Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1896. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 884. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
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[Illustration]
A HOME-RUN IN INDIANA.
BY GARRETT NEWKIRK.
The men of the block-house fort had eaten breakfast by candle-light, for
an early start to their work upon the various clearings. The long, rough
table would be reset later for the women and children. They were a band
of settlers in the wilderness, who had arrived from Virginia the
preceding autumn barely in time to build one house for the shelter of
all. Before another summer should be over each family would possess a
dwelling of its own, and the beginning of a farm great with the promise
of future orchards and fields of grain.
The severity of the winter had departed, March was bringing many days of
brightness, with songs from the earlier birds of spring. It was now the
hour of dawn, and, far to the east, above where rolled the broad Ohio,
the sky was rosy with the sun's bright greeting. Across the Big Blue
River to the west were clouds of morning mist, which made the higher
hills beyond appear like wooded islands in a rolling sea.
John Martin stood near the block-house, with his long rifle on his arm
and his axe in hand, ready to start for the home clearing. He was
twenty-five years old, of medium height and excellent form. There was
not his equal in the settlement for activity and strength.
By his side stood his wife, a girlish-looking woman yet in her "teens,"
with her hands clasped upon his shoulder. Her eyes were looking
earnestly into his, and there was anxiety in her voice as she said:
"I hope, John, you and Stephen are not growing careless about watching
because no Indians have been seen for many weeks. You know one can never
tell when they may come, 'like a thief in the night.' Do you keep one on
guard while the other works, as you used to?"
"Well, no, we haven't lately, to tell the truth, Mary," he replied; "it
seems like such a waste of time when there's so much to do. We've cut
away the undergrowth for a good distance round to give us a clear view,
and we both work and watch the best we can. I've heard the Indians were
entirely out of powder and lead this spring, and they will not probably
go on the war-path till they get some. Don't you worry, dear; I don't
believe there's any danger now. Come on, Stephen," he called, "let's be
off; it's been daylight half an hour; you can 'most see the sun."
The youth addressed was standing with their mother, a few steps apart,
and they had been conversing in low tones. He was only fifteen, her
"baby," and the subject of her special tenderness and care; for he was
the only one of her children who had no memory of his father, a brave
soldier of the Revolution, who had come home from Yorktown but to spend
a year and die.
Though a gray-haired woman of more than fifty years, she was still
vigorous, and there was rich color in her cheeks. She had thrown a shawl
over her head and shoulders, and come out as usual "to see the boys
off."
"Aren't you going to take your rifle with you, son?" she asked of
Stephen, as he turned to go.
"No, mother; I think not to-day. The fact is, I've carried the gun back
and forth all winter and never had the least use for it, and it's
powerful heavy, especially at night after a hard day's work. I reckon
I'm getting lazy," he added, with an attempt to smile.
The mother sighed, knowing well that "laziness" in this case meant
weariness; that the lad was doing more than he ought, from a boy's
ambition to do a man's work.
"All right," she said, gently; "perhaps it's just as well, though I've
half a notion to go along and stand guard myself. Take good care of this
boy," she said to John. "I'm afraid he's overworking; you're both so
ambitious, just like your father."
"Yes, mother," John replied, cheerily, "but it's hard to hold him back;
you see _he_ takes after father and mother both."
At this they all laughed, and the brothers walked away, followed by the
gaze of loving eyes till their forms had disappeared among the trees.
At the home clearing the morning passed as usual, with the work of
felling trees and piling brush. At noon the two ate their "dinner" of
cold johnny-cake and dried venison by the smouldering coals of a
brush-heap, whereon they also boiled a pot of water and made "corn
coffee."
"We can always work better," John had said, "for a little something
hot;" and they sweetened the "coffee" with maple-sugar made by mother
and Mary from sap of trees growing near the fort.
After half an hour's rest they cut down a tall tree, which fell
northward, as Stephen said, "pointing to the fort." They had trimmed
away the limbs, and Stephen was "topping" the tree--that is, cutting off
the small end of the trunk to go with the brush for burning. John was
measuring off the "cuts," when a large buck sprang into the clearing
from the south, and paused with head erect, looking backward.
To John this seemed a joyful opportunity. The men of the settlement had
taken little time for hunting during recent weeks, and meat was getting
scarce. Very quietly, but quickly, he crept along the log to where his
rifle stood leaning against the stump, while Stephen had as quickly
dropped from sight behind the brush. The left shoulder of the deer was
fairly presented at a distance of only fifty yards, and almost instantly
he gave a bound forward and fell dead, shot through the heart.
Laying down the weapon John started to run to the buck, passing near
Stephen and saying, "Load the gun, and I'll--" But the look and attitude
of his brother made him pause. He was gazing intently, not toward the
deer, but in the direction from which it had come. John turned and
beheld a startling sight. Stealthily approaching along a little ravine,
not far away, were a dozen or more savages in war-paint and feathers.
John was a man of quick decision and resolute action. All the meaning of
the situation flashed upon his mind. They were but two, and outnumbered
six or eight to one; they had but one gun, that empty, fifty feet
distant toward the foe. But the way was open to the fort, across the
clearing and through the woods. Had he been alone, he would have sprung
to the path in a moment and gained a good start on the savages. But
Stephen had the unfortunate habit of hesitating in emergencies. Whenever
startled or surprised he seemed powerless to act, and would stand as one
dazed. John had to go to him, therefore, take him by the shoulders, turn
him about, and say,
"Run to the fort!" pushing with the word to get him started. Once going,
however, he ran like a frightened doe; so hard, indeed, that without the
restraint and guidance of his brother he would have been exhausted early
in the race.
The Indians, of course, on finding their approach discovered, sprang
nimbly to the pursuit, but they had at first to run up hill, and when
they came to the tree the foremost stopped to examine the gun and
pouches, and a dispute arose over their possession. This was quickly
settled by the chief, but every moment gained was precious to the
fugitives.
Any company of men in danger must needs have a captain, and John was
born for a commander, whether of two or fifty. He set the pace which he
believed Stephen could keep to the end, and said:
"Don't look back; I will keep watch on the Indians for us both. We must
not follow our usual path too closely. If the way is clear we must cut
short wherever we can."
John had taken note as they ran of several important facts. Only two or
three of the Indians carried rifles, and they were not among the
foremost. He believed that, in accordance with the report he had heard,
the guns were empty.
The Indian who had secured the white man's rifle had stopped to load it,
and was now far in the rear. It was the evident purpose of the leaders
to run their victims down and kill them with tomahawk and knife; then,
if possible, they would surprise the fort, massacre the inmates, and
carry away the ammunition there to be found.
The reason for their confidence soon became apparent. Stephen,
notwithstanding his brother's advice, could not avoid now and then
turning his head for a backward glance, and he it was who first
recognized in the foremost runner a famous Indian chief named Bigfoot,
known as the bravest warrior and swiftest runner of the Wyandotte tribe.
It was reported, also, that he had three brothers, nearly equal to
himself in swiftness, who usually went with him on his expeditions.
There had not been a doubt in the mind of John about his own ability to
outrun the Indians. The question from the first had been how to save
Stephen, and this new discovery made the situation desperate. The boy
could run very swiftly for a short distance, but he lacked the endurance
of a fully developed man. In spite of his brother's encouragement his
steps began to flag. Bigfoot was easily gaining upon them, and three
others were not far behind him. Soon he came so near that John feared he
might, by a quick rush, be able to throw his tomahawk with deadly
effect. He said to Stephen,
"Jump behind the big tree we are coming near, but keep on running."
Dropping behind a pace or two, he followed Stephen's movement in line
with the tree. The Indian, fearing an assault, halted for a moment, and
by this they gained several rods. The ruse was repeated two or three
times, and they were now half-way to the fort.
Here Stephen seemed to be wellnigh exhausted and ready to despair. He
said to John,
"Run ahead and save yourself. I'm a goner, anyway."
But the other replied:
"I'll not leave you. Don't give up. Keep up your heart and we'll beat
them yet."
Bigfoot, feeling sure of his prey, had slackened his pace for the others
to overtake him, and the four together were coming on rapidly. John now
determined on the only plan which might possibly save them both. He said
to Stephen:
"We must separate. As we pass the big hickory, do you bear to the right
while I go to the left. Bigfoot will follow me, and you can outrun the
others. When you strike the clearing, yell to warn the women. I'll do
the same. _Go it, now, and do your best!_"
This plan gave the boy new hope, for Bigfoot had been his especial
terror. As he thought, too, of his mother and sisters, and their danger,
he sprang forward from the big hickory and ran bravely.
The savages paused a moment, and then, as John had foretold, the big
Indian took the left course, followed by the swiftest of the others.
Then began the real test between the two runners, red and white, neither
of whom had ever before found his match. For a time John turned his head
frequently, keeping watch upon his pursuers, and he soon learned that
the distance between them, little by little, was shortening. The Indian
was gaining because he did not look back; his eye was steadily on the
white man. John Martin thought:
"I must not turn my head, but look steadily forward, and trust my ears
to measure the space between us. If I find that he is nearing me, I will
stop and fight; my little knife against his long one and the hatchet."
Now the space does not grow less, and to the Indian, who had expected an
easy victory, this is maddening. John hears him muttering curses in his
own language, and they sound musical. Then he calls in broken English,
"White man, stop talk; me no kill."
His only purpose is to secure a moment's pause; but to all appearance
the other hears not. The Indian leaps and bounds in his rage, but
nothing can he gain. The long quick steps of the white man have the
steady movement of an eagle's wing; they flag not, nor does he turn his
head till he has leaped the fence and given the promised yell. Almost on
the instant he hears the whiz of a bullet and the crack of Mary's rifle.
The ball grazes a tree behind which the Indian has suddenly skulked,
really dodging a shot truly aimed. Then, with a cry of baffled rage, he
springs into the forest and is seen no more.
When Stephen left his brother's side, he felt that he was put upon his
mettle as never in his life before. He had recovered his "second wind,"
the swiftest of the Indians had gone the other way, and he had great
hope that he could win the race. He _must_ win, for if John should fail,
who but himself could warn the people of the fort. Left alone, he
suddenly became cool, calculating, and self-reliant. Before him was a
bit of thicket. He turned suddenly behind this, as though seeking to
hide along a ravine which bore away to the right, and as quickly again
resumed his course. The Indians were deceived, and turned, as they
supposed, to cut him off, and by this he gained considerably. Then, in
plain sight, he took a curved path, knowing that across the shorter way
were many trailing vines and low shrubs. In these the foremost savage
became entangled, and lost his position in the race. And now the lad had
only to make a supreme effort, the clearing was in sight; he heard his
brother's voice, and the report of his sister's rifle. All was well, and
he would have gone unscathed, but in leaping the fence he tripped and
fell headlong. As he rose and started forward, the foremost Indian threw
a tomahawk, the blade of which cut his shoulder, while the handle struck
his head, stunning him, and he fell again.
The savage, eager to secure a scalp and recover his weapon, sprang over
the fence, unaware of the risk he was taking, for by this time John had
given the point of his brother's approach, and the brave mother was on
the watch. The Indian's feet had but touched the open ground when she
drew a bead upon him, and as he paused to draw his scalping-knife the
rifle sent its messenger to his breast. He fell at Stephen's feet,
mortally wounded, and died in a few moments.
The mother began reloading her piece. "We may need another bullet," she
said, as she rammed one "home." "Help the boy in, and I'll keep an eye
on the woods."
But no other foe appeared, and Stephen, whose wounds though bleeding and
painful were not dangerous, soon was resting on a couch before the fire.
Notwithstanding the excitement he had passed through, he immediately
fell asleep from utter exhaustion. When at sunset he awoke and saw his
mother by his side he placed a hand in hers, and there was a world of
love and admiration in his eyes.
In the mean time the sound of guns had brought the men quickly to the
fort. John, whose blood was hot, wished to organize a party at once and
pursue the Indians, but the older and more prudent objected. The mother
said, "No, that is just what they will expect you to do. They will lead
you a long and useless chase, or else they will wait for you in ambush.
We have no lives to spare, and nothing to avenge. We're Christians and
not savages, and we've every reason to-night to be thankful we're alive.
I want you to bury the one I shot to save my boy, his scalp on his head
and his weapons with him. Bury him in a corner of the clearing and put
up a bit of slab to mark the spot."
Some frowned at this, but it was done as she had said.
Before long the story of this burial in some way reached the savages,
and was told in many wigwams.
Years afterward an aged squaw came to the fort and asked in broken
English to be shown the Indian's grave, and when she saw it she bowed
herself thereon and wept.
THE BISHOP'S DILEMMA.
The late Bishop of Argyle and the Isles, in Scotland, Dr. Mackarness,
was a very large and heavy man, weighing at least 275 pounds.
On one occasion, accompanied by his chaplain, Mr. Chinnery Haldane, he
was making his way through the mountains to confirm some children in a
far-away village.
The carriage, drawn by strong and agile mountain ponies, slowly
ascending through a rocky pass, was suddenly brought to a standstill by
a fallen tree. The Highland driver did everything in his power to get by
the obstacle, but finally had to go for assistance. The Bishop and his
chaplain strolled on.
Now the chaplain wanted to be made a rural dean, and he thought this an
excellent opportunity to try the Bishop on the subject. The weather was
fine, the view delightful, the Bishop apparently in a good temper. Why
not broach this subject so near to his heart? The Bishop heard his
request, but instead of answering him, stopped and called attention to
the effect of the sun on the distant mountains. Further hints were met
in the same way.
The village was now in sight, but an unlooked-for obstacle presented
itself. The little stream, crossed usually by a picturesque bridge, had
been so swollen by the rains that the bridge appeared like an island in
the middle.
Here was a quandary. It might be several hours before the carriage
arrived, and night was coming on.
"What are we to do?" said the Bishop.
"My lord," replied the chaplain, "if you will get on my back I will
carry you to the bridge."
The Bishop demurred, spoke of his weight, and the undignified appearance
he would present. But the chaplain was strong, and finally persuaded
him. When fairly in the middle he came to a full stop.
"Are you tired, Haldane?" said the Bishop.
"No, my lord, I am not tired; but I wish to speak to you again about
that rural deanery."
"But, my dear fellow," cried the Bishop, in alarm, "this is no place to
talk; wait till we get to the other side."
"On the contrary, my lord, I think this is an excellent place to talk,
for if you refuse me I shall drop you."
The Bishop tried to temporize; but the chaplain was immovable.
"The rural deanery or down you go," was the fiat, and reluctantly the
Bishop gave the chaplain his promise.
His kept his promise, too, and after the death of Dr. Mackarness that
same chaplain and rural dean became his successor, and is now Bishop of
Argyle and the Isles.
THE AMERICAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS.
HALLOWEEN FAGOTS.
BY EMMA J. GRAY.
A heavy farm wagon was lumbering along, raising clouds of dust, as the
children, each with a bag suspended from his or her arm, hailed the
driver for a lift. They were so tired, for they had been scouring the
woods for hours, each striving to see whose bag would be the heaviest
when they set their faces homeward; and now, as the yellow gold of the
afternoon sunset was fast deepening into night, and there was yet many a
weary mile between these Thornton woods and their supper, for which
everybody had over and again testified that he was "just starving," they
begged for a ride.
The driver was a middle-aged man, somewhat crippled and bent with toil.
His shoulders were round, his chest hollow, his hair a mixture of brown
and gray; but his big honest blue eyes shone with a kindly light, that
softened the harsh skin as he called "Whoa!" and the children hurriedly
climbed, some over the wheels, and others by the back and front--any way
to get in--and a moment later the indulgent if homely man had a
wagon-load of pleasant company.
"Well done, gals and boys; many's the time I wuz jist as spry, but I
haven't done it for nigh unto twenty year." And he pointed to the large
knots on his hands that showed the effect of rheumatism. But his
misfortunes had not soured him, for he was anxious to learn all about
the happy day. And they all had a turn in telling him.
And thus it was that he soon learned the nutting party had been planned
from away back, back as far as last October, and that a gayer set of
young people he had never seen in all his life than they were when they
met, luncheon in hand, at the cross-roads that morning. They had taken
their luncheon, they explained, because they wanted to make a full day
of it this time.
What a day! What a tramp! What bags of nuts! The boys had climbed trees
like the veriest of nimble squirrels; ran along the branches too, and
shook the ripe beauties down, while the girls were anything but quiet
underneath; and now, simply because it was night, and they were so tired
and hungry, they had to go home. Otherwise they would have liked the day
to last a week at the very least, so that they could have a longer run,
watch out later for the rabbits, woodpeckers, and squirrels, and try and
find bigger bouquets of red berries and autumn leaves.
It was even confided to this man, before the last one got out of the
wagon--for he indulgently stopped at the nearest points for all--that
Robert and Sophie McLaren, who sat near the driver's seat, were to give
a fagot party on All-Halloween, to which they were all invited, and that
some of the nuts were to be saved for that particular occasion.
A week later one of the boys, who was studying art, walked along the
same road. He had been sketching the distant woods, and again met the
driver of the comfortable though heavy farm wagon. This time the man's
keen far-sightedness saw him first, and having recognized one of "the
jolly young'uns," as in telling his wife of his adventure he explained
was "a fittin' name for 'em," he whipped up his horses the sooner to
hail the boy, hoping for companionship. And he was not disappointed, for
the drawing materials had grown heavier with each step. And thus it was
that the benevolent if curious man heard all about the fagot party.
[Illustration]
The boy commenced by explaining the meaning of the word fagot, a bundle
of twigs; and there were just as many twigs as there were girls and
boys, "the idea being that we should each draw a twig from the bundle as
our names were called. And they were all called by the hostess,
according to the letters of the alphabet. For instance, my name begins
with A; therefore I had to draw the first twig. Having drawn the twig, I
put it on the open coal fire, and at once commenced to tell a story. As
long as the twig lasted I had to talk; but when it was burned up I had
to stop; and as it burned very fast towards the end, I wound up in a
jiffy. As soon as I was through, the next name was called, and that
person did exactly as I did, only told a different story of course."
The story part of the explanation seemed rather mystifying, so the boy
said, "I'll tell you the story I told, and then perhaps you'll
understand. The title was 'The Professor.' Place, a boy's room in
college. Time, an hour before recitation.
"Duty is a grim taskmaster, and sometimes I don't fancy obeying him.
This was one of the times. I thought, what's the use of algebra,
anyway?--lots of people have lived and died without even knowing there
is such a study; so, in the hour allowed for preparation of multiplying
2a+5c by a-c, and all the rest of the rubbish, I decided to close the
window-shutters, draw down the shades, light the candles--in fact, make
believe it was night, and have in all the fellows for an out-and-out
spread. With this idea I had made preparation; the mince pie was on the
table, pumpkin pie ditto, a big pitcher of milk, some apples, bananas,
and hickory nuts; when all of a sudden, just as I was expecting the boys
to file quietly in, who should I hear tip-toeing along the hall but the
Professor? My hair almost stood on end, wondering what his next move
would be, so sure I was that he was sniffing these questionable odors. I
had but a second to wonder, however, for the door-knob turned and we
stood face to face. He did not look at all surprised. I drew a long
breath. Neither of us spoke. He seemed, I thought, to take a certain
sort of delight in watching me. The longer he watched, the more
uncomfortable I felt. I thought if there was any way of getting out of
this! The dreary hopelessness of my situation was appalling. Every
second seemed an hour, for the cool steel-colored eyes never lifted;
they seemed to read me through and through.
"After what seemed to me to be an eternity of time he slowly asked,
'Where are the boys?' And back of him, through the open doorway, I saw
them stand. They had all come together, hoping in this way the better to
escape detection; their feet had silently fallen all at the one time,
for they had practised marching in unison.
"After lingering for my answer he teasingly turned towards them, for
they were so petrified at the sight of the Professor they stood
irresolute, and he, quite conscious of the situation, then changed into
a smiling host, and welcomed them to the feast. He made us all sit down
and eat until the pie was entirely gone. I never made so uncomfortable a
meal. I thought I would choke; the food stuck in my throat, and the
silence, the torturing silence, was agonizing. I tell you, none of us
fellows ever forgot that meal; it was the heaviest punishment we ever
endured.
"When we were finished, our host's manner changed. He was again the
Professor. In clear-cut sarcastic words he stated that in five minutes
he would be in the algebra room, and would expect particularly well
prepared papers.
"The remembrance of that feast thrills me yet. Oh, how we recoiled
before him!" and the boy seemed to tremble and shrink while he talked.
"Yes, that feast will keenly and uncomfortably thrill me always."
The boy having ended, looked gayly up at the driver, and was surprised
to see how pained he looked. The man had believed every word, and could
scarcely understand what was meant when he was told that the story was
all imagination, that it never really happened, but was only made up to
tell while his twig burned.
However, the man soon heartily laughed, and then asked, "Wha'd ye play
next?" And so interested was he in hearing the merry games that he did
his best to delay his horses so as not to miss too many of them.
[Illustration]
The first that the boy explained was "The Fortunate Apple." On several
pieces of wood, thin as paper, write in ink or paint girls' names. Use
only first names, and, after including all the girls to be invited, make
up others. Slip each name into an apple. This set will do for the boys;
make similar ones for the girls. Fill three portable tubs with water,
and set an even number of apples floating in each tub. Fasten the arms
of three boys securely back, and cover them entirely with water-proof
cloaks. Lead each boy to a tub and ask him to repeat distinctly,
"Witches and wizards and birds of the air,
Goblins and brownies, all lend me your care,
Now to choose wisely for once and for all,
And ever your names in praise loudly I'll call."
Then each boy must put his head down and try to catch in his teeth an
apple. In it he'll find the name of one of the girls present, and she
will be his fate. If the name is a strange one, there will even then be
teasing enough for him. After the boys have all tried the game, then it
is time for the girls.
Lead a girl up to a tub and blindfold her; lead her around while she
repeats the rhyme, and with the words "loudly I call," she must bend
down and try to catch in one hand an apple, or, if she prefers, she may
try to spear an apple with a fork. If the latter way, only one drop of
the fork will be allowed. If it sticks far enough in an apple not to
fall altogether, her fate is sure.
[Illustration]
Another game was called "The Three T's," or "The Tumbler Test."
Fill three tumblers with water. One must hold blue water, such as the
laundress uses for clothes, another must hold soapy water, and another
clear water, while still another must be empty. These tumblers should
stand on a table directly before the individual who is to be
blindfolded. After he is blindfolded, change the position of the
glasses, placing one where the other one stood, and so on. Then instruct
the party to dip his fingers into one of the tumblers. Having felt
around, his fingers are dipped into clear water, and thus he learns that
he is to marry a beautiful rich girl. Had he dipped into the soapy
water, it would have meant that he would marry a poor widow; if in the
blue water, he would be a noted author; if in the empty glass, he would
die a bachelor. This game is played in the same way with the girls,
only, of course, changing the sex, as, example, marrying a rich,
handsome man.
As the boy was now very near home, he had only time to explain one more
game, called "The Walnut's Fortune."
A quantity of walnuts had been carefully opened in half, and inside each
one was slipped a narrow piece of paper which predicted the future. The
nuts were kept from opening by having a small elastic slipped over each.
The boys' walnuts were put in one basket and the girls' in another, and
the girls' basket was first offered. As each girl held her hand over the
basket she repeated,
"Steady, good fairy, I am wary;
Pray let my hand make no mistake;
I would only the right nut take."
Then, having put her hand down, she lifted up a nut, removed the
elastic, and taking out the paper, read her future aloud. Example: "You
will travel around the world. At the age of twenty-three you will sing
before two thousand people." And thus the future was predicted in
similar style for all the players.
But the boy was at his destination, and therefore his new friend and
himself had to part company, not before the driver said, however, "I'll
come along arter you some day, fer I can't git over feelin' glad to see
you ag'in; no knowin' what you'll hev ter tell nex' time."
A FINE OLD CHAP.
I like this kind old sunny soul,
Whom nothing can annoy;
His pleasant smile is e'er the same,
To fill my heart with joy.
I like his quaint, ungainly shape;
I like his big round face.
Although he's clumsy through and through,
To me he's full of grace.
Indeed, he's sweet enough to eat--
Feet, elbows, legs, and head--
This very dear old gentleman,
Who's made of gingerbread.
R. K. MUNKITTRICK.
IN THE OLD HERRICK HOUSE.[1]
[1] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 879.
BY ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND.
CHAPTER VI.
Elizabeth, in the days of Miss Rice's rule, had often thought that the
most desirable thing in the world would be to go to school. She had
often watched girls in the street hurrying along with books under their
arms as the clock was about to strike nine, and they always looked so
happy, and appeared to have so much to say to one another. That, to
Elizabeth, was particularly delightful, for she had a friendly nature,
although her lonely life had made her shy with other children.
And now she was to go to school herself. The summer was over, the Misses
Herrick had returned to town, and arrangements had been made for
entering Elizabeth at Mrs. Arnold's school. This decision had cost Miss
Herrick some thought. It must be a good school educationally which she
chose for her niece, but it must also be aristocratic. To Miss Herrick's
mind, suitable acquaintances were more to be desired than "higher
education."
Mrs. Arnold's school, however, apparently combined these two necessary
qualifications; and on the morning after her twelfth birthday Elizabeth
Herrick began her school life.
It was a very awful ordeal at first. She had never before encountered so
many staring eyes, and when any one chanced to speak to her, it seemed
as if she should sink through the floor.
The other girls appeared to know one another very well, and had much to
say after the summer's absence. Elizabeth wondered when there would be
time for lessons if the scholars all talked so incessantly, but she soon
found that it was only on the first day of school that so much liberty
was allowed. The girl who had the desk next to hers enlightened her on
this point, as well as on various others.
"You are a new girl, aren't you?" she remarked.
"Yes," said Elizabeth; "are you?"
"Oh dear no! I have been here a year." Elizabeth looked at her with
increased respect. She was a tall girl, with bright brown eyes, and
curly hair which hung about her face in a dark mass. "I am almost
fourteen," she continued; "at least, I am thirteen and a half. How old
are you?"
"I was twelve yesterday."
"And my name is Patsy Wayne Loring--that is, it is really Martha, but
Martha is such a hateful name I never want to tell it, and I have always
been called Patsy. What is yours?"
"Elizabeth Herrick."
"Elizabeth! What a terribly long name! What do they call you?"
"They call me Elizabeth," returned her neighbor.
"Goody! I wouldn't let them if I were you. I should be called Bessie, or
Betty, or Beth, or Elsie. There are lots of nicknames for Elizabeth. I
think Elsie is a lovely name. But there is Miss Garner! She is very
strict."
"Doesn't Mrs. Arnold sit in this room?"
"Oh no. This is the Intermediate, and Miss Garner has charge of this.
Mrs. Arnold is in the Senior, and we hardly ever see her, except when we
have been especially bad or especially good, and then we are sent in to
her. I have never been in on the good list. But once, when I fixed a
jack-in-the-box in Miss Garner's desk so that it popped up at her when
she opened the desk, the old thing found me out, and sent me down to
Mrs. Arnold. It was such fun to see her jump! I nearly died laughing."
Elizabeth looked at her new friend with wonder. Would she ever dare to
do anything so scandalous? And was that what girls did at school?
"That is the new drawing and painting teacher," continued her neighbor;
"her name is Mrs. Brown. She is awfully nice, the girls say."
"I wish I could take lessons; I love to draw."
"Why don't you? Perhaps you can't afford it. It is extra, and that is
the reason I don't."
"I don't believe that is the reason. My aunt does not want me to. She
never will let me draw at home."
"How very funny! But there is Miss Garner ringing the bell, so we shall
have to stop talking. I shall tell you some more at recess."
[Illustration: WHEN SCHOOL WAS OVER A MAID WAS WAITING TO TAKE ELIZABETH
HOME.]
When school was over a maid was awaiting Elizabeth to accompany her
home. Her new friend walked with her part of the way, but her
destination was much nearer the school than was Elizabeth's, and she
soon bade her good-by.
"I like you ever so much," were her parting words, "and I am sure we are
going to be intimate friends. Come early to-morrow, and we shall have
time to talk a little before school begins. Good-by!"
Elizabeth went home feeling that at last she was like other girls. She
had a friend of her own. She could scarcely eat her luncheon she was so
excited, and she longed for dinner-time, that she might recount her
experiences to her aunts. They were not at home this afternoon.
She looked at her new books, and in a short time had studied her lessons
for the next day. "It is too good to be true, Julius," she whispered to
the cat, who sat purring in the window; "I have an intimate friend at
last."
Fortunately no one dined there that night, so Elizabeth was to come to
the table, and there were actually a few minutes in the library before
dinner was announced in which she could be with her aunts.
"School is lovely, Aunt Caroline," said she, "and I have a friend
already."
"Indeed! What is her name?"
"Patsy Loring."
"Loring? That is not a Philadelphia name; but of course she must be
quite desirable, or she would not be at Mrs. Arnold's school."
"Her real name is Martha Wayne Loring, but she is always called-- Why,
what is the matter, Aunt Caroline?"
Miss Herrick's face wore the same look which Elizabeth had seen there
once or twice before.
"Martha Wayne?" she murmured.
"Why, yes, Aunt Caroline; but she is called Patsy. I was going to tell
you--"
"Rebecca," said Miss Herrick, in a weak voice, "do you suppose--"
"I think it is highly probable," said Miss Rebecca, briskly. "Martha
Wayne married a Loring, and went to Boston to live."
"Patsy said they used to live in Boston," put in Elizabeth; "but when
her father died, they came here."
"Of course it is the same," said Miss Herrick. "Of all things, to have
her come into our lives again. I always thought that it was partly owing
to Martha Wayne's influence that--"
She stopped abruptly.
"But, Aunt Caroline, what do you mean? Do you know Patsy? Please tell
me!"
"I cannot tell you. Do not ask me."
"Oh dear, another mystery!" exclaimed Elizabeth, petulantly. "I do hate
secrets, and there are so many in this house! There is the closed room,
and my father staying away, and now when I go to school, and everything
seems nice and pleasant, and I have a friend at last, you go and make a
mystery about her."
"Be quiet, Elizabeth. I cannot bear it! Rebecca, what do you think?
Shall the child continue to go there? Will it do for her to be thrown
with Martha Wayne's daughter?"
For a moment Elizabeth was speechless with indignation. Then, before her
aunt Rebecca could reply, she started from her chair.
"Aunt Caroline," she cried, stamping her foot, "you are a horrid old
thing! I _will_ go there to school. I _will_ be friends with Patsy! You
won't let me have a thing like other girls! I wish my father would come
home and take me away from here!" And she ran crying from the room.
"Her frightful temper again," exclaimed Miss Herrick; "and the doctor
said she must not be excited! What shall we do, Rebecca?"
"You are very foolish to allow yourself to be so agitated. The child
must go to school, and we cannot prevent her making friends. I wish
Edward would come home and take her off our hands. But as for keeping
her from Martha Wayne's daughter, or, in fact, from any one who knew
Mildred--"
"Rebecca! How often have I asked you never to mention that name? I must
go now and pacify Elizabeth, or she will make herself ill."
Miss Herrick's face looked drawn and old as she left the room. It was
some time before Elizabeth could be quieted, but when she went to school
the next morning it was with the permission to see as much of Patsy
Loring as she wished.
The two girls were soon fast friends. Patsy came once or twice to Fourth
Street, but they liked better to meet in her own little house, where the
rooms were small, and the carpets and furniture were not particularly
new, but where the sun shone brightly in at the windows, and where there
was plenty of fun and merrymaking all day long.
"It is all so open here!" said Elizabeth one day.
"What do you mean, my dear?" asked Mrs. Loring, who was sewing by the
table, while Patsy arranged her paper dolls. It was a rainy afternoon,
and therefore the dolls were in demand.
"Oh, you have no shut-up rooms and secrets. Our house is full of
skeletons. It is hateful."
"E-liz-a-beth!" exclaimed Patsy. "What in the world do you mean?"
"Well, how would you like to have a room in the house with a padlock on
it that you never could go into, and have Aunt Caroline hush you up
every time you asked about it? I have been there, though," and she
nodded her head mysteriously.
Patsy left her paper dolls and drew nearer.
"Have you really? Do tell me about it," she said, while Mrs. Loring
listened attentively.
"I stole the key and went in. Of course I ought not to have done it, but
it was a whole year ago, and I was such a little thing I didn't know any
better. I was only eleven then, you know. I went a good many times,
until Aunt Caroline found me out. It is such a pretty room. If I only
knew whom it belonged to! Mrs. Loring, I wonder if you know?" turning
suddenly to Patsy's mother. "You look just as Aunt Caroline does when I
speak of that room. What is there about that room that makes every one
look so queer?"
"Why should you think that I know anything about it?" asked Mrs. Loring,
recovering herself.
"Because I think Aunt Caroline used to know you, for she was so
excited--at least, she didn't seem to like--well, please excuse me for
saying it, but Aunt Caroline was so surprised to hear I knew Patsy, and
at first she said-- I don't believe I can tell you."
Elizabeth came to a full stop. She was too honest to extricate herself
from the difficulty, and too polite to state the truth.
"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Loring, quietly, "I knew your aunts when I
was a girl, it is true. But I cannot tell you about the room. Your aunt
does not wish you to know, Elizabeth, and therefore you should not try
to find out."
"I know I shouldn't, but it is so interesting. But I don't care so much
about it, now that I have Patsy."
When Elizabeth went home that afternoon the old house looked grim and
deserted. The aunts were out, as usual. She studied her lessons, and
then sat down with a book by the front window. The rain had ceased, but
the clouds were still thick and dark, and the room, handsomely furnished
though it was, looked gloomier even than was its wont. It reminded her
of the day, a whole year ago, when she wrote the letter to her
lather--the letter which he had never answered.
Elizabeth's book fell from her hand and she leaned her head drearily
against the window-pane. A whole year, and still he had not come.
Her attention was suddenly attracted by a figure on the sidewalk. It
stood still for a moment, and then approached the steps. It was a boy in
an overcoat, with the collar turned up about his ears, and a hat drawn
closely down over his face. There was something familiar about that part
of the face which could be seen, and almost immediately Elizabeth
recognized him. It was Valentine.
He came up the steps and motioned to her to open the door.
"They are out, aren't they?" he asked, in a whisper.
"Why, Val, where did you come from?" exclaimed Elizabeth, but he
interrupted her.
"Hush! Don't talk so loud. Are they out?"
"You mean Aunt Caroline and Aunt Rebecca? Yes, they are. But come in,
Val. Don't stand out there. What is the matter? Have you come to stay?"
"I can't tell you now," he said, coming into the hall. "I am afraid they
will come home and find me. I want you to hide me."
"Val! How can I, and why do you want to hide?"
"I tell you, never mind now. I will tell you some other time. You must
hide me."
"But where?"
"In the locked-up room."
Elizabeth was speechless. She could only look at him.
"Come," exclaimed Valentine, impatiently, "don't stand there staring.
Your eyes look as if they were going to pop out of your head. Let us
hurry!"
"But, Val, I can't hide you there. I have been forbidden to go near that
room, and I don't believe I can get the key now. Aunt Caroline keeps it
in her desk, and her desk is nearly always locked."
"You must hide me there," said Valentine, decidedly, "and we can't stand
here, or I shall be caught."
He ran up stairs, two steps at a time, and Elizabeth was obliged to
follow him, though sorely against her will. What could it all mean? Why
had he come, and why must he not be seen?
He went to the room which he had occupied when he was there a year ago.
"I will wait here," he said, "while you go and try to find the key, and
if you can't find it, we will pick the lock."
"But why must you hide, Val? Why don't you just stay downstairs and tell
Aunt Caroline you have come to make us a visit? She won't mind. She is
not nearly as strict as she used to be, but she would mind dreadfully if
she were to find you in the locked room."
"She won't find me there; that is, not if you have any sense. Of course
if you spoil it all, that is a different thing. I wish you were
Marjorie. She would have understood in a minute. But she will never be
here again to help me--"
A lump came into Val's throat as he said this, and he was silent for a
moment. Then he said,
"Well, are you going?"
"Yes."
The allusion to Marjorie was too much for Elizabeth. She went down to
her aunt's room and walked to the desk. She would at least do this for
Val. Then she would tell him that she could not open the desk, and that
he must give up the idea.
But what did she see? She rubbed her eyes and looked again. The key of
the desk was in the lock!
She stood there irresolute. Her conscience told her that she should not
open it. Her aunt had left the key by an oversight, and she should not
take advantage of it. On the other hand, Val was waiting for her at the
top of the stairs. Apparently it was most important that he should be
hidden; and then--his mention of Marjorie. He had said that Marjorie
would have done it; that she would have helped him. This decided the
question in Elizabeth's mind. She would try to atone to Val if she could
for the loss of his cousin, and perhaps it would have the effect of
making him care for her, his sister.
She opened the desk, and easily finding the little Chinese cabinet, she
took out the keys, closed the desk again, and ran up stairs.
It was a whole year since she had entered the closed room. She had not
been there since she and Val locked the door after the departure of the
Brady girls, and now together they were opening it again.
"The first thing," said he, "is to give me something to eat. I am as
hungry as a hunter. And then I will tell you why I came."
Elizabeth ran down to the pantry. There were crackers to be found there,
and some fresh cake, and there was fruit on the sideboard in the
dining-room. She filled two plates, and thus laden she hastened up the
stairs again. Val had opened the blinds and drawn a chair to the window,
and had made himself completely at home.
"I am mighty glad to get here," he remarked, "and it was the greatest
piece of luck to have you come to the window. I did not know how I was
going to get in, for it is very important that no one but you should
know that I am here. I hung around the corner till I thought I saw the
aunts' carriage drive off, and then you came and sat at the window."
"But, Val, why can't you be seen, and how long are you going to stay? I
am sure I cannot hide you long, and I don't know what Aunt Caroline will
say when she finds it out. I really think she feels worse about this
room than she ever did."
"Leave it all to me, and do just as I say," returned Valentine, loftily.
"If you don't go and make a mull of it, she'll never know. And now I
will tell you why I am here, only first you must promise, on your word
of honor, that you won't give me away."
"I promise--at least I think I do," said Elizabeth, slowly. "But wait a
minute, Val. I wish you would let me tell Patsy."
"Who is Patsy?"
"She is my friend--my intimate friend--and she is just lovely, Val. She
would never tell, and we have promised to tell each other everything. Do
let me."
"No, you can't; not a word. Girls always have to tell each other such a
lot. Now if you want to know how I happened to get here you must promise
not to say a word to her. Will you?"
"Very well," returned Elizabeth, regretfully. "I won't tell her. But,
Val!"
"What is it?"
"I have not promised not to tell Aunt Caroline."
"Aunt Caroline! Why, she is the person of all others that I don't want
to have know it. What on earth do you mean, Elizabeth?"
The little girl was standing by the dressing-table. For a moment she did
not speak, and she slowly turned over, one by one, the pile of unopened
letters which had been lying there so long.
"If I promise not to tell, are you going to explain why you came and all
about it?" she asked.
"Yes--every word."
"Oh, I do want to know so much! And if I tell Aunt Caroline you are
here, what will you do?"
"I sha'n't explain a word of it, and I will never have another thing to
do with you. I shall always think you are the meanest girl in creation,
and so you will be. I shall just wish you were not my sister. Oh,
jiminy! why aren't you Marjorie? _She_ would have helped me out."
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XVII.
Very splendid was the ball at the palace that night, and very splendid
to George's provincial eyes were the assemblies in the great Apollo Room
at the Raleigh, where the wits and beaux and belles of the colonial
court assembled. Sir John Peyton was not the only dandy to be met with
there, although by far the most entertaining. There were many handsome
and imposing matrons, but George saw none that his mother could not
outshine in dignity and grace; and many beautiful girls, but none more
charming than Betty. As communication with his home was easy and
frequent, he could write long descriptive letters to Ferry Farm, as well
as to Mount Vernon. Betty became so infatuated with George's accounts of
the fine people and gay doings at Williamsburg that she wrote George: "I
wish, dear George, you would not write me any more about the routs and
assemblies at Williamsburg, for your poor sister's head is so full of
junkets and capers and the like that she attends to her duties very ill,
and drops stitches in her knitting, which brings her many reproofs, and
plays nothing but jigs on the harpsichord, instead of those noble
compositions of Mr. Handel of which our mother is so fond."
George laughed when he read this. He know, no matter how much Betty's
little head might be filled with gayeties, she never forgot to do her
whole duty, and had always time for a kind act or an affectionate word
to others. But there were more than balls and routs and Governor's
levees in this visit. George had the opportunity of knowing men
prominent in colonial matters--statesmen, scholars, lawyers, men of
affairs; and Lord Fairfax, ever on the alert for his favorite's
advancement, lost no chance of bringing him to the attention of those in
power.