"THE KING'S CALL"
Left to herself in the room which she was to occupy for the year, Mary
stood looking around with the keen interest of an explorer. It was a
pleasant room, with two windows looking out over the river and two over
the garden. To an ordinary observer it had no claim to superiority over
the other apartments, but to Mary it was a sort of shrine. Here in the
low chair by the window her Princess Winsome had sat to read and study
and dream all through her school days.
Here was the mirror that had caught her passing reflection so often,
that it still seemed to hold a thousand shadowy semblances of her in its
shining depths. Only the June before (three short months ago) she had
stood in front of it in all the glory of her Commencement gown.
Mary crossed the room on tiptoe, smiling at the recollection of one of
her early make-believes. Oh, if it were only true that one could pass
through the looking-glass into the wonderland behind it, what a
charming picture gallery she would find! All the girls who had occupied
the room since Warwick Hall had been a school! Blue eyes and brown,
laughing faces and wistful ones, girls in gorgeous full dress, pluming
themselves for some evening entertainment, girls in dainty undress and
unbound hair, exchanging bed-time confidences as they prepared for the
night, ambitious little saints and frivolous little sinners--they were
all there, somewhere in the dim background of the mirror, and because of
them there was a subtle charm about the room to Mary, which she would
not have felt if she had been its first occupant.
"It's like opening an old drawer to drop in a handful of fresh
rose-leaves, and finding it sweet with the roses of a dozen Junes gone
by," she said to herself, so pleased with the fancy that she went on
elaborating it.
"And Lloyd has been here so lately that _her_ rose-leaves haven't even
begun to wither."
There is no loyalty like the loyalty of a little school-girl for the
older girl whom she has enshrined in her heart as her ideal; no
sentiment like the intense admiration which puts a halo around
everything the beloved voice ever praised, or makes sacred everything
the beloved fingers have touched. Mary Ware at sixteen had not outgrown
any of the ardent admiration for Lloyd Sherman which had seized her when
she was only eleven, and now the desire to be like her flared up
stronger than ever.
She peered wistfully into the mirror, thinking, "Maybe just being in her
old room will help, because I shall be reminded of her at every turn."
For a moment the selfish wish was uppermost that she need not share the
room with any one. It seems almost desecration for a person who did not
know and love Lloyd to be so intimately associated with her. But Mary's
love of companionship was strong. Half the fun of boarding school in her
opinion was in having a room-mate, and she could not forego that
pleasure even for the sake of a very deep and tender sentiment. But she
made the most of her solitude while she had it. From kodak pictures she
had seen of the room, she knew at a glance which of the narrow white
beds had been Lloyd's, and immediately pre-empted it for herself,
staking out her claim by depositing her hat and gloves upon it.
As soon as her trunk was brought up stairs she fell to work unpacking,
with an energy in no wise diminished by the fatigue of the tiresome
journey. She had been cooped up on the cars so long that she was fairly
aching for something to do. In an hour's time all her clothes were
neatly folded or hung away, her shoe-pocket tacked inside the closet
door, her laundry-bag hung on a convenient nail, her few pictures
arranged in a group over her bed, and exactly half of the table laid out
with her portfolio, books and work-basket. She had been not only just
but generous in the division of property. She had left more than half
the drawer space and closet hooks for the use of the unknown Ethelinda;
the most comfortable chair, and the best lighted end of the table. That
was because she herself had had first choice in the matter of bed and
dressing table, and having seized upon the most desirable from her point
of view, felt that she owed the other girl some reparation. Because they
had been Lloyd's she wanted them so strongly that she was ready to
sacrifice everything else in the room for them, or even fight for their
possession if necessary.
By the time all was in order, the tall Lombardy poplars were throwing
long shadows on the green sward of the terraces, and from the window she
could see the garden, lying so sweet and still in the drowse of the late
afternoon that she longed to be down in it. She hurried to change the
rumpled shirt-waist in which she had finished her journey and done her
unpacking, for a fresh white dress. It was proof that the room was
exerting some influence to make her like her model, that even in her
haste she made a careful toilet. Remembering how dainty and
thorough-going Lloyd always was in her dressing, she scrubbed away until
every vestige of travel-stain was gone. All fresh and rosy, down to her
immaculate finger-tips, she scanned herself in the mirror, from the
carefully tied bow in her hair to the carefully tied bows on her
slippers, and nodded approvingly. She could stand inspection now from
the whole row of them--all those girls on the other side of the
looking-glass, who somehow seemed so near and real to her.
As she turned away from the mirror, her glance rested on the little
group of home pictures she had put up over her bed. The tents and tiny
two-roomed cottage that they called Ware's Wigwam looked small and
cramped compared to this great Hall with its wide corridors and spacious
rooms. It had always seemed to Mary that she was born to live in kings'
houses, she so enjoyed luxurious surroundings, but a homesick pang
seized her now, as she looked down on the picture and remembered that
she could never go back to it.
"It doesn't seem as if I have any home now," she sighed, "for I didn't
stay long enough in the new place at Lone-Rock to get used to it. I know
I shall always love the Wigwam best, and when I think of it standing
empty or maybe turned over to strangers, it makes me feel as if one of
my best friends had died. I'm glad we took so many pictures of it, and
that I kept a record of all the good times we had there. Oh, that
reminds me! There's one more thing I must do before sundown--bring my
diary up to date. I haven't written a line in it for six weeks."
The out-doors was too alluring to waste another moment in the house,
however, so gathering up her diary and fountain-pen, she went down
stairs and out into the garden, feeling as the gate swung to behind her
that she was stepping into an old, old English garden belonging to some
ducal estate. Coming as she did straight from the edge of the desert,
with its burning stretches of sand, its cactus and greasewood, its bare
red buttes and lank rows of cotton-wood trees, this Eden of green and
bloom had a double charm for her.
For a long time she wandered up and down its winding paths, finding many
a shady pleasance hidden away among its labyrinths of hedges, where one
might be tempted to stop and dream away a whole long summer afternoon.
But she did not pause until she came to a sort of court surrounded by
rustic arbours, where a fountain splashed in the centre, and an ancient
sun-dial marked the hours. With a pleased cry of recognition she ran
across the closely clipped turf, to read the motto carved on the dial's
face: "I only mark the hours that shine."
"The very words that Betty wrote in my Good Times Book the day she gave
it to me," she said, opening her diary to verify the motto on the
fly-leaf.
"It was beyond my wildest dreams then that I'd ever be standing here in
Warwick Hall garden, reading them for myself! I mustn't wait another
minute to make a record of this good time."
Choosing a seat in one of the arbours where a humming bird was darting
in and out through a tangle of vines, she opened the thick red book in
which she had kept a faithful record of her doings and goings for the
last two years, and glanced at the last entry. The date was such an old
one that she read the last few pages to refresh her memory.
"THE WIGWAM, Thursday, August 4th.
"Jack came home yesterday to our joyful surprise. Mr. Sherman had
telegraphed him to come at once to Kentucky, on a flying trip to
consult with the directors of the mine. As he had to pass through
Phoenix anyhow, he managed it so that he could stay over night
with us. I am so happy over the prospect of his having a chance at
last to see our 'Promised Land' that I am fairly beside myself. I
sat up half the night making cookies and gingerbread and rolls, and
broiling chickens for his lunch. He says he's been hungry for
home-cooking so long that it will go away ahead of dining-car fare.
"Everything turned out beautifully, and while I waited for them to
bake I wrote a list of the things he must see and questions he must
ask at The Locusts; things I've wanted to know ever since I came
back from Lloydsboro Valley, and yet you can't very well find out
just in letters. He left on this morning's early train. If he finds
he can take the time, he's going on to Annapolis for a day, just to
get a glimpse of Holland, and then to New York for a day and a half
with Joyce. Good old Jack! He's certainly earned his holiday. I can
hardly wait for him to come home and tell all about it."
Spreading the book out on her knees, Mary adjusted her pen and began to
write rapidly, for words always crowded to her pen-point as they did to
her tongue, with a rush.
"WARWICK HALL, September 12.
"Little did I think when I wrote that last line, that six whole
weeks would pass before I added another, or that my next entry
would be made in this beautiful old garden that I have dreamed of
so long. Little did I think I would be sitting here beside the old
sun-dial, or that such an hour could shine for me as the happy hour
when Jack came back.
"I drove into Phoenix to meet him, and I knew from the way he
waved his hat and swung off the steps before the train stopped that
he had good news, and it was! Perfectly splendid! They had made
him assistant manager of the mines, with a great big salary that
would make a change in all our fortunes. I thought it was queer
that he should bring a trunk back with him, for he went away with
only a suit-case, but I was so busy asking questions about Joyce
and Holland and everybody at The Locusts, that there wasn't time or
breath to ask about the trunk. We were half way home before he got
around to that.
"He said his first thought when they told him of his promotion
was, 'Now Mary can have her heart's desire and go away to school.'
And on the way to New York he planned it all out, how we'd give up
the Wigwam, and take a house in Lone-Rock, and he'd get some one to
help Mamma with the work, and he'd have Norman under his eye all
the time when he was out of school, and keep him out of mischief.
He's been wanting to do that ever since he went to the mines, for
there never was such a home-body. He can't bear to board.
"Nearly all of that little scrap of a visit he and Joyce had
together, those blessed children spent in getting my clothes. Joyce
has all my measurements, and they got me three dresses and a hat
and a lot of shirt-waists and gloves and fixings, all so beautiful
and stylish and New Yorkey, _and_ the fine big trunk to put them
in. There was even a new brush and comb and mirror, for she
remembered how ratty looking my old things were. And there was a
letter portfolio and a silk umbrella and a lot of odds and ends
that all school-girls need. I don't believe they overlooked a thing
to make my outfit complete, and I know they're as nice as any the
others will have, for Joyce has such good taste and always knows
just what is fit and proper. I feel so elegant in my pretty blue
travelling suit, and I'm just aching for a chance to wear the
beautiful little evening dresses they chose, one white pongee, and
the other some new sort of goods that looks just like a soft
shimmery cloud, a regular picture dress.
"Jack went on to the mines next day, and after that everything was
in a whirl till we were moved and settled, for there was so much to
do, packing the furniture to be shipped, and after we got to the
new house unpacking again and shifting things around till it got
all liveable and homelike. By that time it was time for me to get
my things together and go down to Phoenix to meet the people who
had offered to take me under their wing on their way back East.
Judge and Mrs. Stockton brought me. I must remember the date of
Mrs. Stockton's birthday, November the fourth, and send her one of
those bead purses. She admired the one she saw me making so much
that I know she would like it, and she certainly was an angel to me
on the trip. It seems to me it's my luck to meet nice people
everywhere I go.
"I'm not going to wait till the last Thursday in November for my
Thanksgiving Day. I've got seven good reasons for thanksgiving this
very minute. First, we got here without a wreck. Second, the ribbon
on my hat doesn't show a single spot, after all the hard shower
that we got caught in, that I thought had ruined it. Third, I
_think_ I impressed Hawkins as I hoped to, even if I was a bit
nervous. Fourth, while my introduction to Madam Chartley was
horribly mortifying, all's well that ends well, and she didn't lay
it up against me. I think she must have taken quite a fancy to me
instead or she wouldn't have given me my fifth and greatest reason
for thankfulness, the privilege of occupying Lloyd's old room.
Maybe I oughtn't to put that as the greatest reason, for of course
it's greater just to be here at all, and seventh, I'll never get
done being thankful that I've got Jack for a brother. That really
is the best of all, and I'm going to make so much out of my
opportunities this year, that he'll feel repaid for all he's done
for me, and be glad and proud that he could do it."
Filling another page with an account of her journey and her impressions
of the place, Mary closed her journal with a sigh of relief that the
long-neglected entry had been made. Then she leaned back on the rustic
bench and gave herself up to the enjoyment of her surroundings. The
fountain splashed softly. A lazy breeze stirred the vines, and fanned
her face. Far below, the shining Potomac took its slow way to the sea
between its lines of drooping willows. The calm and repose of the
stately old place seemed to steal in on her soul not only through eye
and ear and sense of touch, but at every pore.
"It's the strangest thing," she mused. "I must be a sort of chameleon,
the way I change with my surroundings. It doesn't seem possible that
only last week I was scrambling around with my head tied up in a towel,
scrubbing and cleaning and dragging furniture around at a break-neck
speed. I could almost believe I've never done anything all my life but
trail around this garden at my elegant leisure like some fine
lady-in-waiting."
There was time for a stroll down to the river before the falling
twilight recalled her to the house. As she went down the flight of
marble steps it was with the self-conscious feeling that she was a girl
in a play, and this was one of the scenes in Act I. She had seen a
setting like this on a stage one time, when a beautiful lady trailed
down the steps of a Venetian palace to the gondola waiting in the lagoon
below. To be sure Mary's dress did not trail, and she was not tall and
willowy outwardly, but it made no difference as long as she could _feel_
that she was. For a long time she walked slowly back and forth along the
river path, pausing now and then to look up at the great castle-like
building above her. She had never seen one before so suggestive of
old-world grandeur. Already it was giving her more than she would find
inside in its text-books. Peculiarly susceptible to surroundings, she
unconsciously held herself more erect, as if such a stately habitation
demanded it of her. And when she climbed the steps again, with it
looming up before her in the red afterglow, the dignity and repose of
its lines, from its massive portal to its highest turret, awakened a
response in her beauty-loving little soul that thrilled her like music.
She went softly through the great door and up the stair-case, pausing
for a moment on the landing to look at the coat-of-arms in the stained
glass window. It was a copy of the window in the old ancestral castle in
England, that belonged to Madam Chartley's family. Mary already knew the
story of its traditional founder, the first Edryn who had won his
knighthood in valiant deeds for King Arthur. In the dim light the
coat-of-arms gleamed like jewels in an amber setting, and the heart in
the crest, the heart out of which rose a mailed hand grasping a spear,
was like a great ruby.
"I keep the tryste," whispered Mary, reading the motto of the scroll
underneath. "No wonder Madam Chartley grew up to be so patrician.
Anybody might with a window like that in the house."
Some one began striking loud full chords on a piano in one of the rooms
below; some one with a strong masterful touch. Mary was sure it was a
man. By leaning over the banister until she almost lost her balance, she
caught a glimpse of a pair of black coat-tails swinging awkwardly over a
piano bench. Herr Vogelbaum, the musical director, must have arrived.
Probably she would meet him at dinner. That was something to look
forward to--an artist who had played before crowned heads and had been
lionized all over Germany. And then the chords rolled into something so
beautiful and inspiring that Mary knew that for the first time in her
life she was hearing really great music, played by a master. She sat
down on the steps to listen.
The self-conscious feeling that she was acting a part in a play came
back afresh, and made her hastily pull down her skirts and assume a
listening attitude. Thinking how effective she would look on a stage she
leaned back against the carved banister, clasping her hands around her
knees, and gazing up at the ruby heart in the stained glass window above
her. But in a moment both self and pose were forgotten. She had never
dreamed that the world held such music as the flood of melody which
came rolling up from below. It seemed to lift her out of herself and
into another world; a world of nameless longings and exalted ambitions,
of burning desire to do great deeds. Something was calling her--calling
and calling with the compelling note of a far-off yet insistent trumpet,
and as she gazed at the mailed hand with the spear rising triumphantly
out of the ruby heart, she began to understand. A feeling of awe crept
over her, that she, little Mary Ware, should be hearing the same call
that Edryn heard. Somewhere, some day, some great achievement awaited
her. Now she knew that that was why she had been born into the world.
That was why, too, that Providence had opened a way for her to come to
Warwick Hall, that she might learn what was to be "the North-star of her
great ambition," and how "to keep the compass needle of her soul" ever
true to it.
Clasping her hands together as reverently and humbly as if she were
before an altar, she looked up at the ruby heart, her face all alight,
whispering Edryn's answer:
"'Tis the King's call! O list!
O heart and hand of mine keep tryst--
Keep tryst or die!"
The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and all a-tingle with the
exalted mood in which it left her, she ran up to her room and knelt by
the window, looking out into the dusk with eager shining eyes. As yet it
was all vague and shadowy, that mysterious future which awaited her.
With what great duty to the universe she was to keep tryst she did not
know; but whatever it was she would do it at any cost. To callow wings
no flight is too high to attempt. At sixteen all things are possible.
All girls of Mary's imaginative impulsive temperament have had such
moments, under the spell of some unusual inspiration, but their dreams
are apt to vanish at contact with the earth again, as suddenly as a
bubble breaks when some material object touches it. But with Mary the
vision stayed. True, it had to retire into the background when dinner
was announced, and her over-weening curiosity brought her down to the
consideration of common everyday affairs, but she did not lose the sense
of having been set apart in some way by that supreme moment on the
stair. To the world she might be only an ordinary little Freshman, but
inwardly she knew she was a sort of Joan of Arc, called and consecrated
to some high destiny.
She went down to dinner in an uplifted frame of mind that made her
passage down the long dining room in the wake of Madam and the few
returned teachers a veritable march of triumph. The feeling that the
curtain had gone up on an interesting play in which she was chief actor
came back stronger than ever when she took her seat in one of the
high-backed ebony chairs, with the carved griffins atop, and unfolded
her napkin in the gaze of a long line of ancestral portraits.
Madam Chartley, who had been looking forward to the dinner hour with
some apprehension on the new pupil's account, knowing she would be
obliged to curb the lively little tongue if she talked at the table as
she had done in the reception room, was amazed at the change in her.
Warwick Hall had done its work. Already the little chameleon had taken
on the colour of her surroundings. Hawkins, in all his years of London
service, had never served a more demure, self-possessed little English
maiden, or one who listened with greater deference to the conversation
of her elders.
She spoke only when she was spoken to, but some of her odd, unexpected
replies made Herr Vogelbaum look up with an interest he rarely took in
anything outside of his music and his dinner. Miss Chilton was so amused
at her accounts of Arizona life, that she invited her up to her room,
and led her into a conversation that revealed her most original traits.
"She's a bright little thing," Miss Chilton reported to Madam afterward,
"The kind of a girl who is bound to be popular in a school, just because
she's so different and interesting."
"She is more than that," answered Madam, smiling over the recollection
of some of her quaint speeches. "She is lovable. She has 'the divine
gift of making friends,'"