Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
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PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1896. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 882. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
WYMPS.
BY EVELYN SHARP.
Little Lady Daffany had just been betrothed to the Prince, and there
were great rejoicings all over the town in consequence. The people were
allowed to cheer as much as they liked, and every child in the country
had a whole holiday and a penny bun, and nobody had an unhappy moment
from sunrise to sunset. All the Fairies were invited to a magnificent
banquet in the palace that lasted five hours and a half; and the
betrothed couple sat at one end of the table, and talked to one another;
and the King and Queen sat at the other end, and hoped that everything
would go well. The Queen fanned herself, and murmured at intervals. "The
wish of my heart"; and the King grumbled to himself because he could not
get enough to eat. The King had a very healthy appetite, and he always
gave a banquet whenever there was the least occasion for one.
"I really don't think we have left any one out this time," said the
Queen, in a satisfied tone. One of the Fairies _had_ been left out at
the Prince's christening, and the usual misfortunes had followed in
consequence.
"That is because I sent out all the invitations myself," replied the
King, crushingly. "These things require only a little management."
The words were hardly out of his royal mouth when a sudden darkness fell
upon the room, just as though a curtain had been drawn across the sun.
One ray of sun continued to shine, however, and that was the one that
shone over Lady Daffany's head; and down this one something came
sliding at a terrific pace, and tumbled into a dish of peaches just in
front of her. The conversation stopped with a jerk, and the people in
the street ceased cheering at the same moment, though they could not
have told any one why they did not go on.
"I am going to faint!" the Queen was heard to exclaim; but no one was
sufficiently unoccupied to attend to her. The eyes of every one were
fixed on the one ray of sunlight that shone over Lady Daffany's head
into the dish of peaches on the table.
"Now that's a stupid place to keep peaches," said the cause of all this
disturbance; and the funniest little man imaginable clambered out of the
dish of peaches and looked inquisitively down the long table. He was
very small and of a misty appearance, and he was dressed from head to
foot in dull yellow fog, and his face was brimful of mischief. He looked
as though he had done nothing all his life but make fun of people; for
he had very small eyes that twinkled, and a very large mouth that
smiled, and the rest of his face was one mass of laughter wrinkles.
"So you thought you were going to leave the Wymps out, did you?" he
said, sitting down comfortably on the edge of a large salt-cellar, and
swinging his legs backwards and forwards. "You will say you never heard
of the Wymps next, I suppose!"
That was just what every one in the room was thinking, but no one had
the courage to say so.
"To be sure! to be sure! How stupid of us not to recognize you at once!"
said the Queen, who had not fainted, after all.
"Most absurd! Why, the children in the schools could have told us that,
eh?" added the King, glancing at the Royal Professor of Geography, who
sat on his right hand.
"No doubt; no doubt. Though it does not belong to _my_ branch of
learning," said the latter, looking cheerfully at the Royal Professor of
History, who was trying, for his part, not to look at anybody at all.
"Then if you know such a lot about us, how was it you didn't ask us to
the banquet, eh?" shouted the little Wymp in a most disagreeable manner.
"Dear me!" said the Queen. "Is it possible you never had the letter?"
"I have no doubt," added the King, "that it was never posted."
"Or perhaps it was not properly addressed," suggested Lady Daffany,
politely.
The Wymp looked from one to the other and winked; then he stood on his
head and burst into a fit of laughter.
"It is no use, dearest," said the Prince, gloomily. "We have never heard
of the Wymps, and we had better own it at once. I suppose that means
another bad gift, and I had quite enough of that at my christening. It
is enough to set one against banquets altogether. There's always some
one left out. First, it's Fairies, then it's Wymps. Now, then, Mr. Wymp,
just tells us where you came from, and why you are here, and get it
over, will you?"
"Now that's sensible. I think I'll shake hands with you," said the Wymp,
coming down on his feet again, and standing on tiptoe to grasp the
Prince's hand. The Prince felt it was like shaking hands with a very
damp sponge.
"Now I'll tell you what it is," continued the Wymp, climbing up a
decanter, and standing with one foot on the stopper and the other tucked
up like a stork's; "the Wymps have been left out of this banquet
altogether, and Wymps are not people to be trifled with. Why people make
such a fuss about Fairies I never can make out. Now if you'd left some
of _them_ out, it wouldn't have made any difference. They just overcrowd
everything, and it's not fair."
The Fairies fluttered their wings indignantly at this, but the Fairy
Queen reminded them that it was not polite to make a quarrel in somebody
else's house, and the Wymp went on undisturbed.
"So I have come down from the land of the Wymps, which is at the back of
the sun, just to remind you that you mustn't leave us out again.
However, I see I am spoiling the fun, so I will be off again. But I may
as well mention"--here he looked straight at the Prince and burst out
laughing again--"that in future you will always tell people what you
think of them. Ha! ha! ha! that is the Wymps' gift to you. Good-by!"
And away he sped up the sunbeam again, and the curtain fell away from
the sun, and the people in the street went on cheering just where they
had left off, and the conversation broke out again at the very place it
had been interrupted, and no one would have thought that anything had
happened at all. But the Prince heard nothing but the Wymp's mocking
laughter, and he sat silent for the rest of the day.
"Are you ill, dear Prince?" asked the Queen.
"Of course not! You are a tiresome old fidget," said the Prince,
crossly. Now the Prince was noted for his excellent manners; he was even
known to speak politely to his horse and his spaniel; so when the
courtiers heard his reply to the Queen, they began to whisper among
themselves, and the guests made ready to depart.
"It is the heat; you must really excuse him," said the King, getting up
from the table with a sigh.
"What nonsense!" said the Prince. "It is not hot at all. It is your
fault for having such a stupid long banquet."
"We have enjoyed ourselves _so_ much," said the guests, as they filed
past him.
"Oh no, you haven't," retorted the Prince; "you have been thoroughly
bored the whole time, and so have I."
"It is the Wymps' gift," whispered the courtiers.
Two large unshed tears stood in Lady Daffany's eyes when she bade the
Prince good-night.
"Do you think _I_ have been bored the whole evening?" she asked him,
softly.
"No, dearest," said the Prince, kissing her white fingers; "for you have
been with me all the time."
And that, of course, was the truth, so she went away happy.
The days rolled on, and everybody began to wonder at the change in the
Prince. He had always been considered the most charming Prince in the
world, but now he had suddenly become one of the most unpleasant. He
told people of their faults whenever they were introduced to him, and
although he was generally right, they did not like it at all. He said
the Royal Professor of Geography was a bore, and although no one in the
kingdom could deny it, the Royal Professor of Geography naturally felt
annoyed. At the state ball he told the King he could not dance a bit,
and though the King's partners certainly thought so too, that did not
make it any better. But when he told the Queen, in the presence of the
Royal Professor of History, that her hair was turning gray under her
crown, the Queen said it was quite time something was done.
"The dear fellow cannot be right in his head," she said; "he must have a
doctor."
So the Royal Physician was sent for, and he came in his coach-and-four
and looked at the Prince; and he coughed a good deal, and said he must
certainly have a change of air.
"The Royal Physician always knows," said the Queen.
"But what is the matter with me?" asked the Prince.
"That," said the Royal Physician, coughing again, "is too deep a matter
for me to go into just now. In fact--"
"In fact, you don't know a bit, do you?" said the Prince; and he burst
out laughing just as unpleasantly as the Wymp had done when he stood on
his head.
So the Royal Physician drove away again in his coach-and-four, and the
Prince went on telling people exactly what he thought of them. The only
person to whom he was not rude was the little Lady Daffany, for he
thought nothing but nice things about her, and therefore he had nothing
but nice things to say to her. But for all that, she was most unhappy,
for she could not bear hearing that other people disliked the Prince;
and all the people were beginning to dislike him very much indeed. So
one day she slipped out of her father's house quite early in the
morning, and went into the wood at the end of the garden. Now she was so
kind to all the animals and flowers, that the Fairies had given her the
power of understanding their language; so she went straight to her
favorite squirrel, who lived in a beech-tree in the middle of the wood,
and she told him all about the Prince and the Wymps' gift. The squirrel
stopped eating nuts, and ran after his tail for a few moments without
speaking. Then he winked his eye at her very knowingly, and nodded his
smart little head several times, and spoke at last in a tone of great
wisdom.
"You must go to the Wymps and intercede for the Prince," he said, and
cracked another nut.
"But would they listen to me?" asked Lady Daffany, doubtfully.
"Go and try," said the squirrel. "The Wymps are not bad little fellows,
really. They like making fun of people, that's all; and they saw the
Prince was a bit of a prig, so they thought they would give him a
lesson, don't you see?"
"Perhaps they will think I am a prig too," said Lady Daffany, sadly.
"My dear little lady," laughed the squirrel, "the Wymps never make fun
of people like you. Just you go and find the biggest sunbeam you can,
and climb up it until you come to the land of the Wymps at the back of
the sun. Only you must go with bare feet and with nothing on your head.
Now be off with you; I want to finish my breakfast."
The biggest sunbeam she could find was the one that came in at the
library window and sent her father, the Count, to sleep over the state
documents. And there she took off her little red shoes and stockings,
and pulled the golden pins out of her hair, and let it fall loosely
round her shoulders, and she began to climb slowly up the ray of
sunlight. At first it was very hard work, for it was very slippery, and
she was frightened of falling off; but she thought of the Prince, and
went on as bravely as she could. And then it seemed as though invisible
hands came and helped her upwards, for after that it was quite easy, and
she glided up higher and higher and higher until she came to the sun
itself--the big round sun. And she went straight through the sun, just
as though it were a paper hoop at the circus, and she tumbled out on the
other side into a land of yellow fog. There was no sunshine there, and
no moon, and no stars, and no daylight--nothing but a dull red glow
over everything, like the light of a lamp.
"Why," said Lady Daffany, feeling her clothes to see if they were
singed, "I always thought the sun was hot!"
"I have no doubt you did; it is quite absurd what mistakes are made
about the sun," said a familiar voice, and, looking round, she saw the
identical Wymp who had come to disturb the betrothal banquet.
"Hullo! I've been expecting you," he said, as he recognized her. "Why
didn't you come before?"
"Because you didn't send me an invitation," said Lady Daffany, merrily;
and she made him a court bow. Now it is true that the Wymps spend their
lives in laughing at other people, but they are not accustomed to being
laughed at themselves; so when Lady Daffany continued to be amused at
her own joke the Wymp drew himself up very stiffly and looked offended.
"I don't see anything whatever to laugh at," he said, severely, "and you
had better come along and explain to the King why you've come."
Then he led her through the dimly lighted land of yellow fog, and they
passed crowds of other little Wymps who were all so like himself that it
was difficult to tell one from another; for they were all dull yellow
and misty in appearance, and they all had small eyes and large mouths,
and their faces were all covered with laughter wrinkles. They seemed to
be spending their time in turning somersaults and tumbling over one
another, and laughing loudly at nothing at all. But the Wymp who was
with Lady Daffany did not laugh once; he just trotted along in front of
her and did not speak a word, so that she really was afraid she had hurt
his feelings, and she began to feel sorry.
"Please, Mr. Wymp, I didn't mean to laugh at you at all," she said, very
humbly.
"That's all very well," said the Wymp, sulkily, "but no Wymp ever allows
any one else to make a joke. Come along to the King."
"But it wasn't a joke!" cried Lady Daffany.
"Oh, well, if it wasn't a joke, that's another matter. Not that I
_should_ have called it a joke myself, but I thought you meant it for
one," said the Wymp, more cheerfully. "Now why have you come up here at
all?"
She hastened to tell him about the Prince, and how much he had been
changed by the Wymps' gift, and how she wanted to intercede for him; and
her voice grew so sad as she thought about it all that the Wymp had to
turn round and shout at her.
"Don't get gloomy," he cried, turning several somersaults in his
agitation. "Nobody is ever gloomy in the land of the Wymps. Make another
bad joke if you like, but stop being dreary--_do_."
At this moment they suddenly came upon the Wymp King, who was sitting
asleep on his throne all by himself. He was just like the other Wymps,
except that he looked too lazy to turn somersaults, and he had no
laughter wrinkles at all.
"Is that the King? He doesn't look much like a King," whispered Lady
Daffany.
"He hasn't got to look like a King," said the Wymp. "We choose our Kings
because they are harmless, and don't want to make jokes, and will keep
out of the way. We once had a King who looked like a King--we used to
live in the sun then--but he did so much mischief that the sun people
turned us out, and we have had to live at the back of the sun ever
since."
Lady Daffany felt glad that the kind of King she was accustomed to _did_
look like a King, but she had no time to say so, for just then the Wymp
jumped on the throne and woke up the King by shouting in his ear.
"Does any one want anything?" asked the Wymp King, waking up with a
jerk, and putting on his crown and his spectacles.
Lady Daffany dropped on her knees in front of the throne and tried not
to feel frightened.
"Please, your Majesty--" she began, timidly.
"Who is she talking to?" cried the Wymp King. He had a very gruff voice,
through living in a yellow fog all his life; and he spoke so loudly that
he completely drowned the rest of her speech.
"Say what you want, and don't give him any titles; he's not used to
them," whispered the Wymp.
"Why, I don't believe he is a King at all," said Lady Daffany, standing
up again.
"Who says I'm not a King at all?" shouted the Wymp King, angrily.
"If you make any more of your bad jokes, I won't try to help you at
all," said the Wymp. "Why don't you say what you want at once?"
So Lady Daffany set to work and told the whole of her story, and begged
the Wymp King to take back his fatal gift so that the Prince should no
longer tell people what he thought about them until they all came to
dislike him.
When she had finished, the King gave a great yawn and took off his
crown.
"Doesn't he tell them the truth then?" he asked, sleepily.
"Yes, I--I suppose so," she answered, doubtfully.
"Then why should they mind?" said the Wymp King.
Lady Daffany shook her head. "They do mind," she said.
"Then it's very stupid of them," said the Wymp King, very drowsily.
"However, if that's all, the gift can be passed on to you instead. Now
go away; I am going to sleep again."
He was already sound asleep, and not another word could be got out of
him. Lady Daffany tried not to cry, and turned away.
"I suppose every one will dislike _me_ now," she said, sorrowfully; "but
of course that is better than their disliking the Prince."
"Nonsense," said the Wymp, as he led her to the back of the sun; "that
would be too good a joke for the King to make. You wait and see.
Good-by."
And away she went through the sun again, and came out on the bright side
once more, for the sunbeam had moved on since the morning, and then she
ran in-doors to find her shoes.
"That's all right," said the Count, putting away the state documents
with a great show of relief; "you're just in time for tea. Where have
you been all day?"
"I've been for a walk, at least a fly--no, I mean a ride," stammered
Lady Daffany. "I'm not quite sure which it was."
"Never mind," chuckled the Count; "I expect you were with the Prince,
and didn't notice, eh? Then of course you have heard the wonderful news
of the Prince's recovery."
"Then the Wymp _did_ speak the truth!" cried Lady Daffany, clapping her
hands for joy.
"What Wymp?" asked the Count. "_This_ has nothing to do with the Wymps.
It was a strange physician who came from a far land, and he touched the
Prince's tongue, and made him every bit as polite as he used to be. So
you can be married at last, and the Prince can go into society again."
"A strange physician?" said his daughter. "I wonder where he has gone
now?"
"That's just it," said the Count, pouring out his sixth cup of tea; "he
didn't go anywhere. He turned three somersaults down the palace steps,
and when they ran to pick him up there wasn't anybody to pick up."
"Then it must have been a Wymp," thought Lady Daffany, and she wandered
out into the garden to think it all over.
"I wonder if I have really got the Wymps' gift instead of the Prince,"
she said to herself. Just then the Prince himself came through the
bushes to find her. He no longer looked grave and unhappy, and there was
a radiant look on his face.
"Don't you think I have been a very disagreeable Prince lately?" he
whispered, as he stooped to kiss her.
"I think you are the dearest Prince in all the world," she answered,
softly.
"All the same, the Royal Professor of Geography _is_ an old bore, isn't
he?" said the Prince.
"Oh no, I don't think so. He is only clever," answered Lady Daffany.
"But the Queen-Mother's hair _is_ turning gray. Haven't you noticed it?"
persisted the Prince.
"I really think you are mistaken, dearest," said Lady Daffany.
And she never found out whether she really had the Wymps' gift or not.
But the Prince and the people loved her to the end of her days.
CANAL LOCKS FOR OCEAN STEAMERS.
It was at one time supposed that the railroads would be able to carry
freight so much cheaper and quicker that the canals would gradually
become useless, and only the heaviest and most unimportant class of
goods would be sent from place to place over the all-water inland
routes. One of the reasons for this was that the canals had not advanced
in any way since they were first built--that is, the mechanism of locks
had not been improved, and no other methods had been devised by which
canal traffic might be made speedier. But about six years ago an
American engineer, Mr. Chauncey N. Dutton, invented a lock which many
experts think will probably revolutionize canal traffic, and make it
possible to build a waterway from New York to the Great Lakes, following
the line of the Hudson and using Lake Champlain and the St. Lawrence
River.
The lock invented by Mr. Dutton is founded upon the already well-known
and widely utilized principle of compressed air, and although at first
it looks complicated to the average person, it is said by mechanics and
engineers to be a very simple affair. The lock is called a pneumatic
balance lock. It is made up of two sections, each of which may very well
be compared to elevators. These elevators are in reality huge tanks,
each about 510 feet long, 65 feet wide, and capable of holding 26 feet
of water. These tanks are placed in other steel tanks which correspond
to the shafts of an elevator, and these shafts are placed alongside of
one another. Of course the shafts of these great elevators are sunk as
deeply into the earth as it is necessary to raise a ship into the air,
or up to the higher level of the canal. The sunken portions of the
shafts are filled with water, and the tanks, or elevators, are arranged
so that they work up and down like balanced scales--that is, when one is
at the higher level the other is at the lower level. Compressed air does
all the work. Perhaps by looking at the diagram this may be more clearly
made apparent.
[Illustration: DIAGRAM OF LOCKS.]
The two tanks are connected by a great pipe 21 feet in diameter. Where
it connects immediately with the locks this pipe is flexible and moves
up and down with the tanks, and looks very much like a huge elephant's
trunk. Through it the compressed air shifts, at the will of the
operator, from one shaft to the other.
Therefore, supposing one of the tanks is at the highest point of one of
the shafts, the other will naturally be at the lowest level of the other
shaft. The upper tank is supported by compressed air resting on a body
of water which fills the lower portion of the shaft--that is, the part
sunken down into the earth. All that it is necessary to do now in order
to bring the upper tank or elevator down to the level of the lower tank
is to open a valve, and allow the compressed air to run out of one shaft
into the other, which it will do at a velocity twenty-eight times that
of water. The weight of the descending tank, of course, is the power
which forces the air through the pipe from one shaft into the other, and
as soon as the two tanks reach the balancing-point they will stop. In
order to get the elevator down to the bottom level, therefore, it is
necessary to allow water to run into that compartment which needs to be
made the heavier and to allow water to run out of the other. It is plain
to be seen, therefore, that this invention is bound to crowd out the
old-fashioned stationary canal lock if it can be constructed cheaply
enough.
[Illustration: PNEUMATIC LOCKS IN OPERATION.]
The canal lock of to-day is a very slow working affair, as we all know,
and is such a clumsy piece of mechanism that only ships of a limited
tonnage can pass through it. When a canal-boat comes along it is let
into the first lock, and if that is on the higher level the gates are
closed, and the water is allowed to run out until the boat is floating
on a level equal to that in the other portion of the lock. Then the
gates are opened, and the boat passes on. If it is necessary, on the
other hand, to raise the vessel from the lower to the higher level, much
more time has to be consumed in order to pump the lock full of water.
By Mr. Dutton's method, however, the vessel comes along the canal, and
it may be as large a ship as an ocean freighter, and it may carry as
great a cargo as 12,000 tons, and yet it can slip into one of the great
steel tanks 510 feet long, and a boy can open the compressed-air valve,
and let the great ship travel gently down the elevator shaft until it
reaches the lower level of the canal. The operation requires perhaps
fifteen minutes, instead of hours; and no more time is necessary for
ships of equal tonnage going in the other direction, since a much
greater weight of water can be run into the upper tank from the higher
level of the canal than could be counterbalanced by any kind of
steamship that would need to be lifted from the lower level.
A company has been organized to build a canal from the Atlantic to the
Great Lakes, and it is its intention to use Mr. Dutton's locks along the
way; not more than two or three will be necessary. But as it will cost
about one hundred million dollars to carry out the enterprise, it may be
some years before they will be able actually to begin work.
It is the belief of those interested in the construction of this great
canal that there is no economy in cheap construction. Good results may
only be obtained by good work. The Suez Canal, for example, is cheaply
constructed; it is only 72 feet wide at the bottom, and large ships may
pass one another only when one goes into a sort of siding, where it
usually runs aground. The expense of getting ships out of the sand,
since the traffic was first opened through the canal, has far surpassed
the sum for which the canal could have been constructed so as to avoid
such delays and accidents. Therefore it is proposed that any maritime
canal to be built should be fully 250 feet wide, and 30 feet deep at
least.
One of the great undertakings which would be connected with the
construction of such a canal would be the reversion of the current of
Lake Champlain, in order to deepen the water in the upper Hudson. This
would be done by diverting a portion of the waters of the St. Lawrence
River into Lake Champlain, and such a condition of affairs would develop
at Waterford an immense water-power, nearly equal to one-third that of
Niagara Falls. This water-power could be used for developing
electric-power, and the canal could be illuminated with electric-light
at night so as to make traffic almost as easy in the dark hours as in
the daytime.
The effects of such an enterprise would be far-reaching. An open-water
route from the Atlantic to Buffalo, Cleveland, Detroit, Chicago, and
Milwaukee would make those great inland cities practically seaports, and
therefore the people who live in those cities would be able to purchase
all sorts of commodities more cheaply than they can now, because the
charges of transportation by water directly from foreign countries would
be much cheaper than it is now, when there has to be a transshipment of
the goods on the coast, and transportation by rail, which is expensive.
On the other hand, the people of those other cities would also be able
to sell more of their own products, and to greater advantage to
themselves, because they could deliver them in foreign countries more
cheaply than they can now.
THE TOCSIN.
BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.
When the tocsin sounds a rally, over hill and over valley
You will hear a sudden rushing and the tramp of marching feet;
From the lowland to the highland, swift through continent and island,
When the tocsin sends its thrilling call, shall answer willing feet.
For the young folks will be ready, rallying with faces steady,
At the moment when vacation slips with laughing haste away;
Dear old books for weeks neglected will be joyfully collected,
Borne with looks of purest pleasure to the school on opening day.
In the fortress of the mountains, by the gentle falling fountains,
Elves and fays will miss the army late who made the forests ring,
But the school-house will be swarming, teachers' hearts for gladness
warming,
When the gallant host is gathered and again the children sing.
Soon will sound for instant rally, over hill and over valley,
That old tocsin which so often we have heard in days of yore,
And with merry faces beaming, to the same dear places streaming,
At a quick-march will the pupils hurry through the school-room door.
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 879.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER IV.
"Come into the drawing-room," said Miss Herrick in her most commanding
tones.
Valentine and Elizabeth obeyed. They remained standing while she seated
herself in the identical carved chair from which so short a time before
had dangled the shabby shoes of Eva Louise Brady.
"Who were those children?"
"Eva Louise and Bella Brady," replied her niece.
"And what were they doing here?"
"They--they have been playing jack-stones, and--and eating."
"Eating! Playing jack-stones! And how, may I ask, did they happen to
come?"
"We were giving a party, Val and I, especially for the Bradys, Aunt
Caroline. I was afraid you might not exactly like it, and so I think if
I explain you will understand better."
"It certainly requires an explanation," said Miss Herrick, stiffly. "I
suppose that if I had not returned unexpectedly early I should have
known nothing of it. I find that you are not to be trusted at all."
"Oh, Aunt Caroline, don't say that! Indeed I am to be trusted; only Val
and I--"
"Leave Valentine out of the question. It is you who are responsible."
"But Val thought of it," began Elizabeth, eagerly. "At least he thought
of part of it."
Then she stopped. Valentine thus far had said nothing. Was he not going
to stand by her? She looked at the boy, but still he remained silent.
"I am waiting for your explanation," said her aunt.
"Well, we saw Eva Louise from the window, and Val said--at least we both
thought we would go down and see her. And then on the way I told Val I
was so sorry for them, and would like to have a party for them, and he
said--at least we both thought it would be very nice to ask them over,
and I remembered about that feast in the Bible. Don't you remember, Aunt
Caroline, where people are told what kind of parties to give? Perhaps
you have never read just that part of the Bible, for you never do give
that kind of a party. Your people are all so rich and come in carriages,
but it really does say somewhere something about inviting the poor and
the lame and the halt and the blind. Well, of course I know the Bradys
are poor, and I thought very likely they were halt, and so I decided to
ask them."
Miss Herrick was becoming interested in spite of herself. There was
something very original about her niece, she thought, and she certainly
was beautiful to look at as she stood before her with the earnest look
in her great dark eyes, and her high-bred manner of carrying her head.
"Continue," she said, as Elizabeth paused for breath.
"There is not much more to tell except that Val went out and got the
things to eat. Of course we had to give them something to eat, Aunt
Caroline, and we didn't like to ask the servants."
"And where were the servants all this time?"
"I don't exactly know."
"This must be looked into. I leave you in Marie's charge when Miss Rice
is not here."
"I never see much of Marie," remarked Elizabeth, composedly.
"You should have told me of this before. But where did you have the
party? In which room?"
Again there was silence. Elizabeth looked once more to Valentine for
assistance, but none was forth-coming. A faint color spread over her
face and she clasped her hands tightly behind her back, but she gazed
steadfastly into her aunt's eyes as she replied, "In the locked room."
"What do you mean?" asked Miss Herrick, not in the least comprehending.
"The locked room in the third-story back buildings. The room with the
padlock."
"Elizabeth!"
The child was frightened at the effect of her words. Miss Herrick's face
grew very white. It was some minutes before she could control her voice
sufficiently to speak.
"Have you been there before?" she asked at last.
"Yes, often," faltered the little girl.
"How did you get in?"
"I--I found the keys one day when I was looking for them in your little
Chinese cabinet."
[Illustration: "AND DO YOU CALL THIS AN HONORABLE PROCEEDING?"]
"And do you call this an honorable proceeding?"
"No, not so very."
If Aunt Caroline would only scold her, thought Elizabeth. She was so
calm. The child attempted to excuse herself.
"I had wondered about that room so long, Aunt Caroline. I really did
want to know something about my own family, and you and Aunt Rebecca
never would tell me. I--I am very sorry."
Miss Herrick did not reply. Presently she turned to Valentine.
"Have you anything to say for yourself?"
"Why, no, not exactly. I didn't really understand about the room.
Elizabeth had been there lots of times before I came, and it was her
idea about the party in the first place."
"I see," said his aunt, with faint scorn in her voice; "it is merely
another case, repeated from time immemorial, of 'the woman tempted me
and I did eat.'"
"I don't understand you, Aunt Caroline," said Elizabeth.
But Valentine did understand, and he blushed scarlet.
Miss Herrick, after her last remark, relapsed into thought.
"There is another thing," said Elizabeth, presently; "we broke one of
your plates."'
"So we did," said Valentine. Then, with evident effort--"at least, I
did. Elizabeth had nothing to do with it. I broke it."
His little sister looked at him gratefully. At last he was coming to
her rescue. But this final bid of information made small impression on
Miss Herrick. She was leaning back in her chair lost in thought.
"Is--is that room still open?" she asked at length.
"Yes, Aunt Caroline."
"Go up and close it; and then, Elizabeth, come to my room. I wish to
speak to you alone."
The children, glad to escape, ran up stairs. The door of the room stood
wide open, the plates containing the few remnants of the feast were
piled recklessly together--everything was in disorder.
They carried the dishes down to the pantry, and put the table back into
its accustomed place. They straightened things up as best they could,
and then they pulled in the blinds and closed the windows.
Elizabeth locked the door and descended with the keys to her aunt's
room. Her party had been a failure from beginning to end. It was very
hard for her to keep from crying, but she was determined not to do
it--in Valentine's presence, at least.
She found Miss Herrick still in her bonnet. She was standing by the
dressing-table, and she held the little cabinet in her hand. She took
the keys without a word, put them in the drawer, and shut it with a
snap. Then she opened her desk, the key of which she always carried on
her person, and placed the cabinet inside.
"I should have done this before," she said. "Is there anything else that
you have been prying into?"
Elizabeth's tears refused to be suppressed another moment. She covered
her face with her hands.
"I never pry!" she cried. "It was only that one room, and I did so want
to know about it. I wouldn't have done it if you had only answered more
questions. I have such a stupid time. You won't let me go to school, and
you won't tell me anything. And I was all alone, and my father doesn't
come home, and I want him--I want him so much! Aunt Caroline"--suddenly
drying her eyes and fixing them upon her aunt--"don't you really think
my father will come home soon?"
"I doubt if he ever comes home."
"Aunt--Caroline!" Then, after a moment's silence: "But I wrote to him
and begged him to come. I said if he couldn't afford it, I would pay for
him when I got my money. I really did, Aunt Caroline."
Miss Herrick laughed harshly. She was too much disturbed with the
discovery about the closed room to be careful of her niece's feelings.
"Quite unnecessary on your part, Elizabeth. Your father has all the
money he needs, and much more. That is not the reason he does not come.
I will explain to you, since you are so insistent. I have refrained from
doing so before, but I see there is nothing else to do now. Your father
left home immediately after the death of your mother. He was deeply
attached to her. Your mother, you know, died shortly after you were
born, and your father simply could not bear the sight of you."
"Could not bear the sight of _me_?"
"No. In fact, his one desire was to get away from everybody and
everything connected with his former life. He has lived abroad ever
since, and I doubt if he ever comes home."
"What will he say when he gets my letter?" asked the child.
"I don't know, I am sure. You ought never to have written that letter. I
don't know what he will say."
"Aunt Caroline, would you mind if--if I went up to my room now?"
"Not yet. I have not finished. You deserve a severe punishment for
prying into that room, Elizabeth. I have not yet decided what it shall
be. Your curiosity must be controlled. What difference need it make to
you if forty rooms in the house are locked?"
"I don't know."
"I should think not. That room is connected with the tragedy of my life.
I doubt if you ever know about it. Perhaps when you are a woman you may
be told of it, but that cannot be decided now. And I ask you never to
mention the subject to me again."
"No, Aunt Caroline, I won't."
"You may go now."
"Yes, Aunt Caroline."
Elizabeth walked across the large room to the door. Then she paused a
moment, and turning abruptly, she flew back to her aunt's side.
"Aunt Caroline, you said my father could not bear the sight of me when I
was a baby. Perhaps I was not a nice baby; some are not--the Brady baby,
for instance. Don't you think--don't you really think, Aunt Caroline,
that if my father were to meet me now he might like me just a
teeny-weeny bit? Is there nothing nice about me, Aunt Caroline? Val, my
own brother, likes me. The Brady girls used to like me, only they don't
seem to now. I never know whether you and Aunt Rebecca do or not, but I
hope you do. But don't you think, Aunt Caroline, _dear_ Aunt Caroline,
that if my father ever does come home he might grow to like me a
little?"
Her aunt looked at her. Then she stooped and kissed her. "Yes, my dear.
Yes, I think he might."
"Then I am going to hope more than ever for him to come. Yes, I am going
to pray for it. Every night and morning of my life I am going to ask God
to send my father home to me, and I really think, Aunt Caroline, that
some day he will come."
And then she went up to her room and cried for an hour.
Valentine returned to Virginia in a few days. He felt sorry for
Elizabeth, forced to remain forever in the stiff old house with those
stiff old aunts, as he designated them.
"And she is not half bad," he said to himself, as he was being whirled
rapidly homeward in the train; "she is really a good sort, though she
does get herself into such mighty scrapes. She is a plucky one, though.
You don't catch her shirking any of the blame. Well, neither would I
with anybody but that dragon of an Aunt Caroline. Elizabeth is more used
to her, I suppose."
And then he gave himself up to thoughts of the coming football match,
for which he would get home just in time.
With Elizabeth life went on about as usual. She missed Valentine sadly,
and she felt almost jealous of her cousin Marjorie, who would always
have the pleasure of his society.
Miss Rice was engaged to stay all day now. It was shown to the child
plainly enough that she was not to be trusted. She resented this,
although she knew there was reason for it. She did hate to be watched,
she said to herself.
For months the child brooded over her lonely existence, and the strange
fate of having a father who did not wish to see her, and a brother who
did not live with her, and who, she was quite sure, preferred his cousin
to his sister.
Day after day when the postman rang the door-bell she looked for an
answer to her letter, and day after day she was disappointed, until she
grew thin and pale, and her aunts at length became alive to the fact
that she was not well. Thoroughly alarmed, they sent for the family
physician.
He knew something of the state of affairs in Fourth Street, and of the
unnatural life which the little girl had thus far lived, and he
determined to seize this opportunity for improving matters.
"The child should live in the country," he said, when Elizabeth had been
sent from the room.
"Just what I thought," said Miss Herrick, in a relieved tone. "She will
go out to our place next week. It is nearly April, so it will not be
unbearable."
"But that won't do. Does she have any playmates there?"
"No, not many."
"I thought not. And does her governess go too?"
"Certainly. We could not get along without Miss Rice. My sister and I
are away so much."
"Precisely. And now, my dear Miss Herrick, I am going to speak plainly
to you. Unless you send that child away she will die before your very
eyes. She should be in some happy home where she would have companions
of her own age. Boarding-school would be better than nothing. Send her
to boarding-school."
"My dear doctor! My niece at a boarding-school? Never!"
"Why not? There are plenty of good schools where she would be happy and
well cared for. Then she must go somewhere else. Send her to her
mother's relatives in the South. They live in the country, don't they?
Let her grow up with Valentine. The brother and sister had much better
be together."
"It is out of the question, doctor. I do not want to give up my niece,
and I cannot consent to her being brought up in that large family of
boys and girls. She would grow very rough among them."
"The rougher the better, say I," said the doctor, rising to go, "and I
tell you plainly, Miss Herrick, unless you do something of that sort
there is no saving the child. Drugs won't keep her alive. She needs no
medicine, but a natural, free child's life, and the sooner you send her
to get it the better. She behaves precisely as if she had something on
her mind. What is it?"
"I don't know, I am sure," cried Miss Herrick, who was deeply alarmed.
"I can't imagine what it is, unless it is about her father. Miss Rice
says she talks in her sleep about his not coming home to her."
"And he ought to come home to her," said the doctor, who had been a
friend of Edward Herrick's when they were boys. "What right has a man to
shirk his responsibilities in this way?"
"Poor Edward!" began Miss Herrick.
"Fudge and fiddlesticks for 'poor Edward'!" exclaimed the doctor,
walking about the room. "You have much more reason to say 'poor
Elizabeth.' But I had better take myself off before I say anything to be
sorry for. Good-morning."
And the front door slammed before Miss Herrick had recovered from her
astonishment at his last speech.
She repeated his opinion of Elizabeth to her sister, and then she wrote,
though much against her will, to Mrs. Redmond. She could not understand
why the life with her father's sisters should not be the best thing in
the world for Elizabeth, but apparently it was not.
Several letters passed between Miss Herrick and Mrs. Redmond before
matters were finally arranged, and until they were Elizabeth was told
nothing. When everything was settled, even to the day and the train by
which she was to go, Miss Herrick announced to her that she was to pay a
visit of indefinite length to her aunt in Virginia.
"Oh, I don't want to!" exclaimed Elizabeth.
"That makes no difference," returned her aunt. "You must."
"But I won't!" cried the child, stamping her foot. "You have no right to
send me away from home."
"Be quiet, Elizabeth! Your temper is becoming quite ungovernable. I hope
your aunt Helen will be able to control you."
"She will never have a chance, Aunt Caroline. Rather than go there I
will run away from here--I will!"
"Nonsense!" said Miss Herrick, and thought no more of the threat.
Elizabeth left the room, pondering deeply. It would be quite impossible
for her to go among strangers, and so far away. Her father might come
home any day. She must be at home herself to receive him.
And besides, she could not possibly go to live at her aunt Helen's
house, where there were so many boys and girls, among them the
incomparable Marjorie of whom Val had spoken so much. Elizabeth
remembered all about her, although several months had elapsed since his
visit. Her lonely life with its burden of grief and disappointment in
regard to her father had told upon her even more than the doctor
suspected. She dreaded going among people whom she did not know, and at
this distance Valentine also seemed a stranger.
Anything would be preferable to going to Virginia, even life at the
Bradys', her only friends.
And this suggested something to her. She would disappear from her home
and take refuge with the Brady family. She had read in the newspaper of
people disappearing from their homes, therefore it would be quite
possible. Life at the Bradys' would not be altogether desirable, but
anything was better than being sent away off to Virginia to live with
Marjorie.
And if she were at the Bradys' she would be near enough to hear of her
father's return, if he ever came. She would ask them to say nothing
about her being there, and she would be careful not to go near the back
of the house, so there would be no chance of her being discovered, for
her aunts would never think of looking for her there.
Her mind was fully made up. She would take refuge with the Brady family.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.