IN JOYCE'S STUDIO
IT was a wild, blustery day in March, two months after Mary's
interrupted visit at the ranch. Joyce Ware, sitting before the glowing
wood fire in the studio, high up on the top floor of a New York
apartment house, had never known such a lonesome Sunday. The winds that
rattled the casements and sent alternate dashes of rain and snow against
the panes had kept her house-bound all day.
Usually she was glad to have one of these shut-in days, after a busy
week, when she could sit and do nothing with a clear conscience. Every
moan of the wind in the chimney and every glimpse of the snow-whitened
roofs below her windows, emphasized the luxurious comfort of the big
room. She had had a hard week, trying to crowd into it some special
orders for Easter cards. A year ago she would not have added them to her
regular work, but now she was afraid to turn anything away which might
help to swell the size of the check she must send home every month. If
the days were not long enough to do the tasks she set for herself at a
comfortable pace, she simply worked harder--feverishly, if need be, to
finish them.
She had been practically alone the entire day, for the two members of
the household who were at home were staying in their own rooms. Lucy
Boyd had a cold, and her devoted little aunt was nursing her with the
care of the traditional hen for its one chicken. Mrs. Boyd had not
allowed Lucy to leave her room even for her Sunday dinner, but had
carried it in to her with her own on a tray. As Miss Henrietta Robbins
was spending the week-end in the country, Joyce did not take the trouble
to set the table for herself, but ate her own dinner in the little
kitchenette.
Afterward, to make the day as different as possible from the six others
in the week, in which she sat at her easel from morning till night in a
long-sleeved gingham apron, she went into her room and put on a dress of
her own designing, soft and trailing and of a warm wine-red. Pushing a
great sleepy-hollow chair close enough to the hearth for the tips of her
slippers to rest on the shining brass fender-rail, she settled herself
among the cushions with a book which she had long been trying to find
time to read.
The story, like the bleak outdoor world, seemed to accentuate her sense
of shelter and comfort, but at the same time it somehow emphasized her
loneliness. Now and then, when her eyes grew tired, she paused for a
moment to look around her. There were several things which gave her keen
pleasure every time her attention was called to them, which she felt
ought to be enough of themselves to dispel her vague depression: the
odor of growing mignonette, the sunny yellow of the pot of daffodils on
the black teakwood table, the gleam of firelight on the brasses, and the
warm shadows it cast on the trailing folds of her wine-red dress.
That lighting was exactly what she wanted for some drapery folds which
she would be putting on a magazine cover next week. She studied the
effect, thinking lazily that if it were not her one day of rest, she
would get out palette and brushes, and make a sketch of what she wanted
to keep, while it was before her.
She read for over two hours. When the story came to an unhappy ending
she dropped the book, wishing she had never come across such a tale of
misfortune and misunderstanding. It depressed her strangely, and
presently, as she sat looking into the fire, the unbroken quiet of the
big room gave her an overwhelming sense of loneliness that was like an
ache.
"I'd give anything to walk in and see what they're all doing at home
right now," she thought, as she stared into the red embers, "but I can't
even picture them as they really are, because they are no longer living
in any place that I ever called home."
The thought of their being off in a strange little Texas town that she
had never seen made her feel far more forlorn and apart than she would
have felt could she have imagined them with any of the familiar
backgrounds she had once shared with them. They seemed as far away and
out of reach as they had been that winter in France, when she used to
climb up in Monsieur Greyville's pear tree and cry for sheer
homesickness. That was years ago, and before the Gate of the Giant
Scissors had opened to give her a playmate, but she recalled, as if it
were but yesterday, the performance that often took place in the pear
tree.
She began by repeating that couplet from _Snowbound_,--
"The dear home faces, whereupon
The fitful firelight paled and shone."
It was like a charm, for it always brought a blur of tears through which
she could see, as in a magic mirror, each home face as she had seen it
oftenest in the little brown house in Plainsville. There was her mother,
so patient and gentle and tired, bending over the sewing which never
came to an end; and Jack, charging home from school like a young
whirlwind to do his chores and get out to play. She could see Mary, with
her dear earnest little freckled face and beribboned pigtails, always so
eager to help, even when she was so small that she had to stand on a
soap-box to reach the dish-pan. Such a capable, motherly little atom she
was then, looking after the wants of Holland and the baby untiringly.
Despite the ache in her throat, a smile crossed Joyce's face now and
then, as she went on calling up other scenes. They had had hard work at
the Wigwam, and had felt the pinch of poverty, but she had never known a
family who found more to laugh over and enjoy when they looked back over
their hard times. But now--the change was more than she could bear to
think of. Jack a hopeless cripple, Mary tied down to the uncongenial
work that she had to take up as a breadwinner, when she ought to be free
to enjoy the best part of her girlhood as other girls were doing. Tears
came into Joyce's eyes as she brooded over the pictures she had conjured
up. Then she rose, and trailing into her bedroom, came back with a
lapful of letters; all that the family had written her since leaving
Lone Rock four months ago. Dropping on the hearth-rug, she arranged them
in little piles beside her, according to their dates, and beginning at
the first, proceeded to read them through in order. They did bring the
family nearer, as she had expected them to do, but the later ones
brought such a weight of foreboding with their second reading, that
presently she buried her face in the cushions of the chair against which
she was leaning, and began to cry as she had not cried for nearly a
year. Not since the first news of Jack's accident, had she given way to
such a storm of tears.
It was some time before she sobbed herself quiet, and then she still sat
with her head in the cushions, till she heard the faint buzz of an
electric doorbell. It sounded so far away that she thought it was the
bell of the adjoining apartment, and gave it no more than a passing
thought. So, too, the sound of an opening door, of an umbrella dropped
into a hat-rack, of voices, seemed to have but a vague connection with
her world. Then she was startled by hearing Mrs. Boyd's voice at the
portière saying:
"Joyce, dear, here is Mr. Tremont to see you. Ah! I _knew_ you were
asleep. He rang twice, so I answered the bell."
Phil Tremont, pausing between the portières as Mrs. Boyd slipped back to
Lucy, caught only a glimpse of Joyce's red dress trailing through the
opposite doorway. The scattered letters on the rug bore witness to her
hurried flight.
"Come on in to the fire, Phil," she called, through the partly closed
door. "Poke it up and make yourself at home. I'll be out in a minute. I
never dreamed of such joy as a caller on this dreadful day, or I should
have been sitting up in state, waiting to receive you!"
The laughing reply he sent back brightened her spirits as if by magic.
The next best thing to having one of her own family suddenly appear, was
the pleasure of seeing the friend who had made one of their home circle
so often and so intimately in the old Wigwam days which she had just
been crying over. Hastily smoothing her rumpled hair, bathing her eyes
and fluffing a powder-puff over her nose to take away the shine which
her tear-sopped handkerchief had left on it, she came out to find him
standing before the fire, looking down suspiciously at the scattered
letters.
As he stepped forward with a hearty hand-clasp, she felt that the keen
glance he gave her was a question, and answered as if he had spoken
aloud.
"No, I wasn't asleep, as Mrs. Boyd thought. I was just having a good
old-fashioned cry--a regular bawl! I don't get a chance to indulge in
such an orgy of weeps often, but now the storm is over and it has
cleared the atmosphere for another year or so."
"What is it, Joyce? Bad news from home? Is Jack worse?"
Phil's voice was so sympathetic, his real concern so evident, that Joyce
could not trust herself to answer immediately. She stooped and began to
pick up the letters.
"I--I'm afraid I boasted too soon about the storm being over. You'll
have to talk about something else for awhile, or I might tune up again."
"All right," he answered, in a soothing tone, reaching down to help her
gather up the letters. "That suits me, anyhow, for I came on purpose to
bring you a rare bit of news concerning the Tremont family."
In her present mood the mere sight of Phil's broad shoulders was a
comfort. They might not be able to lift her actual burdens, but she felt
their willingness, and his unspoken sympathy steadied her like an
outstretched hand. Now with the consideration that was one of his most
lovable traits, he gave her time to compose herself, by rattling on in a
joking way about himself.
"I've come a long distance in the rain and snow to tell my news. I've
torn myself away from all the wiles of Stuart and Eugenia to keep their
only brother with them. I've braved the dangers of Greater New York and
defied the elements in order to be the bearer of such important tidings,
and you needn't think I'm going to give it to you as if it were any
common bit of information. I tell you what I'll do. You may have three
guesses. If you fail you pay a forfeit, say--an invitation to supper,
with the privilege of my helping get it ready in that tabloid kitchen of
yours."
"That is highly satisfactory," agreed Joyce, whose voice was under
control by this time. She drew her chair a trifle closer to the fire,
and, leaning her elbows on her knees, looked into the embers for
inspiration.
"It concerns the Tremont family," she mused. "That means all of you.
Well, it must be that the old tangle about your great-aunt Patricia's
holdings in England has been settled and you're coming into some money
after all these years."
"No; guess again."
Picking up the long brass tongs, she began to trace pictures on the
sooty background of the chimney while she tried to think of a better
answer.
"It concerns _all_ of you!"
"Yes."
With his hands in his pockets, Phil walked over to the window and stood
looking out over the wide stretch of city roofs below, now almost hidden
by the rapidly deepening twilight. He was smiling while he waited, and
humming half under his breath a song that his old English nurse used to
sing to him and his sister Elsie: "Maid Elsie roams by lane and lea." He
had whistled it almost constantly the last few days:
"Kling! lang-ling!
She seems to hear her bride-bells ring,
Her bonnie bride-bells ring!"
He hummed it again when Joyce's second guess was wrong, while he waited
for the third. Then, when it, too, was wide of the mark and she demanded
to be told, he began it again; but this time he sang it meaningly, and
loud enough to fill the room with the deep, sweet notes:
"A year by seas, a year by lands,
A year since then has died,
And Elsie at the altar stands,
Her sailor at her side.
While kling! lang! ling!
Their bonnie bride-bells gaily ring!"
Joyce's face grew bright with sudden understanding as he finished, and
she cried, "Elsie is to be married! Is _that_ what you came to tell me?"
"Yes, my littlest, onliest sister is to be married, immediately after
Easter, out in California, in the Gold-of-Ophir rose-garden you have
heard so much about. We are all going--Daddy and Stuart and Eugenia and
little Patricia and your obedient servant, 'Pat's Pill,' himself."
He left the window, and stretching himself out in the big chair opposite
hers, gave her the details that she instantly demanded.
"Elsie's sailor lad is a navy surgeon. The wedding is to be in the
rose-garden, because there is where they first met, and there is where
Elsie has had all the best times of her life. She has always lived with
mother's people, you know, since our home was broken up, and even before
mother's death, we used to spend our winters there. Yes, Daddy opposed
the marriage at first, but you know Daddy. He'd hardly think an
archangel good enough for Elsie."
The news had the effect which Phil had foreseen, and Joyce's own affairs
retired into the background, while she discussed the matter which was of
such vital importance to the whole Tremont family. Later, he asked her
to name all the things she considered the most desirable and unique as
wedding gifts, and they were still adding to the list from which he was
to make his choice, when they heard Mrs. Boyd come out into the hall to
turn on the light. In the bright firelight, they had not noticed how
dark it had grown outside. Joyce looked at the clock and sprang up,
exclaiming:
"Lucy will be wanting her cream toast, and it's time also for me to pay
my forfeit to you. How much of a supper are you going to claim, young
man?"
"That depends on how many good left-overs there are in the pantry and
ice-box," said Phil, rising also. "I'll come and investigate, myself,
thank you."
Pinning up the train of her red gown and tying on a big apron, Joyce
made quick work of her supper preparations, and the long, lonely day
ended in a jolly little feast, which completely restored her to her
usual cheerful outlook on life. Mrs. Boyd joined them, despite the fact
that she must leave Lucy to eat alone, in order to do so. It was always
a red-letter day in her drab existence when Phil Tremont came into it.
She was such a literal little body, that she never joked herself. She
was mentally incapable of the repartee that always flew back and forth
across the table when Phil was a guest, but she considered his tamest
sallies as positively brilliant. When she went back to Lucy she had
enough material to furnish conversation all the rest of the evening.
"Now," said Phil, when he and Joyce were back in the studio again,
before the fire, "I don't want to upset your equanimity, but if you can
talk about it calmly, I'd like to hear exactly how things are going with
Jack and Aunt Emily and that little brick of a Mary. I had one letter
from Jack the first of the winter, and I've had the casual reports
you've given me at long intervals, but I've no adequate idea of their
whereabouts or their present sayings and doings."
"Suppose I read you some of Mary's letters," proposed Joyce. "I've been
surprised at the gift she's developed lately for describing her
surroundings. Really, she's done some first-class word-pictures."
In answer to his pleased assent, Joyce turned over the letters till she
came to the first one that Mary had written from Bauer.
"It was written on pieces of a paper sugar-sack while she was getting
supper," explained Joyce. "But you can fairly see the little town spread
out between the spire of St. Peter's and the tower of the Holy Angels'
Academy, with the windmills in between and the new moon low on the
horizon."
Phil, lounging back in the big chair, sat with a smile on his face as he
listened to Mary's account of the rector's call, while she was perched
up on the windmill. But when Joyce reached the closing paragraph about
its being a good old world after all, and her belief in Grandmother
Ware's verse that the crooked should be made straight and the rough
places smooth, a very tender light shone in his keen eyes. He said in a
low tone, "The dear little Vicar! She's game to the core!"
Urged to read more, Joyce went on, sometimes choosing only an extract
here and there, sometimes reading an entire letter, till he had heard
all about her visit to Gay, her first experience at a military hop,
their brave attempt to make a merry Christmas among strangers, and
finally her experience with the Mallory children, because of their
desperate need of money.
"Don't skip!" insisted Phil, still laughing over her account of her "day
of rest" at the Barnaby ranch, when the peacock lost its tail.
"The next one isn't funny," replied Joyce, "but it is especially
interesting to me because it shows how Mary is growing up."
She hunted through the disordered pile until she found one dated two
months ago.
"'The night after I brought Brud and Sister back from the ranch I lay
awake for hours, trying to think what to do next to find the vulnerable
spot in my _kleinen teufel_. I couldn't think of a thing, but decided to
begin telling them Kipling's jungle stories instead of any more
fairy-tales, and to try Mrs. Barnaby's suggestion of making them
responsible for their own entertainment part of the time.'
"Oh, this isn't the one I thought," exclaimed Joyce. "It goes on to tell
about the last news from Holland, instead of the children. Here is the
one I wanted, written two weeks later:
"'Hail, Columbia, happy land! I've found the "open sesame," thanks to
Kipling, and in a way I little expected. The children showed a
breathless interest in the Jungle stories from the start, and began
dramatizing them of their own accord. They have thrown themselves into
the play with a zest which nothing of my proposing has ever called out.
For two weeks I have been old Baloo, the Brown Bear, and Father Wolf by
turns. There are two little hairless man-cubs in our version, however,
for a Mowglina divides honors with Mowgli. Sister says she has chosen
the name of Mowglina "for keeps," and I sincerely hope she has, if what
Mr. Sammy Bradford said about names having a moral effect on her is
true.
"'We have our Council Rock up on the high hill back of St. Peter's,
where Meliss sometimes plays the part of the Black Panther. We no longer
greet each other with "Good morning." It is "Good Hunting" now, and when
we part, it is with the benediction, "Jungle favor go with thee!" You
remember Baloo taught the wood and water laws to Mowgli, how to tell a
rotten branch from a sound one, how to speak politely to the wild bees
when he came upon a hive of them, etc. But more than all he taught the
Master Words of the Jungle, that turned every bird, beast and snake into
a friend. It is simply amazing to me the way they seemed to be charmed
by that idea, and it is strange that such utterly lawless children
should be not only willing but eager to abide by the rules laid down for
animals. It does my soul good to hear Brud, who has never obeyed anyone,
gravely declaim:
"'"Now these are the laws of the Jungle,
And many and mighty are they,
But the head and the hoof of the law
And the haunch and the hump is--_obey_!"
"'Or to hear saucy little Sister in the rôle of Mowglina, repeating
Kaa's words to Uncle August, "A brave heart _and a courteous tongue_,
they will carry thee far through the Jungle, manling."
"'It was Uncle August, bless his old brown body, who helped me to make
my first personal application of the play. I had just heard of their
latest prank down-town. (Sad to say, the more angelic they are as little
wolves, the more annoying they are when they return to the Man-pack.)
They had dropped a live garter snake, a good-sized one, through the slit
of the package box, and the postmistress had picked it up with a bundle
of newspapers. She was so frightened that she yelled like a Comanche,
and then had a nervous chill that lasted for a quarter of an hour. That
same day they filled all the keyholes of the private letterboxes with
chewing-gum, as far up as they could reach, and everybody who had to
stop to pry it out was _so_ cross.
"'I didn't say anything to them about it till after they had told me
about Uncle August's chasing the calves out of Mrs. Williams' garden,
and how she had petted and praised him for it. We talked a few minutes
about the way Uncle August is beloved by everybody who knows him, and
how even strangers on the street stop to pat his head or say something
kind about him.
"'"It's because he keeps every Law of the Jungle, for dogs," I told
them, and then I said, quite mercilessly, "but the whole town looks on
you two children as _Banderlogs_! Mere, senseless monkey-folks, outcasts
who have no leaders and no laws!" Really, it hurt them dreadfully and I
felt almost cruel for saying it. I could see that the shot told when I
reminded them how they had been turned out of the hotel and chased out
of every store in town. I told them that people said ugly things about
them behind their backs, just as Kaa and Baloo did about the silly gray
Apes who threw dirt and sticks and made mischief wherever they went.
"'That was the climax. They both threw themselves across my lap and
began to cry, protesting that they were _not_ Banderlogs. They didn't
want people to call them that. I think my good angel must have inspired
me to make the little sermon that I gave them then, for I certainly had
never thought of the analogy before--how the same thing that is true in
the Jungle holds good in the Man-world; that we must learn the Master
Words for each person we meet, so that every heart will understand when
we call out, "We be of one blood, ye and I." That just as the elephants
and kites and snakes became friendly to Mowgli as soon as he learned the
Master Words of their speech, so Miss Edna and the postmistress and old
Mr. Sammy would be friendly to them, when they showed that they not only
had brave hearts, which scorned to play little, mean, silly tricks, but
_courteous tongues_ as well.
"'The amazing part of it is that they understood me perfectly, and right
then and there had a sort of spiritual awakening to the fact that they
really are "of one blood" with these people they have been tormenting.
It is pathetic to watch how hard they have been trying ever since, to
convince people that they are _not_ Banderlogs, but are sensible
children, willing to be governed by laws that they never understood
before. Now, at parting, they insist on my repeating _all_ the verse:
"'"Wood and water, wind and tree,
_Wisdom_, _strength and courtesy_,
Jungle favor go with thee."
They seem to believe that it verily holds some sort of hoodoo spell
which will armor them with magic power to make friends.
"'Already Sister has made peace with the postmistress by the gift of a
crude little willow basket of her own weaving, filled with wildflowers.
It met with such a gracious reception (due principally to private
explanation beforehand) that Sister fairly squirmed with the blessedness
of giving,--her first real experience of that sort. Brud used his
hatchet to split a pine box into kindling, and presented the same, tied
in neat bundles, to Mrs. Williams. Her surprise and voluble thanks (also
solicited beforehand) were so gratifying that Brud came home so
satisfied with the new application of the game that he burns to play it
with everyone in Bauer, proving with actions, if not words, that he has
a right to say, "We be of one blood, ye and I," and that he is _not_ a
Banderlog.'"
As Joyce slipped the letter back into its envelope, Phil leaned forward
to put another log on the fire, saying, as he did so, "Good for Mary!
She always manages to find some way out, and it is always a way no one
else would think of. But somehow I can't quite place her in these
letters. She's the same little bunch of energy that I've always known,
and yet there's a difference. I can't quite make out what."
"She's growing up, I tell you," answered Joyce. "That's what makes the
difference. Listen to this one:
"'Yesterday being Valentine's day, we had a picnic at the Council Rock.
The hill rises straight up from the public road, just back of the
Mallory cottage and St. Peter's. There is a roundabout road to the top,
leading in from a back lane, which is easy to climb, but, of course, the
children chose the steep trail starting near their gate. Nothing but a
goat could walk up it with perfect ease and safety.
"'Once at the top, the view is lovely. You can see over half the county,
and look right down into the chimneys of the town. The whole hilltop is
covered with wildflowers; strange, beautiful things I have never seen
before--so many exquisite colors, you'd think a rainbow had been broken
to bits and scattered over the ground.
"'At one o'clock we started out of the Mallory gate, the most grotesque
procession that ever went down the pike of Bauer. You see, we'd dropped
the Jungle game for the day, and they were doing St. Valentine honor. I
went first in my oldest dress, on account of the climb, my Mexican hat
on my head, my alarm-clock, as usual, in one hand and a thermos bottle
in the other. I was taking some boiling water along to make them tea, as
a great treat. They don't like it particularly, but they wanted to use a
little Japanese tea-set that had just been sent to them.
"'Sister, fired by some of my descriptions of Valentine costumes, had
elected to attend the picnic as the Queen of Hearts, and had dressed
herself for the part with the assistance of Meliss. She looked perfectly
ridiculous, spotted all over with turkey-red calico hearts. They were
sewed on her dress, her hat, and even her black stockings. She was as
badly broken out with them as a measles patient would have been with a
red rash.
"'Brud wouldn't let her dike him out in the same way. She wanted him to
go as Cupid. He consented to let her call him Cupid and he carried a bow
and arrow, and wore some of the trimmings, but he wore them in his own
way. The white turkey-wings, which she tried to attach to his
shoulderblades, he wore bound to his brow like an Indian chieftain's
war-bonnet. Long-suffering Uncle August frisked about in a most
remarkable costume. I think it must have been made of the top section of
Brud's pajamas, with the sleeves pulled up over his front paws, and
buttoned in the back. It was sprinkled with big hearts, some blue and
some yellow.
"'But, funny as they looked, Meliss was the comic Valentine of the
occasion. The front of her was covered with an old lace window curtain.
Across her bosom, carefully fastened with a gilt paper arrow, was the
lithographed picture of a big red heart, as fat and red and shiny as a
ripe tomato. She carried the lunch basket.
"'I must confess it staggered me a trifle when the procession came out
to meet me, but they were so pleased with themselves I hadn't the heart
to suggest a single change. I led on, hoping that we wouldn't meet
anyone. Well, we hadn't gone a hundred paces till we heard hoof-beats,
and a solitary horseman came riding along behind us. Brud looked back
and then piped up in his shrill little voice:
"'"Oh, look, Miss Mayry! Look at the soldier man coming!"
"'Naturally, I glanced back, and my blood fairly ran cold, for there,
riding along with a broad grin on his face at sight of our ridiculous
turnout, was Lieutenant Boglin! I was so amazed at seeing him that I
just stood still in the road and stared, feeling my face get redder and
redder. Somehow I had no power to move. He didn't recognize me till he
was opposite us, but the instant he did, he was off his horse and coming
up to shake hands, and I was trying to account for our appearance. It
seems he had been with the troops up at Leon Springs for target
practice, and was taking a day off while they were breaking camp. He had
been commissioned to look at a polo pony somebody had for sale in Bauer,
and thought while he was about it he would call and see the Ware family,
after he had had dinner at the hotel. He was on his way there.
"'Well, there I was! I couldn't ask him to go on such a babyfied lark as
our Valentine picnic. I couldn't leave the children and take him over
home, because my time is Mrs. Mallory's. Even if she had excused me, the
children would have raised an unstoppable howl, and probably would have
followed us. They are making grand strides in the courtesy business, but
they are still far from being models of propriety.
"'When I had explained to the best of my ability, I told him I would be
through at five, and asked him to wait and take supper with us. I could
see that he was inwardly convulsed, and I do believe it was because we
all looked so ridiculous and he wanted to see the show a second time
that he accepted my invitation with alacrity. As soon as he started on
to the Williams House, I stopped under a tree and wrote a scrawl to
mamma on the margin of the newspaper that was spread on top of the
lunch-basket. Then I gave Meliss a dime to run over home with it, so
that the family needn't be taken by surprise if Bogey happened to get
there before I did.
"'But it seems that he forgot the directions I gave him for finding the
house, and about ten minutes to five, as the children and Meliss were
finishing the lunch which was spread out on the Council Rock, he came
climbing up the side of the hill. The children had been angelic before
his arrival and they were good after he came, except--I can't explain
it--there was something almost impish in the way they sat and watched
us, listening to everything we said, as if they were committing it to
memory to repeat afterward. Even Uncle August, in his heart-covered
pajamas, squatted solemnly on the rock beside them and seemed to be
stowing away something to remember.
"'The lieutenant couldn't glance in their direction without laughing out
loud; they looked so utterly comical. So he turned his back on them and
began to admire the view, which certainly was magnificent. As the sun
began to go down the wind came up, and the veil I had tied around my hat
got loose, and streamed out like a comet's tail. I couldn't tie it down
and I couldn't find a pin to fasten it, and first thing I knew he had
taken one of those fancy bronze pins from the collar of his uniform,
those crossed guns that officers wear, you know, and he gave me that to
fasten my veil with.
"'Now, there was nothing remarkable in that. Gay and Roberta have whole
rows of such pins that different officers have given them. But Sister
pointed her finger at me and shrilled out like a katydid, as if they had
been discussing the subject before, "No, sir, Brud! You can't fool _me_!
He _is_ Miss Mayry's valentine. He's her _beau_!"
"'Unless you could have heard the elfish way she said it, you couldn't
understand why it should have embarrassed me so dreadfully. My face felt
as hot as a fiery furnace. He sort of smiled and pretended not to hear,
and I couldn't think of a word to break the awful pause. But just then
the alarm-clock, hanging on a bush behind us, went off with a whang and
clatter that sent us both springing to our feet.
"'They had finished their lunch by that time, so I helped Meliss hustle
the dishes into the basket and headed the party for home as soon as
possible. You can imagine the deep breath of thankfulness I drew when I
finally left them at their own gate. But I drew it too soon. I should
have waited until we were out of earshot. For as they went racing up the
path to meet their mother, we could hear them shrieking to her about
Miss Mayry's valentine beau who gave her two teeny, weeny guns to pin
her veil with.
"'The wind wasn't blowing so hard down where we were then, so as we went
along I said in a careless sort of way, "Oh,--'lest we forget'--I'll
return this now," and started to take it out of my veil. But he only
laughed and said, with such a mischievous glance, "No, keep it, 'Miss
Mayry,' lest you forget--your valentine."
"'Fortunately, it was one of Jack's good days, and he was able to be out
in the sitting-room, and the two took to each other at once. You know
nobody can give people quite such a gentle, gracious reception as mamma
can, and much as I had dreaded taking him into such a barely furnished
little house, and serving him from our motley collection of dishes, I
didn't mind it at all after she had made him welcome. Such things don't
matter so much when you've a family you can be proud of.
"'We had a delicious supper, and he ate and ate, and said nothing had
tasted so good since he left home years ago to enlist. He stayed till
ten o'clock, and then went down to the livery stable to get his horse
and ride back to camp by moonlight. We sat up for nearly an hour after
he left, comparing notes on how we had enjoyed the evening, and talking
over all he had said. Jack said it was like coming across a well in a
thirsty desert to meet a fellow like that, and mamma said she was sure
he had enjoyed his little taste of simple home life quite as much as we
had enjoyed having him. He quite captivated her, especially when he
asked permission to come again. Norman was so impressed that he has been
talking ever since about the advantages of being an army man. As for me,
I found him lots more interesting than he was the night of the hop,
although I must say I'll always remember him as a sort of guardian angel
that night, for being so kind and saving me from being a wall-flower.'"
There was a peculiar expression on Phil's face as Joyce laid down that
letter.
"Do you know," he said, gravely, "I feel as if I'd been seeing the
little Vicar grow up right under my very eyes. I'd never before thought
of her as being old enough to have 'affairs,' but this seems to give
promise of blossoming into one. Of course, it's what one might naturally
expect, but somehow I can't quite get used to the idea, and--"
He did not finish the sentence aloud, but as he scowled into the fire,
he added to himself, "_I don't like it_!"