AT THE MANOR
"'All the names I know from nurse:
Gardener's garters, Shepherd's purse,
Bachelor's buttons, Lady's smock,
And the Lady Hollyhock,'"
Patience chanted, moving slowly about the parsonage garden, hands full
of flowers, and the big basket, lying on the grass beyond, almost full.
Behind her, now running at full speed, now stopping suddenly, back
lifted, tail erect, came Lucky, the black kitten from The Maples.
Lucky had been an inmate of the parsonage for some weeks now and was
thriving famously in her adopted home. Towser tolerated her with the
indifference due such a small, insignificant creature, and she
alternately bullied and patronized Towser.
"We haven't shepherd's purse, nor lady's smock, that I know of, Lucky,"
Patience said, glancing back at the kitten, at that moment threatening
battle at a polite nodding Sweet William, "but you can see for yourself
that we have hollyhocks, while as for bachelor's buttons! Just look at
that big, blue bunch in one corner of the basket."
It was the morning of the day of Shirley's turn and Pauline was
hurrying to get ready to go over and help decorate the manor. She was
singing, too; from the open windows of the "new room" came the words--
"'A cheerful world?--It surely is
And if you understand your biz
You'll taboo the worry worm,
And cultivate the happy germ.'"
To which piece of good advice, Patience promptly whistled back the gay
refrain.
On the back porch, Sextoness Jane--called in for an extra half-day--was
ironing the white dresses to be worn that afternoon. And presently,
Patience, her basket quite full and stowed away in the trap waiting
before the side door, strolled around to interview her.
"I suppose you're going this afternoon?" she asked.
Jane looked up from waxing her iron. "Well, I was sort of calculating
on going over for a bit; Miss Shirley having laid particular stress on
my coming and this being the first reg'lar doings since I joined the
club. I told her and Pauline they mustn't look for me to go junketing
'round with them all the while, seeing I'm in office--so to speak--and
my time pretty well taken up with my work. I reckon you're going?"
"I--" Patience edged nearer the porch. Behind Jane stood the tall
clothes-horse, with its burden of freshly ironed white things. At
sight of a short, white frock, very crisp and immaculate, the blood
rushed to the child's face, then as quickly receded.--After all, it
would have had to be ironed for Sunday and--well, mother certainly had
been very non-committal the past few days--ever since that escapade
with Bedelia, in fact--regarding her youngest daughter's hopes and
fears for this all-important afternoon. And Patience had been wise
enough not to press the matter.
"But, oh, I do wonder if Hilary has--" Patience went back to the side
porch. Hilary was there talking to Bedelia. "You--you have fixed it
up?" the child inquired anxiously.
Hilary looked gravely unconscious. "Fixed it up?" she repeated.
"About this afternoon--with mother?"
"Oh, yes! Mother's going; so is father."
Patience repressed a sudden desire to stamp her foot, and Hilary,
seeing the real doubt and longing in her face, relented. "Mother wants
to see you, Patty. I rather think there are to be conditions."
Patience darted off. From the doorway, she looked back--"I just knew
you wouldn't go back on me, Hilary! I'll love you forever'n' ever."
Pauline came out a moment later, drawing on her driving gloves. "I
feel like a story-book girl, going driving this time in the morning, in
a trap like this. I wish you were coming, too, Hilary."
"Oh, I'm like the delicate story-book girl, who has to rest, so as to
be ready for the dissipations that are to come later. I look the part,
don't I?"
Pauline looked down into the laughing, sun-browned face. "If Uncle
Paul were to see you now, he might find it hard to believe I
hadn't--exaggerated that time."
"Well, it's your fault--and his, or was, in the beginning. You've a
fine basket of flowers to take; Patience has done herself proud this
morning."
"It's wonderful how well that young lady can behave--at times."
"Oh, she's young yet! When I hear mother tell how like her you used to
be, I don't feel too discouraged about Patty."
"That strikes me as rather a double-edged sort of speech," Pauline
gathered up the reins. "Good-by, and don't get too tired."
Shirley's turn was to be a combination studio tea and lawn-party, to
which all club members, both regular and honorary, not to mention their
relatives and friends, had been bidden. Following this, was to be a
high tea for the regular members.
"That's Senior's share," Shirley had explained to Pauline. "He insists
that it's up to him to do something."
Mr. Dayre was on very good terms with the "S. W. F. Club." As for
Shirley, after the first, no one had ever thought of her as an outsider.
It was hard now, Pauline thought, as she drove briskly along, the lake
breeze in her face, and the sound of Bedelia's quick trotting forming a
pleasant accompaniment to her, thoughts, very hard, to realize how soon
the summer would be over. But perhaps--as Hilary said--next summer
would mean the taking up again of this year's good times and
interests,--Shirley talked of coming back. As for the winter--Pauline
had in mind several plans for the winter. Those of the club members to
stay behind must get together some day and talk them over. One thing
was certain, the club motto must be lived up to bravely. If not in one
way, why in another. There must be no slipping back into the old
dreary rut and routine. It lay with themselves as to what their winter
should be.
"And there's fine sleighing here, Bedelia," she said. "We'll get the
old cutter out and give it a coat of paint."
Bedelia tossed her head, as if she heard in imagination the gay
jingling of the sleighbells.
"But, in the meantime, here is the manor," Pauline laughed, "and it's
the prettiest August day that ever was, and lawn-parties and such
festivities are afoot, not sleighing parties."
The manor stood facing the lake with its back to the road, a broad
sloping lawn surrounded it on three sides, with the garden at the back.
For so many seasons, it had stood lonely and neglected, that Pauline
never came near it now, without rejoicing afresh in its altered aspect.
Even the sight of Betsy Todd's dish towels, drying on the currant
bushes at one side of the back door, added their touch to the sense of
pleasant, homely life that seemed to envelop the old house nowadays.
Shirley came to the gate, as Pauline drew up, Phil, Pat and Pudgey in
close attention. "I have to keep an eye on them," she told Pauline.
"They've just had their baths, and they're simply wild to get out in
the middle of the road and roll. I've told them no self-respecting dog
would wish to come to a lawn-party in anything but the freshest of
white coats, but I'm afraid they're not very self-respecting."
"Patience is sure Towser's heart is heavy because he is not to come;
she has promised him a lawn-party on his own account, and that no
grown-ups shall be invited. She's sent you the promised flowers, and
hinted--more or less plainly--that she would have been quite willing to
deliver them in person."
"Why didn't you bring her? Oh, but I'm afraid you've robbed yourself!"
"Oh, no, we haven't. Mother says, flowers grow with picking."
"Come on around front," Shirley suggested. "The boys have been putting
the awning up."
"The boys" were three of Mr. Dayre's fellow artists, who had come up a
day or two before, on a visit to the manor. One of them, at any rate,
deserved Shirley's title. He came forward now. "Looks pretty nice,
doesn't it?" he said, with a wave of the hand towards the red and white
striped awning, placed at the further edge of the lawn.
Shirley smiled her approval, and introduced him to Pauline, adding that
Miss Shaw was the real founder of their club.
"It's a might jolly sort of club, too," young Oram said.
"That is exactly what it has turned out to be," Pauline laughed. "Are
the vases ready, Shirley?"
Shirley brought the tray of empty flower vases out on the veranda, and
sent Harry Oram for a bucket of fresh water. "Harry is to make the
salad," she explained to Pauline, as he came back. "Before he leaves
the manor he will have developed into a fairly useful member of
society."
"You've never eaten one of my salads, Miss Shaw," Harry said. "When
you have, you'll think all your previous life an empty dream."
"It's much more likely her later life will prove a nightmare,--for a
while, at least," Shirley declared. "Still, Paul, Harry does make them
rather well. Betsy Todd, I am sorry to say, doesn't approve of him.
But there are so many persons and things she doesn't approve of;
lawn-parties among the latter."
Pauline nodded sympathetically; she knew Betsy Todd of old. Her wonder
was, that the Dayres had been able to put up with her so long, and she
said so.
"'Hobson's choice,'" Shirley answered, with a little shrug. "She isn't
much like our old Thèrese at home, is she, Harry? But nothing would
tempt Thèrese away from her beloved New York. 'Vairmon! Nevaire have
I heard of zat place!' she told Harry, when he interviewed her for us.
Senior's gone to Vergennes--on business thoughts intent, or I hope they
are. He's under strict orders not to 'discover a single bit' along the
way, and to get back as quickly as possible."
"You see how beautifully she has us all in training?" Harry said to
Pauline.
Pauline laughed. Suddenly she looked up from her flowers with sobered
face. "I wonder," she said slowly, "if you know what it's meant to
us--you're being here this summer, Shirley? Sometimes things do fit in
just right after all. It's helped out wonderfully this summer, having
you here and the manor open."
"Pauline has a fairy-story uncle down in New York," Shirley turned to
Harry. "You've heard of him--Mr. Paul Shaw."
"Well,--rather! I've met him, once or twice--he didn't strike me as
much of a believer in fairy tales."
"He's made us believe in them," Pauline answered.
"I think Senior might have provided me with such a delightful sort of
uncle," Shirley observed. "I told him so, but he says, while he's
awfully sorry I didn't mention it before, he's afraid it's too late
now."
"Uncle Paul sent us Bedelia," Pauline told the rather perplexed-looking
Harry, "and the row-boat and the camera and--oh, other things."
"Because he wanted them to have a nice, jolly summer," Shirley
explained. "Pauline's sister had been sick and needed brightening up."
"You don't think he's looking around for a nephew to adopt, do you?"
Harry inquired. "A well-intentioned, intelligent young man--with no
end of talent."
"For making salads," Shirley added with a sly smile.
"Oh, well, you know," Harry remarked casually, "these are what Senior
calls my 'salad days.'"
Whereupon Shirley rose without a word, carrying off her vases of
flowers.
The party at the manor was, like all the club affairs, a decided
success. Never had the old place looked so gay and animated, since
those far-off days of its early glory.
The young people coming and going--the girls in their light dresses and
bright ribbons made a pleasant place of the lawn, with its background
of shining water. The tennis court, at one side of the house, was one
of the favorite gathering spots; there were one or two boats out on the
lake. The pleasant informality of the whole affair proved its greatest
charm.
Mr. Allen was there, pointing out to his host the supposed end of the
subterranean passage said to connect the point on which the manor stood
with the old ruined French fort over on the New York side. The
minister was having a quiet chat with the doctor, who had made a
special point of being there. Mothers of club members were exchanging
notes and congratulating each other on the good comradeship and general
air of contentment among the young people. Sextoness Jane was there,
in all the glory of her best dress--one of Mrs. Shaw's handed-down
summer ones--and with any amount of items picked up to carry home to
Tobias, who was certain to expect a full account of this most unusual
dissipation on his mistress's part. Even Betsy Todd condescended to
put on her black woolen--usually reserved for church and funerals--and
walk about among the other guests; but always, with an air that told
plainly how little she approved of such goings on. The Boyds were
there, their badges in full evidence. And last, though far from least,
in her own estimation, Patience was there, very crisp and white and on
her best behavior,--for, setting aside those conditions mother had seen
fit to burden her with, was the delightful fact that Shirley had asked
her to help serve tea.
The principal tea-table was in the studio, though there was a second
one, presided over by Pauline and Bell, out under the awning at the
edge of the lawn.
Patience thought the studio the very nicest room she had ever been in.
It was long and low--in reality, the old dancing-hall, for the manor
had been built after the pattern of its first owner's English home; and
in the deep, recessed windows, facing the lake, many a bepatched and
powdered little belle of Colonial days had coquetted across her fan
with her bravely-clad partner.
Mr. Dayre had thrown out an extra window at one end, at right angles to
the great stone fireplace, banked to-day with golden rod, thereby
securing the desired north light.
On the easel, stood a nearly finished painting,--a sunny corner of the
old manor kitchen, with Betsy Todd in lilac print gown, peeling apples
by the open window, through which one caught a glimpse of the tall
hollyhocks in the garden beyond.
Before this portrait, Patience found Sextoness Jane standing in mute
astonishment.
"Betsy looks like she was just going to say--'take your hands out of
the dish!' doesn't she?" Patience commented. Betsy had once helped out
at the parsonage, during a brief illness of Miranda's, and the young
lady knew whereof she spoke.
"I'd never've thought," Jane said slowly, "that anyone'd get that fond
of Sister Todd--as to want a picture of her!"
"Oh, it's because she's such a character, you know," Patience explained
serenely. Jane was so good about letting one explain things. "'A
perfect character,' I heard one of those artist men say so."
Jane shook her head dubiously. "Not what I'd call a 'perfect'
character--not that I've got anything against Sister Todd; but she's
too fond of finding out a body's faults."
Patience went off then in search of empty tea-cups. She was having a
beautiful time; at present only one cloud overshadowed her horizon.
Already some tiresome folks were beginning to think about going. There
was the talk of chores to be done, suppers to get, and with the
breaking up, must come an end to her share in the party. For mother,
though approached in the most delicate fashion, had proved obdurate
regarding the further festivity to follow. Had mother been willing to
consider the matter, Patience would have cheerfully undertaken to
procure the necessary invitation. Shirley was a very obliging girl.
"And really, my dears," she said, addressing the three P's
collectively, "it does seem a pity to have to go home before the fun's
all over. And I could manage it--Bob would take me out rowing--if I
coaxed--he rows very slowly. I don't suppose, for one moment, that we
would get back in time. I believe--" For fully three minutes,
Patience sat quite still in one of the studio window seats, oblivious
of the chatter going on all about her; then into her blue eyes came a
look not seen there very often--"No," she said sternly, shaking her
head at Phil, much to his surprise, for he wasn't doing anything.
"No--it wouldn't be _square_--and there would be the most awful to-do
afterwards."
When a moment or two later, Mrs. Shaw called to her to come, that
father was waiting, Patience responded with a very good grace. But Mr.
Dayre caught the wistful look in the child's face. "Bless me," he said
heartily. "You're not going to take Patience home with you, Mrs. Shaw?
Let her stay for the tea--the young people won't keep late hours, I
assure you."
"But I think--" Mrs. Shaw began very soberly.
"Sometimes, I find it quite as well not to think things over," Mr.
Dayre suggested. "Why, dear me, I'd quite counted on Patience's being
here. You see, I'm not a regular member, either; and I want someone to
keep me in countenance."
So presently, Hilary felt a hand slipped eagerly into hers. "I'm
staying! I'm staying!" an excited little voice announced. "And oh, I
just love Mr. Dayre!"
Then Patience went back to her window seat to play the delightful game
of "making believe" she hadn't stayed. She imagined that instead, she
was sitting between father and mother in the gig, bubbling over with
the desire to "hi-yi" at Fanny, picking her slow way along.
The studio was empty, even the dogs were outside, speeding the parting
guests with more zeal than discretion. But after awhile Harry Oram
strolled in.
"I'm staying!" Patience announced. She approved of Harry. "You're an
artist, too, aren't you?" she remarked.
"So kind of you to say so," Harry murmured. "I have heard grave doubts
expressed on the subject by my too impartial friends."
"I mean to be one when I grow up," Patience told him, "so's I can have
a room like this--with just rugs on the floor; rugs slide so
nicely--and window seats and things all cluttery."
"May I come and have tea with you? I'd like it awfully."
"It'll be really tea--not pretend kind," Patience said. "But I'll have
that sort for any children who may come. Hilary takes pictures--she
doesn't make them though. Made pictures are nicer, aren't they?"
"Some of them." Harry glanced through the open doorway, to where
Hilary sat resting. She was "making" a picture now, he thought to
himself, in her white dress, under the big tree, her pretty hair
forming a frame about her thoughtful face. Taking a portfolio from a
table near by, he went out to where Hilary sat.
"Your small sister says you take pictures," he said, drawing a chair up
beside hers, "so I thought perhaps you'd let me show you these--they
were taken by a friend of mine."
"Oh, but mine aren't anything like these! These are beautiful!"
Hilary bent over the photographs he handed her; marveling over their
soft tones. They were mostly bits of landscape, with here and there a
water view and one or two fleecy cloud effects. It hardly seemed as
though they could be really photographs.
"I've never done anything like these!" she said regretfully. "I wish I
could--there are some beautiful views about here that would make
charming pictures."
"She didn't in the beginning," Harry said, "She's lame; it was an
accident, but she can never be quite well again, so she took this up,
as an amusement at first, but now it's going to be her profession."
Hilary bent over the photographs again. "And you really think--anyone
could learn to do it?"
"No, not anyone; but I don't see why the right sort of person couldn't."
"I wonder--if I could develop into the right sort."
"May I come and see what you have done--and talk it over?" Harry asked.
"Since this friend of mine took it up, I'm ever so interested in camera
work."
"Indeed you may," Hilary answered. She had never thought of her camera
holding such possibilities within it, of its growing into something
better and more satisfying than a mere playmate of the moment.
"Rested?" Pauline asked, coming up. "Supper's nearly ready."
"I wasn't very tired. Paul, come and look at these."
Supper was served on the lawn; the pleasantest, most informal, of
affairs, the presence of the older members of the party serving to turn
the gay give and take of the young folks into deeper and wider
channels, and Shirley's frequent though involuntary--"Do you remember,
Senior?" calling out more than one vivid bit of travel, of description
of places, known to most of them only through books.
Later, down on the lower end of the lawn, with the moon making a path
of silver along the water, and the soft hush of the summer night over
everything, Shirley brought out her guitar, singing for them strange
folk-songs, picked up in her rambles with her father. Afterwards, the
whole party sang songs that they all knew, ending up at last with the
club song.
"'It's a habit to be happy,'" the fresh young voices chorused, sending
the tune far out across the lake; and presently, from a boat on its
further side, it was whistled back to them.
"Who is it, I wonder?" Edna said,
"Give it up," Tom answered. "Someone who's heard it--there've been
plenty of opportunities for folks to hear it."
"Well it isn't a bad gospel to scatter broadcast," Bob remarked.
"And maybe it's someone who doesn't live about here, and he will go
away taking our tune with him, for other people to catch up," Hilary
suggested.
"But if he only has the tune and not the words," Josie objected, "what
use will that be?"
"The spirit of the words is in the tune," Pauline said. "No one could
whistle or sing it and stay grumpy."
"They'd have to 'put the frown away awhile, and try a little sunny
smile,' wouldn't they?" Patience observed.
Patience had been a model of behavior all the evening. Mother would be
sure to ask if she had been good, when they got home. That was one of
those aggravating questions that only time could relieve her from. No
one ever asked Paul, or Hilary, that--when they'd been anywhere.
As Mr. Dayre had promised, the party broke up early, going off in the
various rigs they had come in. Tom and Josie went in the trap with the
Shaws. "It's been perfectly lovely--all of it," Josie said, looking
back along the road they were leaving. "Every good time we have seems
the best one yet."
"You wait 'til my turn comes," Pauline told her. "I've such a scheme
in my head."
"Am I in it?" Patience begged. She was in front, between Tom, who was
driving, and Hilary, then she leaned forward, they were nearly home,
and the lights of the parsonage showed through the trees. "There's a
light in the parlor--there's company!"
Pauline looked, too. "And one up in our old room, Hilary. Goodness,
it must be a visiting minister! I didn't know father was expecting
anyone."
"I bet you!" Patience jumped excitedly up and down. "I just bet it
isn't any visiting minister--but a visiting--uncle! I feel it in my
bones, as Miranda says."
"Nonsense!" Pauline declared.
"Maybe it isn't nonsense, Paul!" Hilary said.
"I feel it in my bones," Patience repeated. "I just _knew_ Uncle Paul
would come up--a story-book uncle would be sure to."
"Well, here we are," Tom laughed. "You'll know for certain pretty
quick."