"Teddy, I am worried about Allyn."
"What is the matter? Isn't he well?"
"Yes, only rather listless. It isn't his health I am worrying about; it
is his character."
"He will come out all right," Theodora said cheerily, for it was rare to
see her father in a despondent mood, and the sight distressed her.
"Perhaps; but it seems to me that something is wrong with the boy. He
isn't like the rest of you."
"Mercifully not; and yet we were all queer sticks," Theodora observed
tranquilly. "We appear to be working out our own salvation, though,
whether it's writing or bones, and Allyn will probably follow our example
when he is old enough."
"I wish he might. He is giving me more trouble than all the rest of you
put together, and the worst of it is that I don't know whether he needs a
tonic or a thrashing." The good doctor knitted his brows and endeavored
to look stern. "I suspect it is the latter," he added.
Theodora shook her head gayly.
"It wouldn't be of any use, papa. We must bide our time. Allyn is queer,
most mortal queer; but these may be the mutterings of genius, a volcanic
genius that is getting ready to erupt."
"I never regarded bad temper as a sign of genius."
"Perhaps not. But, even if it isn't, thrashings only leave callous spots.
You'd better try the tonic."
They had been walking up and down the front lawn. Now they turned, as
by common consent, and strolled away towards a more distant part of
the grounds.
"Is anything new the trouble?" Theodora asked, after an interval.
"No; only that his school reports get worse and worse, and that he
appears to have a perfect genius for losing friends."
"Even the warty James?"
The doctor laughed.
"I can't blame him for half his antipathies," he said; "and that makes it
hard for me to corner him in an argument. The boy was born with a hatred
of dirt and of lying and of toadying, and he is utterly intolerant of
anybody who shows anything of the three. His theories are all right, only
his way of carrying them out makes him rather unpopular. But what is
worrying me now is his school work. He isn't stupid; but his marks are
away below par."
"You might try the tonic," Theodora said. "But what about Babe?"
"Don't ask me, Ted. That girl defies prediction. She always did. One day,
I think she will bring glory to us all; the next, I want to turn her out
of my office. She is as smart as a steel trap; but she is as lawless as
Allyn. It's in a different way. I blame them both; but I am sorry for
him, while I want to shake Phebe. She could do anything she chose, but
she never really chooses. Sometimes I think she is only playing with her
study. The next day, she astonishes me by some brilliant stroke that
makes me forgive all her past laziness. She's splendid stuff, Ted, only
she needs a balance-wheel. The fact is, the girl is selfish. She isn't
working for love of her profession and the good it can do to others; all
she cares for is the pleasure she takes in it, the pride that it brings
her. That may do in some lines; but a doctor must think beyond that and
outside of himself and his own interests."
"That's true of most of us," Theodora said; "at least, that is what we
are aiming at."
"Some of us; not all. Teddy, you are a comfort to your old father."
"Even if I did help to turn his hair grey?"
He shook his head.
"You used to rush headlong into things, Ted; but you never went very far
astray, and now--"
Theodora seized his arm.
"Hush!" she said, pointing to the shady spot under the trees where Allyn
lay on the grass with Cicely by his side. The girl was bareheaded, and
one shaft of sunlight, slanting down between the oak leaves above her,
struck across her brown hair and across her hand as it lay on Allyn's
outstretched palm.
"Come, papa, let's leave them there," she added. "Cicely is a better
doctor for Allyn than either you or I."
It was the third day after her talk with Theodora, and Cicely had not so
much as caught a glimpse of Allyn, though she had dropped in at The
Savins repeatedly, on the chance of finding him at home. Whether the boy
had turned his back upon the world, or was merely trying to keep out of
her way, she was at a loss to determine. However, she saw no use in
taking the whole family into her confidence, and she apparently gave her
entire attention to Mrs. McAlister and Phebe, while in reality her grey
eyes were keeping a sharp lookout for the missing boy.
At last she made up her mind that indirect methods were useless. Siege
failing, she determined to carry the place by assault.
"Where is Allyn?" she demanded, as she came up the steps of The Savins
with Melchisedek at her heels.
"I don't know. Get away! Shoo! Cicely, do call your horrid dog away." And
Phebe brandished a scalpel threateningly.
"Here, Melchisedek, come here!"
But Melchisedek, his paws planted on the hem of Phebe's skirt, was
barking madly and making little lunges at something in her lap.
"Get out! Ugh! Do go away! Cicely, call him!"
Cicely stooped and caught up the wriggling little creature who protested
loudly, as she tucked him under her arm.
"Might I inquire what that choice morsel is, Phebe?" she asked
disdainfully.
"It's a chicken's gizzard," Phebe answered shortly.
"Oh, and you were having a private lunch out here. Beg pardon for
disturbing you." Cicely's eyes were dancing, and the dimples in her
cheeks were at their deepest; but Phebe never looked up. "Poor little
Melchisedek!" the girl went on. "Wouldn't his old Aunt Babe give him one
little bittie piece? Well, it was too bad. Do you lunch out here from
choice, Babe; or were you sent away from the table?"
"Don't be silly, Cicely. Can't you see I am studying it?"
"What for?"
"To see how it's made."
"Oh, then it's science, not hunger. It's all right, Melchisedek; she is
learning things, not eating them. But what was it you said about Allyn?"
"Nothing."
"Please do say something, then. I want him."
"Ask mother," Phebe said absently. "Oh-h, there now!"
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, only it's tough. Do go on."
"Gizzards generally are. If I can do you any little good turn in the way
of table scraps, Babe, don't hesitate to mention it." And Cicely departed
in search of Mrs. McAlister.
"No," she said; "I mustn't stay. I only want Allyn."
"I saw him go across the hill, just after lunch. He had a book with him,
and you may find him reading, somewhere over there. Don't hurry."
"Thank you; I must go." And she went away across the lawn.
She found Allyn quite at the farther side of the grounds, lying in the
tall June grass with his arms folded under his head. Face down beside him
was a book; but his thoughts were elsewhere and quite apart from the
great tree above him into which he was staring so fixedly. Instinctively
he had chosen the most beautiful spot in the grounds where the land
sloped away to the west, across a salt marsh all bright with greeny brown
grasses, and onward into the open country beyond. At the north, a faint
line of white smoke marked the path of a passing train; at the south
could be seen a small blue patch of ocean.
In the thick grass, Cicely's steps were noiseless, and Melchisedek
considerately neglected to bark, so Allyn was unconscious of her
approach. He started suddenly, as she dropped down at his side.
"What do you want?" he asked gruffly.
"You."
"I'm busy."
"You look it," she said merrily, as she pointed to the book against which
Melchisedek had promptly braced his back while he searched for a missing
burr that he had accumulated in the course of his rambles.
"I wish you'd go away," he grumbled.
"I'm not doing any harm," she said composedly. "You don't own this
place, anyway."
"My father does, then."
"He won't turn me out."
"Wish he would and done with it." Allyn rolled over on his side with his
back inhospitably turned to his caller.
Her dimples came ever so little. Then she said quietly,
"What a dear, courteous soul you are, Allyn! Please do listen to me, for
I've come to tell you something."
"Tell away, if you want to." He pushed aside Melchisedek who had stolen
up behind him and pounced down upon his ear.
"I want to make peace."
"Make it."
"But if it takes two to make a quarrel, it probably takes two to make a
peace. Allyn, I am tired of fighting. Let's make up."
"What's the use? We should only fight again."
"Perhaps; but sufficient unto the day--We might try it and see."
He made no answer. Instead, he dislodged Melchisedek from a seat on his
neck, and reached out for the neglected book. Cicely anticipated him and
grasped it first. Quickly she dropped her coaxing tone and became curt
and matter-of-fact.
"What's that?" she asked.
"Dutch."
"Not reading it for fun?"
"Not if I know myself. It's grammar."
"Isn't it hard, though?"
"Beastly. I can't get it into my head. Don't believe anybody can." And
Allyn sat up and vented his spite against the language by hurling a stone
against a distant birch tree.
"What are you studying it for now?" Cicely demanded, as Melchisedek
scurried, yelping rapturously, in search of the flying stone.
"Got to, or else be conditioned."
"I don't believe it is as bad as that."
"Yes, 'tis. I barely scraped through, last Christmas, and papa told me
then that, if I failed now, I couldn't go to Quantuck, but must stay here
alone with him and work all summer."
"And so you are trying to be on the safe side?"
"Not any safe side about it. I was warned, a week ago."
"How horrid!" Cicely said sympathetically. "It won't be any fun at
Quantuck without you. I was counting on having you to explore things
with, you know. I've never been there."
"You'll have to take it out in counting, then."
"I don't see why. You're only warned, and it's two weeks before
examination."
"Yes; but I can't get the blamed stuff into me."
"Perhaps I could help you," she suggested.
"You!" Allyn's tone was not altogether complimentary, and Cicely was
uncertain whether she wanted to laugh or to box his ears. "Do you know
any German?"
"Papa and I used to talk it a good deal," she said demurely; "and I know
something about the grammar."
"Why, I didn't know it. I didn't suppose you knew anything but music." In
his honest boyish wonder, Allyn's voice regained something of its old
friendliness.
"Yes, I was almost ready for college; but, when I came up here, papa said
I'd better take a vacation and only keep up my music," she answered, in
an off-hand way which gave Allyn no hint that he was talking to the show
pupil of Professor Almeron's school. "It was great fun at first; but now
I am honestly sick of having so much vacation and I'd love to take up
my German again if I only had somebody to do it with."
"Do you like to study?"
"N--no; but I don't mind it. I like to practise better."
"I hate it all. I wish I weren't going to college."
"What do you for, then?"
"Oh, I'm expected to. They all take it for granted. Ted did, and Hubert
and Billy. I hate languages, though. I'd like to cut the whole thing."
"What do you like?"
"Drawing."
Cicely clasped her hands in sudden envy.
"Oh, I do love pictures! Can you draw? I never saw any."
"I never drew a picture in my life." Allyn's tone was disdainful.
"What do you draw then?"
"Machinery, of course. Wheels and pulleys and things. It's such fun to
fit them together, Cis, and see how you can get the power across from one
to the other."
Her eyes flashed at the use of her nickname once more. She felt that the
feud was forgotten, as she asked, with an interest which was not all
feigned,--
"Have you any of them?"
"Not here; but lots of them in my room. I do them, evenings and all sorts
of off times, and some of them aren't so simple as they look, either."
"Has anybody seen them?"
He shook his head.
"What's the use? Phebe's bones are bad enough. The house wouldn't hold
two cranks. Nobody else knows."
"I want to see them," she asserted.
"They aren't anything to see. Besides, you couldn't understand them."
"I'm not so sure of that. At least, you might try me."
"Anyhow, I like them lots better than I do this stuff." He thumped the
German grammar viciously.
"Why don't you do them then?"
"No good."
"I mean instead of college."
"Papa wouldn't let me."
"Have you ever asked him?"
"What's the use? He wants me to be a doctor."
"Do you want to?"
"No. Babe is enough to make me sick of doctors," he answered with
brotherly frankness.
"I like doctors, myself; but I'd rather be a good machinist than a
bad doctor."
"So would I, a plaguy sight," he muttered; "but the others wouldn't
stand it."
"I can't see why," Cicely said thoughtfully. "It is smutty work, and
it doesn't sound exactly aristocratic; but soap is cheap, and you
aren't obliged to eat out of a tin pail. Allyn, I'd do it if I were in
your place."
He turned to face her, and his brown eyes were lighted with his
enthusiasm.
"I wish I could," he said excitedly, his words tumbling over and over
each other. "Ever since I was a little bit of a fellow, I've liked such
things, machinery and all that. I've felt at home with it and wanted to
handle it. I hate school and the things the fellows care for, girls and
dancing school and that stuff--I don't mean you, Cis; you're more like
a boy,--and I hate worst of all the everlasting Greek and Latin. It is
out of my line; I can't see anything in it. There's some sense in
machinery. You can handle it, and mend it, and make it go, and maybe
improve it. That's enough better than things you get out of books. Do
you suppose there would be any chance of their letting me cut school
and go into a shop?"
With a boy's eager haste, now that his secret was out, he was for
dropping everything else and rushing headlong into his hobby. Cicely
counselled patience.
"Wait," she said, as she rested her hand on his for an instant. "You're
only fifteen, and there is plenty of time to decide. It is worth trying
for, and I think perhaps you may get your way; but, first of all, you'll
have to prove that it isn't just because you are too lazy to study Greek
and German that you want to give it up. If you pass good examinations,
this June, your chance will be all the better. Then you can go off, this
summer, and take time to think it over. By fall, you can tell what you
really do want; and, if your father is the man I think he is, and if you
behave yourself in the meantime, I believe you will get it." She paused
and, for the second time in her acquaintance with him, she felt Allyn's
fingers close warmly on her own; but he only said,--
"You're not half bad for a girl, Cis."
"And when shall we begin our Dutch?" she asked, determined to clinch the
fact of their treaty of peace.
"When can you?"
"To-night. Come over at eight, and I'll be ready. We'll take an hour,
every evening and I'll do fudge afterward."
The dinner bell was sounding at The Savins, as Cicely and Allyn came
strolling homeward. It was evident that they had been for a long walk.
Melchisedek's tail drooped dejectedly, and Allyn carried a sheaf of
nodding yellow lilies, while Cicely had the despised grammar tucked under
one arm and a bunch of greenish white clovers in the other hand. They
came on, shoulder to shoulder, talking busily, and Theodora as she
watched them, was well content.