Two willow chairs were swaying to and fro in the gathering dusk, and two
voices were blended in a low murmur. Theodora and Billy were exchanging
the confidences born of a long week of separation while business had
called Mr. Farrington to New York.
"How comes on the book, Ted?"
She shook her head.
"It doesn't come."
"Does Cicely's being here disturb you?"
"No, not really; not nearly so much as Melchisedek. In an unguarded
moment, I asked him, one day, to come and help auntie write books. Since
then he rushes from his breakfast straight to my room and capers madly on
the threshold till I appear."
"And then?"
"Then he insists on lying in my lap and resting his head on my arm,
and he snarls, every time I joggle him. It isn't helpful or
inspiring, Billy."
"No; I should say not. What is the story, Ted?"
"I'm not going to tell even you, Billy," she returned quickly. "It
always demoralizes me to talk over my stories while they are evolving. I
must work them out alone. It seems conceited and selfish; but there's no
help for it. You believe it; don't you?"
"I'll trust you, Ted. But is this hero very hectic?"
It was an old joke, but they were still laughing over it when Cicely
appeared in the doorway, with Melchisedek under her arm.
"Cousin Theodora?" she said interrogatively, for the piazza was dark.
"Yes."
"I want to talk."
"You generally do, Cis," Billy observed unkindly.
"Yes; but I mean I have something to talk about. I don't always."
"Shall I go away?" he asked politely.
"No; I want a man's view of it, too. But perhaps you were busy and I'll
be in the way."
For her reply, Theodora drew another chair into the group. Cicely sat
down, balanced Melchisedek on her knee and fell to poking his grey hair
this way and that, as if at a loss how to begin the conversation.
"How far is it safe for a girl to follow up a boy?" she asked abruptly,
yet with a little catch in her breath.
"Meaning yourself?" Billy queried.
"Yes, of course."
"I should say it depended a good deal on the boy."
"I mean Allyn."
"What's the matter? Have you had a falling out?"
"Yes, we are always doing it. I can't seem to help it, either. It's
horrid. He is outspoken and tells me what he thinks of me; I'm peppery,
and I don't like it."
"I know, dear," Theodora said gently, for she read the girl's irritation
in her voice. "Allyn isn't always as polite as he might be; but we must
try not to be too sensitive."
"I'm not sensitive," Cicely said forlornly. "I like him, though, and I
want him to like me, and it hurts my feelings when he doesn't."
"How long has the present feud lasted?" Billy inquired.
"Almost ten days. It's the worst one yet, and it started from nothing. I
know he is your brother, Cousin Theodora; but--I really don't think it's
all my fault."
"No." Theodora's voice suggested no mental reservation. "I know how it
is, Cicely. Allyn has been my baby and my boy; but, much as I love him, I
can't help seeing that he is cantankerous and cross-grained at times. But
it is only at times, Cis; it isn't chronic."
"I wish it were. Then I shouldn't mind it so much. But when he isn't
cross, he is one of the jolliest boys I have ever known. That's the
worst of it, for I miss him so, when we squabble. When we are on terms,
I don't care about anybody else; and so, when we are off, it leaves me
all alone."
"When I squabbled with your Cousin Theodora," Billy said oracularly; "I
generally felt I had done my share, and I left her to do the making up."
"So I observed," his wife answered; but Cicely was too much absorbed in
her subject to heed the parenthesis.
"I'm willing to make up," she said, as she twisted Melchisedek's ears
with an absent-minded fervor which caused the sufferer to whimper; "but
how can I? He just goes off his way, and leaves me to go mine. I hate to
tag him; besides, I don't know but he really wants to get rid of me.
Hush, Melchisedek! Don't whine. I didn't intend to hurt you. That's what
I meant, Cousin Ted, when I asked you about following him up. How far is
it safe to go?"
"Till you get there," Mr. Farrington replied.
"Billy!" his wife remonstrated.
"All right, Ted; but I'm not altogether joking. I know boys better than
you do. It's not easy for them to come down off their dignity; and, nine
times out of ten, when they scowl the most darkly, they are really
wishing that they knew how to come to terms. I must go down town now,
Cis; but my parting advice to you is to corner Allyn and bully him into
shaking hands. The boy is an ungracious cub; but he is sound at the core,
and I honestly think he is fond of you in his dumb way."
After he had left them alone, Cicely dropped down on the floor at
Theodora's feet.
"Life isn't a straight line; it's horribly squirmy," she said, and her
voice vas unusually grave.
Theodora drew the brown head against her knee.
"What is it, dear?" she asked.
"It's only Allyn. I don't know what the reason is that we can't get on.
I've known lots of boys, and I never squabbled with any of them before.
And I don't know why I care so much. Sometimes I really think I am good
for Allyn and can help him out, and I am disappointed because he won't
let me; but I more than half think it is only my vanity, after all."
"Was it a bad fight?"
"Awful." In spite of herself, Cicely laughed at the recollection.
"He wound up by telling me that I was no lady, and he didn't care to
have anything more to do with me. Since then I have hardly had a
glimpse of him."
"I hadn't noticed that anything was wrong between you," Theodora said
thoughtfully.
"No; we both of us are old enough not to quarrel in public. But I can't
see any end to this. I care for Allyn a great deal, and I miss him; but
if he does not want me for a friend, I can't force him to take me. I'm
not a pill, to be swallowed whether or no."
"Perhaps I could help a little."
Cicely shook her head.
"No; we were the ones to fight, and now we must be the ones to make up,
without any go-betweens. Papa has always told me that dignity doesn't
count in a case like this; and I'm willing to do anything reasonable. The
only trouble is that I don't know what Allyn really wants. If he truly
does wish I would let him alone, I don't see any use in my hanging on to
him. Just once, more than a month ago, he said something that made me
think he cared, and was glad to have me here; but it was only once, and
maybe I was mistaken. It isn't forever since you were a girl, Cousin
Theodora. What did you do in such cases?"
Theodora rapidly reviewed her past.
"I think I never had just such a case, Cicely," she said honestly. "Hu
and Billy were my two best friends; and I don't think either one of
them ever had a cross-grained day in his life. I was generally the
aggressor, myself."
Cicely rubbed her head against Theodora's knee in mute contradiction.
"But what should you do in my case?" she persisted.
"I don't know. Sometimes I can't tell what to do in my own. Allyn is
rather a puzzle."
"He's worse than an original proposition in geometry. I want to solve
him and I can't. Papa has always taught me that we girls have a good deal
of responsibility, and that we can help our boy friends a good deal, or
else hinder them. Perhaps I am conceited; but it seems to me as if I
could help Allyn, if I could get at him. Besides--" she hesitated.
"Well?" Theodora said encouragingly.
"Oh, it's silly to tell; but sometimes I wonder whether it wouldn't help
you a little, at the same time. I'd love to feel it did; you have been so
good to me. I know you worry about Allyn. You watch him as a cat watches
a mouse, and you always seem to understand his queer ways and know just
how to manage him. I wish I could do it as you do."
Theodora was silent for a moment. Then she bent down and laid her cheek
against the brown chair.
"Cicely," she said; "those eyes of yours have a trick of seeing deeper
into things than you suspect. We have gone so far that we may as well go
a little farther. Allyn is very dear to me; but I do worry about him more
than I like to tell. He is headstrong and obstinate; worse than that; he
is moody, and there is his great danger. Under it all, he is a splendid
fellow; but I am afraid he will turn sour and hard. It grew on him fast,
last year, while I was away, and the next two or three years will settle
the matter, one way or the other. Ever so much is going to depend on
keeping him happy and jolly. He hasn't many friends left, and he needs
all those he has, needs to trust them and feel they trust him and care a
great deal for him, whatever he says or does. If you want to, you can
help me in this."