MIDWINTER REVELS.
“‘SHE sleeps, she sle-eps, my la-a-ady sle-e-eps.’”
But my lady was not sleeping; quite the reverse. After the excitement of
an evening spent in her brothers’ room, Dorothy was still lying awake,
thinking over the events of the day, when the boyish voice fell upon her
ears. Rising cautiously, so as not to disturb her sleeping mother, she
threw a heavy shawl across her shoulders and stole noiselessly across
the room to the window. There was no moon, but the white snow below and
the clear stars above made it easy for her to distinguish the scene
before her. But for once, Dorothy’s eyes were heedless of the long lines
of hill and valley, as she bent forward to peer down on the lawn below.
It was a most romantic-looking figure who stood there, banjo in hand;
and though the voice was quite unfamiliar, Dorothy was sure she could
recognize the dark, oval face and flashing eyes raised towards her
window as, after a short interlude, the singer went on,—
“‘Wind of the summer night.’”
“Boo-o!” shivered Dorothy, as the incongruity between the words and the
frost which was nipping her bare, cold feet, flashed into her brain.
“That must be the only serenade he knows, or else they never have cold
nights down south. But what’s the matter?”
A sudden sound like splashing water had succeeded an abrupt pause in the
serenade, and the next moment, the air below was thick with flying
snowballs that dashed against the singer’s back and shoulders, covering
him from head to foot with a soft, light powder. However, he stood his
ground valiantly, and with one proud glance towards the spot where he
supposed his unseen enemies to be, he strummed another short interlude,
and began on the last verse,—
“‘Mo-o-on of the su-ummer night.’”
But a carefully-aimed ball, which struck the back of his neck, just
above his upturned collar, was followed by a second volley so determined
that the cavalier took to his heels, regardless of his lady, who stood
peeping between the curtains and laughing at the fate of her tuneful
guest. She watched him until he had vanished in the darkness, and then
was about to creep back into bed again, when her quick ear caught a
crunching of the snow beneath, and in a moment more, she saw four
figures standing under her window, in place of the one who had gone. A
second glance told her that the shortest of the group was leaning on
crutches, and that the tallest had in his buttonhole a flower singularly
like the carnations she had worn in her belt, that evening. Then they
began to sing; but before she had time to recognize her brother’s clear,
high voice, and the deep bass notes of Alex, it had dawned upon her that
the Flemming quartette had come to serenade her and, finding someone
else upon the scene before them, had taken the quickest and surest means
of driving away the intruder.
“‘Good night, good night, beloved!
I come to watch o’er thee,’”
They were singing; and in spite of the beauty of the familiar strains,
Dorothy smiled to herself, as she thought of the undercurrent of meaning
which lay beneath the words. She knew that neither of her brothers
approved of Osborn’s evident admiration for her, and were probably
exulting in this opportunity to drive their unsuccessful rival from the
field.
As the last words died away upon the still night air, she hastily
snatched from a vase near by, the flowers she had been wearing, softly
opened her window and, with one quick sweep of her arm, dropped them
directly at the feet of the tallest singer. He stooped a moment to
gather them up from the snow, then bowed low in acknowledgment, as the
four voices took up the sadder, sweeter melody of the “Soldier’s
Farewell.”
That was all: only a school-boy frolic, and three, at least, of the
singers had no more thought of sentiment than they would have done in
listening to the band on parade. But if it were all child’s play, why
did Dorothy’s fair face grow suddenly wistful, under cover of the
darkness, as she watched them move away down the road; and why was she
conscious of her heart’s giving a quick throb of pleasure, when she saw
the tallest cadet slacken his pace and stretch out a hand to help
support his shorter comrade, as he limped slowly along over the slippery
crust? What a true knight he was, she said to herself; and then felt the
hot blood rush to her cheeks, at the thought of that unqualified
pronoun, “He.”
True to their promise made to Leon in the holidays, Mrs. Arnold and
Dorothy had come up to Hilton for a week, and Dorothy was holding high
carnival among the cadets. Captivated from the first by her pretty face
and dainty gowns, the boys had besieged Harry with requests for
introductions; and the acquaintance, once begun, was followed up
eagerly, as they came to know more of her. Her frank liking for them
all, and her evident enjoyment of the little entertainments they
prepared for her, quite won their hearts, and Dorothy soon had the
Wilders at her feet, while Frank Osborn, to Harry’s great disgust,
insisted upon lavishing on her the countless little attentions, which he
knew so well how to render acceptable to a young and charming girl.
Mrs. Arnold was a model chaperon, and Dorothy enjoyed the week to the
utmost, entering into all the frolics with a heartiness which was,
however, never quite so apparent as when Alex was included in them.
There were grand coasting parties in the clear, cold starlight, when
Mrs. Flemming and Mrs. Arnold were each the centre of a little group
whose members had been too late to carry off Dorothy instead; there were
long hours of skating, on the little pond at the foot of the hill; there
was the daily expedition to the armory with Leon, to watch the drill
which was now in charge of Adjutant Sterne, while Lieutenant Wilde was
still confined to the house, as a result of his accident; and there were
impromptu spreads and euchre parties in the different rooms, after
evening study-hour. Day by day, Harry was becoming more and more proud
of his sister, while Alex and Paul and Louis and Jack and a dozen more
were eagerly contending for her smiles.
The last evening of the visit was to be given up to a dinner at the
doctor’s, although Mrs. Flemming had said, rather apologetically, as she
invited her guests,—
“I’m afraid we’re hardly in good order for company. My nephew will be
able to be down-stairs, but he doesn’t sit up much yet. Still, if you
can excuse his lack of manners, we shall all enjoy your being with us.”
It was a pleasant, informal evening, and when Harry, and Alex came to
take the guests home, they found Dorothy sitting by the sofa, chattering
gayly with Lieutenant Wilde, who looked very handsome and manly, in
spite of his undress uniform, and a most undignified strip of plaster
running down his left cheek. It was the first time the boys had seen him
since his accident and, made to feel at home by Mrs. Flemming’s cordial
welcome, and her assurances that it was too early for her company to
break up, they established themselves by the sofa, full of boyish
solicitude for his health, and eager questions as to his getting out
among them again.
Quite too soon the evening was over, and Dorothy found herself bidding
her hostess good night, then going out into the clear, frosty air, with
Alex at her side. They walked on in silence for a little way, then
Dorothy said enthusiastically,—
“Such a pleasant evening! It has been a fit ending to our visit here.”
“How did you like Lieutenant Wilde?” asked Alex. “Had you seen him
before to-night?”
“No; this was my first glimpse of him, and I don’t wonder that he’s
Hal’s hero. He’s every inch a man and a soldier. But do you know, Mr.
Sterne,” she added, with a laugh, “I’ve become so used to uniforms,
since I came up here, that I shall find it very hard to see nothing but
plain black coats, when I go home. You’ve all done so much to make me
have a good time, that you have quite spoiled me.”
“We have the worst of it,” Alex assured her. “We have to settle down now
for two months of steady grind, without the prospect of seeing a soul
outside the school, till the Easter holidays. Your being here has been a
perfect blessing to us; I only wish it hadn’t been quite so short.”
“I’m glad it seems short to you,” she answered frankly. “It has been
delightful, every moment of it; but I began to be afraid that Hal’s
friends would be heartily tired of entertaining me. You’ve certainly
done it right royally, and I wish I didn’t have to leave Hilton in the
morning.”
There was another little pause. Then she added, as they drew near the
gate where Harry and his mother stood waiting for them,—
“One more word I want to say, Mr. Sterne, before we say good night and
good by. Leon has told me, and I have seen how kind you have been to
him, since he hurt his foot. Let me thank you for it all, please, and
say how we appreciate it.” And she put out her hand impulsively.
Alex raised his cap, as he bent over the little hand.
“It was nothing,” he answered simply. “I was glad to do it for him—and
for you.” And as he walked back to Old Flemming, he was conscious that
the coming weeks would seem long and lonely to him, after the happiness
of the last one; and he found himself looking forward to June and
Commencement with an interest hitherto unknown.
It had been hard work for the Wilders to settle down to routine again,
the day after the Arnolds went home; and, as Alex had said, they had two
months of uninterrupted work before them. The new term was, by this
time, well on in its course, and the day was fast approaching when Leon
was to be allowed to give up his crutches and to use his foot again,
though with a little care at first. While athletics were out of the
question for the present, it would be such a delight to be able to walk
again, that he accepted the rest without a thought of complaint.
Lieutenant Wilde, too, had quickly recovered from his injuries and
resumed his usual place in the school where he was more than ever
idolized by his boys, who knew how near they had come to losing him.
In the meantime, January had drawn to a close, and Leon’s birthday had
come. The Wilders, with whom he was a general favorite, had put their
heads together to make the day merry enough to atone for any good times
he might have lost, as a result of his sprain, and with Alex and Max at
their head, the boys had not been slow to plan the jokes and surprises
which kept appearing from early morning until late at night. A long
drive with the doctor kept Leon out of the way during the whole
afternoon; and while he was gone, the lads busied themselves in making
ready for the spread which was to be the grand climax of the day. The
village store and the local bakery—pie-foundry, as Max called it—had
been ransacked, and the servants had received a generous bribe to do a
little extra cooking, when, as if in furtherance of their plans, a huge
box had arrived from home, and Harry had unpacked a tempting array of
goodies, in the midst of the admiring plaudits of the boys.
As seven o’clock struck, Harry appeared at Lieutenant Wilde’s door, to
escort his brother to his room, for Leon had not been allowed to return
there, after his drive in the afternoon. With due ceremony, he was
marched down the hall, between his brother and Lieutenant Wilde, and
ushered into the room which was strangely transformed for the reception.
The beds had been taken down and piled into Louis’s room across the
hall, while additional tables had been brought in and arranged in a row,
to form one long one, which was literally covered with the feast that
the lads had collected, to do honor to the occasion.
As Leon came inside the door, his guests rose to welcome him, and here
the surprise was perfect; for instead of the usual unbroken array of
gray uniforms, there were several fine ladies present to grace the
feast. This idea had come from Max, who had spent much time and shown
considerable ingenuity in devising the costumes from the material at
hand. A short curly bang, a great bath-sponge fastened to the top of his
head, eyeglasses and a sheet gracefully draped into a robe and enlivened
with a crimson portière, by way of court train, transformed Miss
Margaret Eliot, as she was introduced, into a very fair type of society
girl; while Harold King’s delicate face and slight figure were set off
by a red tablespread for a skirt, surmounted by a pale blue
dressing-gown belonging to Louis. Louis himself appeared in a trailing
blue gown, garnished with as many watch chains and scarf pins as the
entire force of the Wilders could afford, while a stuffed owl adorned
one shoulder, a huge bunch of red paper roses rested on the other, and
his head was covered with Dame Pinney’s second-best cap which Max had in
some way managed to coax her into lending. Stanley Campbell’s freckled
face and short, straight brown hair were unmistakably boyish; but Max
had done his best to disguise the work of nature with a dark green skirt
whose cambric breadths were insecurely basted together with long white
stitches, a gay orange and blue blazer and a broad straw hat, from which
waved a garland of peacock feathers. However gorgeous was the result,
when Max had added the finishing touches to his work, he had been moved
to confess that Stanley looked far more like an Indian on the war-path,
than the pretty girl for whom he was intended. But proud as the boys
were of their own costumes, one and all agreed that Baby was the real
success of the evening. Jack Howard’s long white cotton gown was tied in
at the waist by a broad blue cambric sash, blue bows fluttered airily on
his shoulders where a wide hem and the letters F. H. in indelible ink
made their appearance, and a blue band caught together the long golden
curls of a wig that Lieutenant Wilde had worn in some West Point
theatricals.
“The gentlemen will please escort the ladies to the table,” called
Harry, who had been chosen floor-manager of the occasion. “The hero of
the evening can have first choice.”
Leon advanced a step, and appeared to be hesitating between the
overgrown infant and the jewelled Louisa, when Stanley’s wonderful
headgear caught his eye.
“Thanks, I’ll take Lo,” said he, bowing before the appalling vision.
“Very well, take your places,” commanded Harry, pointing to the head of
the table; “and don’t forget to look out for the leg of that end table,
because it’s ricketty. Lieutenant Wilde, it’s your turn next.”
Lieutenant Wilde chose Max, and the others paired off in turn, until
they were all seated at the table. It was a wildly hilarious party, and
in spite of wooden plates, paper napkins and no serving, they enjoyed
their supper as only hungry, healthy boys can do, though the maidens
present were by no means left behind. And while the knives and forks
were busy, the tongues kept pace with them, and the jokes flew up and
down the room till the walls echoed with the laughter, and the boys in
the farthest corner of the house wondered enviously “what on earth the
Wilders are at.”
“My dear,” Dr. Flemming had said to his wife, that evening, “if you have
nothing else to do, suppose we go up to see Irving to-night. We haven’t
been up there since he went back.”
Mrs. Flemming agreed and, at a little before eight o’clock, the doctor
and his wife climbed the stairs of Old Flemming, and knocked at their
nephew’s door. All was dark within, but on the door was a card: “In
Number Fifteen.” The doctor read it.
“Fifteen? Let me see, that is the Arnolds’ room.”
“How good of Irving to go in there!” said Mrs. Flemming. “I suppose he
was afraid that Leon would have a dull evening for his birthday, and has
gone in to stay with him for a while.”
“Leon has had rather a bad time this winter,” answered the doctor;
“worse than any of us know, I fancy, for he has taken it so as a matter
of course, that he hasn’t had half the sympathy he has deserved. Well,
as long as Irving isn’t here, I suppose we may as well go home again.”
“Let’s go in to see Leon for a few minutes,” suggested Mrs. Flemming.
“He would be so pleased to have you call on him, and now we are here, we
can do it as well as not.”
As they approached the door of number fifteen, they heard a burst of
laughter from inside. Mrs. Flemming laughed too.
“Evidently he isn’t having a very dismal evening,” she said. “What can
they be doing in there?”
“That remains to be seen,” said the doctor, as his knock interrupted a
fresh shout.
There was a chorus of “come in” from several voices, and the doctor,
throwing the door wide open, appeared on the threshold, with Mrs.
Flemming at his side. There was an instant of perfect silence, while the
astonished boys gazed at the doctor who was no frequent visitor in their
rooms, and the doctor’s eyes roved from the loaded table to the
remarkable guests who were seated about it. However, before the pause
had lasted long enough to be embarrassing, Harry came to his senses and,
shaking his head at Stanley, who was plucking wildly at his feathers
without being able to remove them, he sprang up, went to the door and
invited the unexpected guests to come in and have a share in the feast.
The doctor accepted, with a manifest enjoyment of the fun, and while his
wife was laying aside her wraps, two more chairs were brought in, and
Harry led Mrs. Flemming to the table, as Jack rose and offered his arm
to the doctor. If the fun had been great before, it was perfect and
complete now, for the Flemmings entered into the frolic as heartily as
did their young hosts, tasting all the goodies and laughing at all the
jokes with as much enthusiasm as if they had been fourteen, instead of
forty. They had not spent twelve years in work among boys to no purpose,
and they understood just how to meet them on their own ground without
loss of dignity or lessening of influence. Suddenly the doctor rose to
his feet, with a glass of lemonade in his hand.
“I call on you all to drink a toast with me,” he said; “in honor of one
of our boys who, although almost the youngest present, has yet shown
himself a true knight and soldier, by his patience in bearing a trouble
that would have made too many of us fretful and unhappy. I drink to the
health and happiness of the guest of the evening, Leon Arnold.”
A wild burst of applause and a clinking of glasses followed the toast.
Then came the cry,—
“Speech! Speech!”
But, for a moment, Leon was speechless. The unexpected praise from the
doctor had touched him keenly, and brought the hot blood to his cheeks
and a lump into his throat. However, the boys were determined to have a
response from him, so he controlled himself with an effort, stood up and
began falteringly,—
“I thank you all for the spread, and for the toast, and for making my
birthday such a jolly one that I shall always remember it. You’ve all
been so good to me, since I sprained my ankle, that I haven’t minded it
much, now honestly, and—and—and—” Leon hesitated for a minute, in the
hope of further inspiration; then added desperately, “and please take
some more grub.”
It was scarcely the ordinary form for an after-dinner speech; but it was
sincere enough to make up for any other faults, and the boys received it
with acclamation, while Mrs. Flemming said to Harry, as she helped
herself to another piece of the birthday cake,—
“What a pity your mother and Miss Dorothy couldn’t have been here! But
tell me, where did you ever get such wonderful costumes for your young
women?”
Harry laughed.
“You’ll have to ask Max about that,” he answered. “He’s taken possession
of everything he could lay his hands on, from the sheets off his bed to
the dame’s cap. He’s made us some pretty fair-looking girls, though,” he
added, glancing complacently at Max who was coquetting with Lieutenant
Wilde, quite regardless of the fact that his top-knot had fallen off on
the floor, back of his chair.
Just then the doctor leaned forward as if to say something, and there
came a pause.
“Speech, sir?” inquired the irrepressible Max, turning his eyeglass on
him.
The doctor laughed.
“Not exactly a speech, Max. I only want to say, before I go, how much I
have enjoyed my evening. And now, as long as I don’t often see all the
Wilders, as the boys call you, together, I’m going to take just a minute
to talk to you. Some of you only have a few months more to stay here,
and then your days at Flemming will be ended. I dread the changes as
they come, for not even twelve years of teaching have hardened me to
having one class after another go away from me. You know you are all my
boys, and wherever you go in the future, whatever you do, you will still
be ‘the boys’ to me, no matter how old and gray, or how famous and
renowned you may become. And so I want my boys to always be as true and
pure and high in their aims, as honorable in their every-day lives as
they are to-day. I have been looking around at you since I have been
sitting here, and I am proud and glad to see that every one of you looks
me squarely in the eye, and holds up his head like a man and a soldier.
It’s not a bad test for a boy, after all; and I’ve watched you closely
enough to know that I am not deceived in it. So remember, whether you go
away from Flemming this year or next, while you are here and after you
have left us, make up your minds to live so that I can be proud of you;
so that you are doing honor to the old school; and, above all, so that
you may never shrink from looking your mothers and sisters and, some
day, perhaps, your wives too, straight in the eye when you meet them.
Then I shall know that I made no mistake when I gave my boys the
uniforms of soldiers, for a soldier’s first duty is to be true, true to
himself and to his Maker. That’s enough sermonizing to-night; but I am
so happy in my boys now, that I must never be disappointed in them in
the future.”
As the doctor paused, Max impetuously sprang up, waving his glass of
lemonade with such recklessness that he splashed it in a sticky tide
down over Lieutenant Wilde’s forehead and glasses.
“I say, boys,” he cried; “here’s three cheers for the doctor and his
wife, and may they live long enough to teach school till there isn’t a
boy left in the country!”
“That’s hard on you, uncle,” called Lieutenant Wilde, across the table.
“Are you going to kill them all off as you go along?”
In the jesting that followed, the doctor and his wife took their
departure, leaving the boys to prolong the fun until “lights out” put an
end to Leon’s birthday spread.
And when they did go to bed that night, there was not one of them but
lay awake for a few moments, thinking over the little talk the doctor
had given them, and resolving, in his boyish heart, to be worthy the
trust a good man placed in them, worthy to be an honored son of Flemming
Hall.
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