Breakfast was more than half over, some mornings later, when in came
Bob and Irving Bolton. A chorus of “Fie, fie,” greeted them, and Elsie
Sterling shook her fingers threateningly as Bob explained, “Pen, don’t
be hard on a fellow. Irving and I talked too late, I suppose, last
night. At any rate I know I should never have turned up this morning
only that he yelled across to me that lunch was most ready. And then he
loitered to help me share the blame of our lateness. Hey, old fellow?”
and he looked across at Irving as he slid into the vacant place between
Elsie and Mrs. Burkhardt.
“You are both rascals, both of you,” growled the General. “Burkhardt
and I have been up hours and have planned the finest sort of a day for
the rest of you ungrateful ones. Shall we tell them, Burkhardt?”
Before Mr. Burkhardt had a chance to reply, Penelope interposed, “Let
me try and guess.”
“All right, Mrs. Gerard, but you’ll have to try twenty questions or
some such game or you’ll not hit it. It’s a fine scheme.” And Ned
Burkhardt nodded triumphantly while he put a piece of buttered toast on
his wife’s plate.
“I’ll guess just once, and without the help of twenty questions either.
It’s a picnic.”
“Bah!” exclaimed the General. “You overheard, or somebody told you.”
“Perhaps I did, or perhaps that omnipresent ‘little bird’ chirped it in
my ear. But, at any rate, it’s a fine idea. What say the rest of you?”
“Just the thing. Fine,” was the reply.
“How shall we go, Will, and where?”
“Oh, let’s go to Sylvan Grove. It is only ten miles. Let me see. Two of
you can ride horseback.
“Will you and Irving ride, Gertrude? And, Burkhardt, you and madame and
Elsie and Bob might take the buckboard, and we three old fogies—pardon
me, General,—will follow on with the provisions. Will that suit, Penel?”
“All right. And now let’s get ready. Can you all start in three
quarters of an hour?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Promptly we all sallied forth, and it was a merry party. The air was
perfect, and Irving, Bolton and I cantered on ahead, and finding
ourselves far in advance, we turned and rode across country for a few
miles.
It was a perfect day, and the picnic was a perfect success. At dinner
that night we voted it as the best day yet.
“Well, to-morrow is the golf tournament, you know,” said Will, and
turning to his wife, he added, “Didn’t you say there was a dinner on
too?”
“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. Dear old Mrs. Preston asked us all to
dinner.” Turning towards me she said, “You remember at our tea, the day
after you came, a white-haired lady accompanied by her granddaughter?”
“Yes, indeed I do. I think you said she lives in that gray stone house
we passed to-day.”
“Yes, that is the one. It’s a lovely house too—and such china! Why,
Mrs. Burkhardt, she has a willow set that would make your mouth water.
Perhaps we’ll see it.”
Then turning swiftly, for dinner was over and we were just leaving the
room, “Listen, all of you, please. To-morrow night at Mrs. Preston’s,
and next night nowhere. It is Gertrude’s last night here and let’s
spend it all alone,” and having made her little speech she slipped her
arm around my waist and we went out together.
We passed through one of the French windows, out on the piazza, and sat
there late into the night. Snatches of conversation came to us again
and again, and Mrs. Burkhardt’s sweet soprano as she and Elsie sang
together, while Irving accompanied on the mandoline. But we, Penelope
and I, remained alone, each happy in the other.
The last night came, as all “last nights” must, and with it, “in
sympathy with our mood,” was the General’s courteous construction, came
a heavy, moaning storm. Will poked the fire and piled on the logs as
though a blizzard were raging without. Finally, he paused and said,
“I guess, Pen, dear, you may have your wish. No one will disturb our
family serenity this night.”
How cosy it seemed and how happy all appeared. Elsie and Mrs.
Burkhardt, Irving and Bob were playing checkers in the next room. Ned
and Penelope were talking about dogs and horses and comparing their
relative intelligence. The General was looking over some foreign
photographs, while Will and I bestowed our attention on the fire.
“Truly,” spoke General Bolton, “did you ever get up early enough to see
Covent Garden Market in its glory!”
“Oh, General, do you mean to infer absolute laziness, or do you mean
that the gray gloom of London would forbid an early awakening?”
“Never mind what I inferred. Did you ever go to the market—early?”
“Strange as it may seem to you, I did. I went one morning to Covent
Garden Market, and early, about six o’clock, with an English girl. It
was a wonderful sight.”
“See,” he interrupted, “it was this picture of a costermonger with the
palms and ferns that made me ask you.”
“It is very natural—the little donkey, the barrow and all. And how very
cheap the plants and flowers are—why that morning I bought for sixpence
as many moss roses and buds as I could carry.”
“Gertrude, did you ever see that?” And Will gave me a printed slip that
he had been searching for in his pocketbook. It was called the Floral
Test.
“No, but isn’t it good? Let’s ask the others the questions and see who
can answer the most.”
“Come, all you people,” called Will, and he stepped over to the next
room. “Aren’t you tired of checkers? Gertrude has a new game.”
When all were seated around expectantly he said: “Now, Gertrude, you
ask the questions and we’ll reply. It is called,” he explained, “the
Floral Test. She’ll ask questions and we’ll give answers in the names
of flowers.”
“Tell me the name of a maiden, and the color of her hair.”
“Maria-gold,” shouted Irving.
“Good for you, old fellow. How did you know?” questioned Bob.
“O here,” and young Bolton tapped his forehead significantly.
“What adjective fitted her and what was her brother’s name?”
All were silent until Mrs. Burkhardt timidly said, “Is it
Sweet-William?”
“That’s right. Now try this,—What was his favorite sport in winter?”
“That’s easy. Snowball,” and Bob threw his handkerchief at Will, who
sharply returned it.
“Ned, what was his favorite instrument?”
“Is it the trumpet?”
“That is right. Can you tell me, Elsie, at what hour he awoke his
father by playing on it?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Yes, and what did his father apply to him?”
“A golden-rod,” two or three shouted.
“What office did his father occupy in the church?”
All seemed puzzled. Finally Elsie said, “Was it elder?”
“Right. What was the young man’s name, and what did he write it with?”
“That is a poser, Trudy. You’ll have to tell them, I guess,” suggested
Will.
“Jonquil, don’t you see?”
“Bah!” exclaimed the General, while the others laughed.
“Irving, what candy do you usually buy?”
“He doesn’t know,” said Will, “but wait a moment and I’ll show you
some,” and he went to a closet and brought back a box of buttercups.
“Well, what did John do when he popped the question?”
“Aster,” yelled the General.
“That is correct, General. See if you can tell what ghastly trophy he
offered her.”
“Oh, that is easy. A bleeding heart.”
“Well, what did she say as John knelt before her?”
“Why, Johnny-jump-up, of course.”
“That’s right. You are fine at this game, General. Can you tell me what
minister married them?”
“Oh, Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” exclaimed Penelope.
“What did she wear in her hair?”
“Bridal-wreath.”
“What flowers bloomed in her cheeks?”
“Roses.”
“What did John say when obliged to leave her for a time?”
“Forget-me-not.”
“That is all. It is a fine game, Will. Where did you find it?”
“Oh, I came across it in a paper, and I know Pen likes that sort of
thing, so I cut it out. But I forgot all about it until you two were
talking over Covent Garden and the early market.”
“I think I can add one to that list of questions,” and Penelope arose
and, drawing me up by the hand, said, “What flower should we put in the
candle tray at night?”
“Poppy,” came the quick reply, and Bob quoted,
The Rock-a-bye lady
From Hush-a-bye street,
The poppies they hang
From her head to her feet.
“—— oh, I say, Pen,” he called, as we were on the stairs, “what shall
we all do when Gertrude leaves us?”
“Do you mean that as a Floral Test question?”
“Yes.”
“I know what I’ll do, but I don’t know any flower or plant to describe
it.”
“Why, Penelope, we’ll all balsam.”