about them, Jean?"
"No, not half. Margaret is just too lovely for anything, and Uncle
John--well, of course, I am awfully afraid of him, but he is just
lovely, too."
"Look here, young one!" said Peggy the Venerable, gravely. "Can't you
say anything except 'awful' and 'lovely?' I would enlarge my vocabulary,
if I were you."
Jean opened her eyes to their roundest. "Vocabulary! What's that? Don't
tell me that you are going to set up for a school-teacher, Peggy. Why,
you used to say 'awful' yourself, all the time."
"Oh, no, Jean, not quite all the time."
"Well, awfully often, anyhow. I know you did."
"Oh, Jean, I know I did. But first Margaret told me about it, and then I
began to notice for myself. I've been taking Special English this year,
and I find I notice more and more. It's really a pity, as Margaret says,
to have only two or three words and work them to death, when there are
so many good ones that we never use at all. Grace used to call it
'Cruelty to Syllables.'"
"Well, what shall I say? I don't know anything else."
"Yes, you do; don't be absurd, child. Margaret made me a list of
adjectives and adverbs once, I remember, the first time I was here; I
was just your age then, Jean, and I have no doubt I _did_ say 'awfully'
most of the time; anyhow, I did it enough to trouble Margaret aw--very
much indeed. Let me see: there is 'very,' of course; 'remarkably,
extremely, uncommonly, exceedingly, and excessively;' then for
adjectives, 'charming, delightful, pretty, exquisite, pleasant,
agreeable, entertaining,'--well, there were a great many more, but that
is all I can think of now; all these will do instead of 'awful' and
'lovely,' Jean."
"Oh, Peggy, dear, you are a regular school-ma'am. Please don't let us
talk about all these horrid things, the first night I am here. I am
perfectly dying to know what you think about the two Mr. Merryweathers,
and about Hugh and Margaret."
"Why, I think the Merryweathers seem very nice boys indeed. I like the
funny one best, I think; Gerald, is his name? But the other one is nice,
too. He has such kind eyes, and such a pleasant voice. Somehow he looks
more like Gertrude than Gerald does, even though Gerald has her hair.
Oh, Jean, I wish you could see my Snowy Owl! She is so dear, and
beautiful, and strong; next to you and Margaret, she is the very dearest
girl in the world, except one."
"May I come in?" said Margaret's voice at the door. She was greeted by a
duet of "Come in, do!" and entering, found her two cousins seated on the
floor, hair-brush in hand, brushing out their long fair hair.
"'Maud and Madge in their robes of white,
The prettiest nightgowns under the sun!'"
quoted Margaret. "How comfortable you look, girls! May I do my hair
here, too? I knew you would be sitting up, chattering. Who is the very
dearest girl in the world except one, Peggy? And who is the one? I heard
the end of your sentence before I knocked."
"Yes, but you didn't hear the beginning," said Peggy, "or you would know
that you two here are the _very_ dearest, and that the others only come
after you. I was speaking of Gertrude Merryweather; oh! how you and she
will love each other, Margaret! I don't see how I can wait to have you
know each other. And by the 'except one,' I meant Grace Wolfe, our Horny
Owl, and our Goat, and a good many other things."
"Where is she now?" asked Margaret. "Have you heard from her lately?"
"No," said Peggy, sadly. "None of us have heard at school. She wrote
Miss Russell some time ago that she was going to try a new departure,
and expected either to go mad or make her fortune; but she didn't say
what it was. She never writes many letters, you know. We have all
written again and again, but it makes no difference. Hark! what is that
noise?"
"What noise? I heard nothing," said Margaret.
"I thought I heard some one speak, outside the window."
They listened for a moment, but all was quiet.
"It may have been Uncle John and Hugh in the garden," said Margaret. "It
is early yet, you know, not ten o'clock; they often walk about for an
hour and more after we come up. Speaking of Grace Wolfe, Peggy,--"
"Tu-whit!" said a voice. "In this connection only, I may be permitted to
remark, tu-whoo!"
"_Grace!_" cried Peggy, in such a voice that the other girls sprang to
their feet. Peggy was at the window before them, snatching back the
curtain. The night was warm, and the upper sash had been lowered
completely. Leaning over the sash was a slender figure shimmering white
in the moonlight. "Any admittance for the Goat?" said a deep, melodious
voice. "Peace, Innocent!" for Peggy was trying to drag her in over the
sash by main force.
"I address the mistress of the dwelling. Is there admittance for a
miscellaneous quadruped, Margaret Montfort?"
But now Margaret had her other hand, and laughing and crying, the girls
had her in, and again Peggy displayed the powerful development of her
muscles in a strangling embrace, from which Grace emerged panting, but
unruffled. Giving Peggy a sedate kiss, she turned to Margaret, who still
held her hand, gazing in wonder and bewilderment; for this was Mrs.
Peyton's companion.
"You pardon the informality?" she said; and her smile was like light in
the room. "I could not come to call on Peggy, or on Peggy's Margaret,
with my bonnet on. And it is a _great_ wall to climb!" she added,
wistfully. "I don't know when I have enjoyed myself so; there is little
climbing in these sad days. Now you see why I did not want to be Miss
Fox."
"Oh, my dear!" cried Margaret. "How could you keep me in the dark? How
stupid--how utterly stupid of me, not to know you! And yet, how could I
have guessed that Mrs. Peyton's companion was Peggy's own beloved Grace?
You must be my Grace, too, please; I will have neither wolves nor foxes,
but only Grace, or the Horned Owl."
She kissed Grace, who returned the kiss warmly. But now Peggy, who had
been silent for a moment in sheer amazement, broke in:
"What does this all mean?" she cried. "Have you dropped from the moon,
Grace Wolfe, or where do you come from? You and Margaret have met
before? Where, and how, and when? I must know all about it, this very
instant."
The situation was soon explained. Jean, who had hung back, shy and
frightened, was brought forward and introduced; and soon all four girls
were seated comfortably on the floor, talking as if nothing astonishing
had happened. Only every few minutes Peggy would put her hand out and
touch Grace's shoulder, as if to make sure that she was genuine flesh
and blood, and not some phantom conjured up out of the moonlight.
"I have tried twice to see you," Margaret said. "Both times I seemed to
have come just at the wrong moment. Do tell me how you are getting on,
Grace! How has Mrs. Peyton been since you have been there? It is very
seldom that I am so many days without seeing her."
"Singular lady!" said Grace. "Beautiful, but singular. She thinks me
mad, so matters are equal. Why, we get on--somewhere! I am not sure
where. At present, I am in disgrace. She did not like her chocolate this
morning, and being in a pet, bade me throw it out of window; I obeyed.
It appears the cup was valuable, which was a pity, as its bones are
scattered far and wide."
"You threw the cup, too? Grace!"
"Naturally I threw the cup. I am going on the principle of doing exactly
what she tells me to do; thus she may discover the unreason of her
conduct. Tu-whit! Yesterday she was displeased with an embroidered
muslin jacket, and said she never wanted to see it again. I tore it up;
she was displeased. To-night she took a dislike to my dress, and told me
not to come near her till morning. Behold me here; I think it probable
that at this moment she is raising the house for me and desiring greatly
to be rubbed. These things are instructive to her. I have put her to
sleep every night by rubbing, and now she will not sleep. Poor lady; so
sad for her!"
All this was said quietly, pensively, with an air of mild consideration.
Margaret looked at her, wondering. No one had ever crossed Mrs. Peyton
before. One "companion" after another had been engaged, been tyrannized
over for a few weeks, and then dismissed. What would be the effect of
this opposite treatment? Timid herself, she had always met the vagaries
of her beautiful friend with, at most, a gentle protest. If matters were
too bad, she stayed away for a week, and was sure to find the lady in
her most winning mood at the end of that time; but she had never
attempted any more severe measure than this.
"Do you think--do you feel as if you were getting hold of her at all,
Grace?" she asked. "She is really very fascinating, when she wants to
be."
"I am not fascinated!" said Grace; and for a moment the half-whimsical,
half-reckless look, which was her usual expression, gave way to one that
was stern enough. "Mrs. Peyton appears to me to be a wholly selfish
person; a thing rarely met with in such entirety. I have promised my
Good Physician that I will try to rouse her, and see if there is any
scrap of woman left inside this pretty shell; I am going to do my best.
I think it doubtful if there is, but I am going to do my best."
Peggy gazed at her with adoring eyes and felt absolute assurance that
Mrs. Peyton would shortly be converted into an angel. Did not Grace
always do what she undertook to do?
With one of her sudden movements, Grace turned to her, and put her hands
on her shoulders. "Behold my Innocent happy!" she said. "What of the
other Owls, Babe? Do they hoot happily, and flap friskily?"
"Oh, Grace, they want to hear from you so much! The Snowy is really
anxious. She is afraid you are sick, or--or something. Do write to her,
dear; won't you?"
"The Snowy," said Grace, "is one of the few wholly satisfactory persons
in the world. I have an immense respect for the Snowy, as well as a
strong affection. If I could write to anybody, I think it would be to
her. It may even be done, Innocent. Who knows?"
"She was afraid--" Peggy hesitated.
"She was afraid," said Grace, coolly, "that I was going on the variety
stage. Yes; but you see, I did not. But I admit there are grounds--yes,
I will write, Innocent. And now I must go," she added, rising. "I may
come again, Margaret? Tie a white ribbon on the window-tassel when you
do not want me. Good night!"
"Oh, but, my dear, you are not going out in that way!" cried Margaret,
in distress. "Why not go down-stairs and out of the door, like a
Christian?"
"There is nothing distinctively unchristian, I hold, in going by way of
the window," replied Grace, her hand already on the sash. "Consider, I
pray you, the rapture of the one method, the futile stupidity of the
other. Enough! I am gone."
She slipped lightly over the sill and was gone, leaving the others
staring at each other. Peggy ran to the window and looked after her.
"She is all right, Margaret!" she cried; for Margaret was visibly
distressed and alarmed. "The woodbine is very thick and strong, and
there is the spout, too. There! She is down now, all safe. Good night!
oh, good night, dear Goat!"
About this time, Hugh Montfort, having said good night to his uncle and
the two Merryweathers, sauntered down the garden walk, for one more
turn, one more look at the night. It was a wonderful night. The moon was
full, and Fernley lay bathed in a flood of silver light, that seemed to
transform the old brown house into a fairy palace, stately and splendid.
There was no wind, and no sound broke the stillness; yes, it might well
be an enchanted palace, where every living thing lay fast bound by some
mighty spell. The leaves drooped motionless from the branches; beyond
the dark masses of trees, the broad lawns lay in green and silver.
"It's more like something Greek!" said Hugh. "Tempe, or some such place.
If a dryad, now, were to come out from that great tulip-tree--good
heavens!"
He stopped short, in the deep shadow of a clump of chestnut-trees.
Something moved, behind the very tree he was looking at. A figure came
lightly out into the open; a woman's figure, slight and supple, clad in
shadowy white. A dryad? No! the girl he had seen in the summer-house. He
knew the face, as it shone upturned in the moonlight; knew the firm
mouth and chin, the blue eyes, the look of careless power; seen once
only, it was as if he had known the face all his life.
What was she doing? A smile lighted her grave eyes suddenly. She
extended her arms, her face still raised to the moon. Her whole figure,
light as thistle-down, began to sway, to drift hither and thither over
the silver-green lawn. Dancing, was she? It was no human dance, surely;
the name was too common for this marvel of motion. A wave cresting and
curling toward its break; a cloud blown lightly along a summer sky by a
gentle wind; a field of grain, bending and rippling under the same wind.
Hugh thought of all these things, and rejected each in turn, as unworthy
of comparison to this, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He
watched her, as if in a dream of delight; each moment it seemed that he
must wake, and find the lovely vision gone. It was too rare, too perfect
to be real. It seemed as if all the moonlight in the world were drawn to
this one spot, to shine on that white figure, dancing, swaying, hither
and thither--
Ah! it was over. She stopped; threw, it seemed, some words upward toward
the moon, accompanying them with a wave of her hand. Then she turned
away, and passed slowly out of sight, under the dark trees. As she went,
she began to sing; softly at first, a mere breath of sound; but as she
passed farther and farther on, her song rang out clear and sweet; the
voice and the song that he had heard the night before, in the field
beyond the wall:
"Trois anges sont venus ce soir,
M'apportaient de bien belles choses!"