THE SPRINGTIME OF THE HEART
“And you will please trouble yourself to recite that jingle again before
it vanishes into nothingness,” commanded a laughing voice from the
doorway of the large, old-fashioned sleeping room. Leila Harper stood in
the half-opened door, an attractive figure in the newest of English
leather motor coats and sports hats.
“Leila Greatheart, what a _dandy_ coat and hat!” Marjorie cried. She
came forward, hands outstretched to meet Leila.
“Here I come with a fine Irish dash.” Leila made a funny cat-like leap
into the room and caught Marjorie’s welcoming hands in hers. “It is a
hundred years since I saw you; or so it seems,” she said in her
whimsical way. “Now I shall say not a word more until I have taken down
Jeremiah’s jingle. I happen to have a pencil, and bewitching Bean
herself will furnish her Celtic friend with a bit of paper.”
“At your service. Let me conduct you to the writing desk,” Marjorie took
Leila’s arm and escorted her to an open antique mahogany desk. She
motioned Leila into the mahogany chair before it. “There you are.” She
indicated several sizes of pale gray note paper bearing the monogram of
the Arms. “Isn’t this beautiful paper, Leila?” she commented. “Miss
Susanna put it here on purpose for us. She never uses it. She prefers
white. This was Mr. Brooke Hamilton’s own stationary.”
“You are two lucky children in a fairy castle,” Leila declared. “Now say
me the jingle, Jeremiah. Then we will talk about everything and
anything.”
“Ahem.” Jerry coughed importantly. “I may have to depend upon bewitching
Bean to help me. I never remember my own ravings—inspirations, I should
say. Inspiration is—it is—well, it just is.”
“Is it?” Leila inquired with raised brows and an engaging grin.
“It certainly is,” Jerry responded with a difficult solemnity. It broke
up in an amused high-keyed chuckle. Merely to glance at Leila, posed in
an attitude of expectant and ridiculous affability was to laugh.
After one or two hitches and a little prompting from Marjorie who also
had designs on Jerry’s funny effusions, Leila managed to record the
three jingles, though she had arrived in time to hear only the last one
of them.
“Now we have a beginning.” She exhibited open satisfaction of the
penciled copy of Jerry’s lively doggerel. She folded it twice and placed
it in a pocket of her leather motor coat. “I shall expect you to take
down and save me all future jingles of Jeremiah, Beauty, since you are
the inspiration. Never fail to do so. Now you may talk to me about
anything. I am so gracious.”
“I have copies of two jingles that Jeremiah spouted last week on an
occasion when I brought her four letters from the mail-box. I’ll mail
you copies of them tomorrow. Where is Midget? I know she can’t be far
away.”
Marjorie glanced inquiringly at Leila.
“She is lost somewhere in space downstairs. She is but a small doll in
this great house. And you now promise me two more jingles. Two and two
are four, and four is better than two. Soon we shall have a book. It
must have a green crushed Levant binding with a portrait of Jeremiah
reciting one of her own jingles as a frontispiece and the story of her
life printed in gold letters on the front cover.”
“It looks as though I might become as famous as Bean, Harper, Page or
any other campus high light if that crushed Levant edition doesn’t
flivver,” Jerry said hopefully.
Full of their usual light-hearted raillery the trio of girls presently
went downstairs to find not only Vera Mason in the sitting room with
Miss Hamilton. Ronny Linde, Muriel Harding, Lucy Warner and Robin Page
as well were there, clustered around Miss Susanna. They greeted Jerry
and Marjorie with a concerted shout and rushed them affectionately.
“How did the four of you manage to keep so quiet?” Jerry demanded. “I’m
amazed.”
“You needn’t be. You were so noisy yourselves you didn’t hear us. But
_we_ heard _you_,” Vera assured. “We heard three different varieties of
giggle, all going at once. Leila was told to hurry upstairs and bring
you down instantly. Instead—” She cast an accusing glance at Leila.
“Ah, but you were in good company, so I may be forgiven.” Leila made a
gallant bow to Miss Susanna.
“You certainly are a fine Irish gentleman with your lordly manner and
nice leather overcoat,” complimented Miss Susanna, her brown eyes
dancing.
“Am I not?” modestly agreed Leila. “What I need most to make me
impressive is a pair of green leather boots and a chimney pot hat.”
“I’ll cast you as the romantic Irish hero of a play in precisely that
costume. See if I don’t,” Robin Page laughingly threatened.
“Who will write the play?” Leila quizzed interestedly.
“You of course.” Robin leveled a designating finger at Leila. “That’s a
bully idea; to give a romantic Irish play. And for once you may act as
well as be stage manager. So glad I happened to see you this afternoon
and hear about your green leather boots and chimney pot hat.”
“As you will not require anything of me but to write the play, manage
the stage and play the leading part I’ll not change your gladness to
sorrow by snubbing you. Still I am wondering where I am to find the
boots and the hat. And let me add a condition of my own. I will not be
stage manager, actor or playwright unless Miss Susanna will promise to
come to the show.” Leila launched this proviso with her most
ingratiating smile in Miss Hamilton’s direction.
“I’ll come,” the old lady obligingly promised. Now that she had
“surrendered,” as she humorously termed her change of heart toward
Hamilton College she was almost as eager as her girls to have some part
in campus fun and enterprise. “Will it be a house play?”
“No it will not.” Marjorie and Robin spoke the same words, and almost
together. They looked at each other and laughed. The same thought had
prompted the same answer.
“Wise Page and Dean. They see money in featuring Leila as the hero in
her green boots and chimney pot hat,” was Ronny’s light explanation of
the exchange of eye messages.
“Do we? Well, _rather_!” Marjorie said with warmth.
“Uh-huh,” emphasized Robin. “The campus dwellers will mob the gym to see
Irish Leila as an Irish hero in an Irish play. We’ll reap a bully
harvest of dollars for the dormitory.”
“You and Vera can do that Irish contra dance you danced at Page and
Dean’s first show when we were junies.” Muriel grew animated. “In itself
it’s worth the price of admission.”
“Oh, _do_ have it in the play, Leila,” rose the general plea.
Leila bowed, hand over her heart. “How celebrated Midget and Leila are!
That means Midget must play the part of the maid from Lough Gur, of the
county Limerick. That is the place in Ireland where the fairies yet hold
their invisible revels. And I think Midget might be taken for one of the
Lough Gur fairy queens,” she said fancifully. “I am afraid to invite her
home with me to Ireland for fear the fairy folk may steal her and shut
her up in a mountain.”
“Not if I see them first,” Vera was positive upon this point.
“Midget is small, but valiant.” Leila rolled laughing eyes at her
friends. “Ah, but you would not _see_ the fairies, Midget, when they
slipped you away. You would not see them until you were safe inside the
mountain.”
“Then I’ll keep far from Ireland. I’ll be Irish in plays only,” Vera
vowed.
“Be sure and save a good part for Luciferous Warneriferous,” was
Muriel’s next thoughtful request. “She simply loves to act.”
“Oh, I do not.” Lucy looked alarmed. A gale of laughter went up at her
horrified denial. “I can’t act. You know that, Muriel Harding.”
“You should learn to act,” Muriel said with severity. “It is your duty.
_I_ am giving you good advice. These persons are laughing at you.”
“Who made them laugh? Keep your advice. I’m furious with _you_.
Br-r-r-r!” Lucy shook her head savagely, thrust her chin forward and
fixed her greenish eyes upon Muriel in a frozen glare which convulsed
that delighted wag. She thoroughly enjoyed teasing dignified Lucy to the
point of retaliating.
“Oh, splendid! You look every inch a villain!” Muriel simulated profound
admiration. “You have true histrionic ability, Luciferous. Let my
flattering opinion sink deep, and encourage you.”
“I’ll let it go in one ear and out the other,” was Lucy’s derisive
retort. “Don’t _dare_ choose me even for a villager in your Irish play,
Leila Harper. I’ll be far more useful as a press agent. I’ll get up a
handbill about the play, and mimeograph it.”
“Bully idea, Luciferous. Be sure and hit all the high spots. When you
have the handbills ready you may stand outside Hamilton Hall and
distribute them to the campus dwellers.” Jerry patted Lucy on the
shoulder with force.
“Ouch! That’s one of my high spots you just hit.” Lucy dodged out of
Jerry’s reach, rubbing her assaulted shoulder. “I’d rather give out
handbills any time than act,” she declared with a defiant glance at
laughing Muriel.
“Be calm, Luciferous,” soothed Leila with an assuring grin. “I would
rather have the handbills than you on the stage as a villain. It is
Matchless Muriel who may have the pleasure of playing that part. She
will have plenty of lines to learn.” Leila nodded significantly toward
Muriel who merely continued to smile.
“Biographers, bill posters, stage managers, actors, et cetera;
attention!” Vera called out. She pointed to the tall floor clock,
imperturbably ticking off the minutes. “It’s five minutes to six. Too
bad I always have to be time crier for this reckless aggregation.” She
heaved a dismal sigh. “What _would_ you do without me?”
“Be laggards all the rest of our lives, faithful Midget. You are one of
the world’s finest institutions.” Leila beamed patronizing appreciation
on her diminutive chum.
“I know my own worth. I am surprised to find you have an inkling of it,”
Vera retorted with complacent dignity.
“A dignified Midget is so impressive,” murmured Leila. “See how wrapped
up in her small self she is. She has forgotten about being town crier. I
see I must—.”
“Don’t trouble yourself. I’m still on the job. It’s now five minutes
later than it was five minutes ago,” Vera hastily announced.
“Come, good Travelers.” Muriel took the middle of the floor in a stiff
recitative attitude. Raising one arm she declaimed in a high stilted
voice: “Let us journey with all speed toward shelter ere dark night
o’ertakes us.”
“Something like that,” was Ronny’s ultra modern agreement. “With so much
talk and so little action it may be midnight ere we see the Hall. I’m
not speaking of myself, or of Miss Susanna. We’re not loquacious.”
“_You_ only miss being loquacious because you haven’t happened to start
an argument with Matchless Muriel. I should hope you _weren’t_ speaking
of Miss Susanna.” Jerry put on a shocked expression.
“Don’t squabble over me,” Miss Hamilton said in a meek little voice.
Followed a burst of ready laughter. She said as it died out: “I’m going
to send you home now, children. Come back tomorrow evening to dinner.
Bring Kathie and Lillian with you. Robin, please invite Phil and
Barbara. Tell Phil to bring her fiddle. I will invite Peter and Anne
Graham, and Signor Baretti. He will like to come to our party. He and
Peter will be company for Jonas. I shall make Jonas sit at the table
with us.”
The Travelers thought Miss Susanna’s sisterly regard for Jonas one of
her finest characteristics. While he had been a youthful servitor of the
Hamiltons during Brooke Hamilton’s declining years, he had filled the
triple role of brother, servitor and friend to the Lady of the Arms
during her long lonely reign in the great house. He was many years older
than Miss Susanna, but still a strong, sturdy man.
Jonas looked upon Miss Susanna as an empress, to be reverenced and
obeyed. Miss Hamilton’s oft repeated assertion to him: “You are a direct
importation of Providence, Jonas, willed me by Uncle Brooke,” had made a
deep impression on him at first utterance. As a consequence, his one aim
in life was that of faithful service. Rarely could she coax him to
appear socially at the Arms, even among the few friends who knew his
worth.
“You’re always thinking up something perfectly, splendidly hospitable!”
As she rose from her chair to see the Travelers to the front door
Marjorie pounced lovingly upon the Lady of the Arms, wrapping both arms
around her.
“A hold up, a hold up!” cried Jerry. “I’m going to join in it.” She made
a playful attempt to pry Marjorie’s arms loose from about the old lady.
The others gathered around the pair, mischievous and laughing. They put
Miss Susanna through a gentle wooling which left her with ruffled hair,
her lace collar awry and her cheeks pink from the loving salutes of
fresh young lips.
The Travelers went down the wide stone walk from the house looking back,
waving and calling gay good-byes to the small, alert woman at the head
of the veranda steps. The gate reached, Marjorie turned to wave her hand
again. She mentally contrasted Miss Susanna’s happy expression of the
present occasion with the sharp, doubting, half resentful gaze the
mistress of the Arms had turned upon her when she had first been ushered
into the library by Jonas to meet Brooke Hamilton’s kinswoman. Where
there had once been shadow, somber silence, loneliness, was now light of
love, gay friendly voices, sympathy, companionship.
It had been Miss Susanna’s wish that Marjorie and Jerry should be at the
Arms to greet the return of Spring. Remembering this a rare, rapturous
flash of exaltation swept over Marjorie. She was thinking as she waved
her hand to the little old lady on the veranda that Spring had not only
returned to the Arms. It had miraculously returned to Miss Susanna’s
heart.
------------------------------------------------------------------------