PHRONSIE SETTLES THE MATTER.
But Polly didn’t take Miss Fitzwilliam in charge; for Phronsie came to
early breakfast the next morning with her little brown bonnet on, that,
with the walking-suit, meant a day in town. “I am going to Berton,” she
said, “with Jasper.”
The small red breakfast-room at “The Oaks” was always cosey for the
early meal that Jasper took every morning before he grasped the “little
publishing bag” and hurried off for his train. Polly sat behind the
coffee-urn, pouring a cup for him.
“Why, Phronsie!” she exclaimed in surprise; then she asked, “does
Grandpapa know?”
“Yes,” said Phronsie; “I told him last night. I was going to tell you,
Polly, but you were busy in the den with Jasper.”
“Then I’ll pour you a cup of coffee,” said Polly.
“No,” said Phronsie; “I’ll have just a glass of milk, the same as every
day, Polly.”
“O Phronsie!” remonstrated Polly, “take the coffee, do, dear; it will
be a hard day in town.”
But Phronsie shook her head. “Polly,” she said, as she got into her
chair, and the butler had gone out and closed the door, as he always
did that Polly and Jasper might talk through the meal, “I am going to
town to see Miss Fitzwilliam.”
“Phronsie!” exclaimed Polly in great dismay, letting fall her spoon;
Jasper set down his cup to look at Phronsie.
“Yes, I am,” said Phronsie, beginning to drink her milk. Then she took
a piece of toast and buttered it.
“If you are going to town, Phronsie,” began Polly quickly, “do have a
hot chop, dear.”
“No,” said Phronsie; “I do not want it, Polly. I am going to take an
orange in my bag. Please, Polly, let me tell you about it.”
Polly looked over at Jasper in despair. His eyes said, “Don’t worry,
dear. Perhaps she won’t do it.”
“You see,” said Phronsie deliberately, “Miss Fitzwilliam must not be
left to spread the story about Grace. And she won’t want to when I tell
her all about it. She’ll feel sorry that she told in the first place.”
“You don’t know Miss Fitzwilliam, Phronsie, if you say so,” burst
out Polly. “She’s the veriest gossip there is in all Berton--or the
universe either. It won’t do a bit of good for you to go to see her.
She can’t change, child; she’s too old.”
“Ah, but she must,” said Phronsie, shaking her head; “and if nobody
tells her how wrong it is to set people against Grace--why, she will go
on doing so all the time.”
“Phronsie,” said Polly desperately, and leaning past the coffee-urn,
“I can’t bear to have you put yourself in that old gossip’s house. Oh,
dear me! why is it that nobody puts her down? Everybody hates her; and
then they listen to her stories just the same.”
“That’s just it,” said Jasper, pushing back his chair; “they listen to
her stories, Polly, as you say. They’re as bad as she is, every whit.”
“But I can’t see them all, I’m afraid,” said Phronsie, setting down her
empty glass. “Miss Fitzwilliam started it, so I ought to talk with
her.”
“Phronsie, does Grandpapa know you’re going to see Miss Fitzwilliam?”
asked Polly, seeing here a ray of hope that the visit to town would be
given up.
“Oh, yes! did you think I would go to see her without telling
Grandpapa, Polly?” asked Phronsie with a grieved look in her brown eyes.
“No, dear,” said Polly hastily.
Then she got out of her chair, and ran around to drop a kiss on
Phronsie’s yellow hair; but Phronsie moving just then, the kiss fell
on the little bunch of brown flowers on the top of her bonnet. “Dear
me!” said Polly with a laugh, “well, I’m sure I’m willing to kiss your
bonnet, Phronsie, as it isn’t all decked up with birds’ wings. I knew,
of course, you’d tell Grandpapa everything, Phronsie.”
“Oh, I couldn’t wear a bird’s wings on my bonnet; you know I couldn’t,
Polly!” exclaimed Phronsie in horror.
“No more could I,” declared Polly. “I should feel as if I’d murdered
the sweetest thing on earth, to perk a bird up on my bonnet. Oh, dear
me!” aghast at the thought. “Jasper, what shall we do,” as Phronsie got
up and went over to the sideboard to get an orange for her bag, “to
keep Phronsie from going to town?”
“I don’t believe we better try any more, Polly,” said Jasper, going
over to take his wife’s hand. “I really believe it’s best to let
Phronsie alone, for she thinks that she ought to go.”
“But that old thing!” began Polly impulsively, “and our Phronsie.”
“It won’t hurt Phronsie,” said Jasper wisely, putting his arm around
Polly’s waist, to look into her eyes. “No, Polly, I don’t believe we
ought to say any more. Come, Phronsie, are you ready?”
“Yes, I am,” said Phronsie, patting her little bag; “all ready, Jasper.
Polly, I’ll get your red wool; you said you didn’t have time yesterday.”
“Oh, you dear!” cried Polly, comforted by Jasper’s words. “But don’t
tire yourself, Phronsie; it’s no matter; I can wait.”
“If anybody is going to town with me, she must hurry up; that’s all I
say,” called Jasper, giving Polly a kiss and, running off.
Polly ached to say, “Don’t go to Miss Fitzwilliam’s,” as Phronsie set
a kiss on her cheek; but remembering Jasper’s words, she smothered the
longing with a sigh. “Well, good-by, child,” as Phronsie ran down the
path to the dog-cart that was to carry them to the train.
When Phronsie left Jasper as he turned off into the business section,
and she waited for the electric car bound for the old residential part
of the town, he gave her a bright smile. “Success to you, Phronsie
dear! What train are you coming out on?”
“I don’t know,” said Phronsie; “don’t wait for me. I wish you wouldn’t,
Jasper.”
“All right. It shall be as you wish, Phronsie. Good-by, dear.” He
flashed her another smile, and was off, to plunge into the work of the
day.
“I do think Jasper is the dearest brother that ever lived,” said
Phronsie to herself as she hurried on her car. A little old woman,
whose back was bent, and the ends of whose white hair had escaped from
her rusty black bonnet, stood in her way, clutching one of the leather
straps that hung from the bar that ran across the top of the car.
“Move up in front,” shouted the conductor, giving a push to the little
old woman’s back; “this lady can’t get in.”
[Illustration: Phronsie led the little old white-haired woman to the
vacated seat.]
“Never mind,” said Phronsie; “I can stand here just as well.”
“Move up, I say,” repeated the conductor, with another shove.
Thereupon three or four collegians, bound for the university a few
miles off, precipitated themselves out of their seats, the fortunate
one who was first, hustling against the little old woman in black.
“Will you take my seat?” taking off his cap to Phronsie.
“Thank you,” said Phronsie gravely. Then she touched the bent shoulder
gently, and took hold of the pinched hand clinging to the strap; the
other one she could now see was filled with bundles. “Here is a seat
for you;” and before any one could say anything, she had led the little
old white-haired woman to the vacated seat, arranged her bundles more
comfortably in her lap, and gone down to the end of the car again.
The collegians’ faces got dreadfully red. No one of them dared to try
it again, for an old gentleman who had seen it all had gotten out of
his seat, and with a courtly bow was proffering it to her.
“Thank you,” Phronsie was saying, refusing it, with a smile. “I really
do not mind standing.” And the three collegians melted out suddenly to
the front platform, and away the car flew, and Phronsie was soon at
the corner down which she was to turn to the three story brick house
that had the honor to be owned by Miss Honora Fitzwilliam.
She was in, the trim maid said; and Phronsie gave a sigh of relief, as
she stumbled on down the darkened hall, to find a seat in the still
more darkened drawing-room, whose door the maid opened deferentially.
“What name?” she asked in the same manner.
Phronsie took out a card from her plain brown leather case. The maid
departed, bearing this evidence that Miss Sophronia Pepper, The Oaks,
Badgertown, was awaiting Miss Fitzwilliam’s pleasure.
It was fully half an hour before that lady made her appearance, with
everything as fresh as possible about her, her side-curls beautifully
gotten up. Even the lorgnette was ready.
“Oh! I am _so glad_ to see you, my dear Miss Pepper,” she began
effusively, extending both hands, “Phronsie, I may call you, may I
not?” Phronsie did not answer, only to say, “Good-morning;” so Miss
Fitzwilliam exclaimed hastily, “That stupid Eliza! this room is as
black as midnight.” She stepped to the other side of the apartment,
and gave a nervous twitch to the bell. “Let some light into this room,”
as the maid came in; “how careless of you not to open the shutters by
this time.”
Eliza opened her mouth to say something, but evidently was too
frightened to carry out her intention, and throwing the shutters wide,
hurried out of the room as if glad to get away.
The morning sunlight flooded the long drawing-room, whose faded
coverings looked tired out; several thin places very near to becoming
holes could plainly be seen on the furniture, while even the mantel
ornaments looked depressed.
Miss Fitzwilliam sprang to her feet, and energetically thrust the
shutters half way to. “That stupid Eliza!” she ejaculated again. “I
hope, Miss Pepper, that you are not troubled as I am with servants.
They are really the plague of my life, although I change every
fortnight or so.” Then she came back and sat down on the faded red sofa
by Phronsie’s side. “What a most beautiful reception your sister’s was,
to be sure!” she cried rapturously. “I always make it a point to exert
myself to go to Badgertown whenever she gives one. And I’m so sorry
for you, that you were all so annoyed Tuesday by that”--
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” said Phronsie, breaking in to the stream of talk.
“I have come to see you about that very thing.” Then she looked
steadily into the little steel-gray eyes before her.
“And have you, my dear?” cried Miss Fitzwilliam delightedly. “I suppose
you want my advice what to do.” She tried to lay her pinched and
restless fingers on the quiet gloved ones in Phronsie’s lap, to show
her sympathy; but the young girl not stirring, Miss Fitzwilliam pulled
hers back, and went on rapidly, “As it was such an outrageous thing, I
would”--
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” Phronsie did not pause now, but went swiftly on
to the end, not removing her gaze from the other’s face, “I’ve come
to see you about this matter, because I know that after you’ve heard
all about it, you’ll be sorry for the young girl who did such a wrong
thing. Just think, she’s only sixteen, and she hasn’t been with her
mother only vacations when she was home from school, since she was six
years old. And as soon as she did it, and got there to the reception,
she’d have undone it all if she could,--oh, a thousand times! And she
made Bella Drysdale take her. Mrs. Drysdale didn’t know anything about
it, but thought she was a parlor boarder at Miss Willoughby’s; and Mrs.
Atherton didn’t know either. Grace has told it all to us, and that she
alone was to blame. It was the first time that she has ever done such
a thing, and she didn’t stop to think before she did it. And now she
can’t forgive herself; she must always be sorry to the end of her life:
so all of us must help her to bear it.”
“Miss Phronsie Pepper!” screamed Miss Fitzwilliam, throwing away her
self-control as Phronsie paused, “you don’t mean to say that you think
people should take up this Tupper girl; why, I’ve told everybody I
could about it! I went around yesterday, and I’m going again this
afternoon.” Her thin face glowed, and her pinched-up nose was set high
in the air with positive delight.
“I know you did tell them yesterday,” said Phronsie quietly; “but I
think you’ll be sorry for that when you come to think it over.”
“Sorry? Indeed, no!” sniffed Miss Fitzwilliam. “I shall get as many as
I can to know it before nightfall. It’s my duty. Sorry, indeed!”
Phronsie surveyed her gravely. “You will be very sorry, I think, Miss
Fitzwilliam,” she said again quietly; “it will spoil that young girl’s
whole life, to repeat that story.”
“And you’ll be very glad,” cried Miss Fitzwilliam shrilly, “that I did
take the pains to tell it, and to warn people against such a little
impostor. How do you know that she won’t repeat this experiment again
at your house?”
“She will not, because”--
“And that stuff about hurting her foot was half of it made up,” said
Miss Fitzwilliam; “that’s the reason I wanted to stay and help you. I
found her out long before.” She gave a little triumphant cackle; “and I
wanted to see her foot, if that wasn’t all a pretence, so”--
“Oh, no, it wasn’t!” said Phronsie, who couldn’t help interrupting;
“because she”--
“But you wouldn’t let me stay. However, I have started the story about
her, I am glad to say; I suppose she went home soon after, didn’t she?”
she asked quickly, greedy for the last bit of news.
“No,” said Phronsie; “she did not.”
“That shows what kind of a girl she is!” exclaimed Miss Fitzwilliam
with venom, “after worming herself in there, to hang on until you had
to send her home.”
“Miss Fitzwilliam,” said Phronsie so decidedly that Miss Fitzwilliam
pulled herself up at the beginning of another harangue, “don’t you
understand--can’t you understand, that Grace Tupper is not that kind
of a girl at all? She began this as a childish freak; she is most
dreadfully sorry for it, and she would give everything--yes, the whole
world,” said Phronsie, clasping her hands while her face drooped
sorrowfully, “if she hadn’t done it.”
“Pshaw!” exclaimed Miss Fitzwilliam in disdain. Then she put back her
head on her spare shoulders, and laughed loud and long. “Anyway, Miss
Pepper, I shall do as I think best about it. And I do think best to
tell this story wherever I have a good opportunity.” She set her thin
lips together unpleasantly.
“In that case,” said Phronsie, rising, “I will trouble you no further.
And will you be so very good, Miss Fitzwilliam, as to discontinue
calling at ‘The Oaks’? Grace Tupper is our guest, our _dear_ guest; and
my sister, Mrs. King and I hope that she will stay there a long time,
for we are both already very fond of her. I will bid you good-morning.”
It was impossible for Miss Fitzwilliam to get her breath to speak.
Twice she essayed it, but no words came; and vexed that she had made
such a terrible blunder, and with her own hand cut off visiting
relations with Mrs. Jasper King and her sister, Miss Pepper, she made
another effort, this time even managing a ghastly smile.
“Of course if you are going to take her up, why I will let the
matter drop,” she gasped. But Miss Pepper did not appear to notice,
nor to observe the outstretched hand, but went swiftly out. On the
old-fashioned table in the hall was the morning paper, still unread.
Wild with chagrin, Miss Fitzwilliam seized it to divert her mind, as
the door closed after Phronsie; and whirling the sheet to the social
news, read: “Miss Grace Strange Tupper, niece of Mrs. Carroll Atherton,
is the guest of Mrs. Jasper King at ‘The Oaks’ Badgertown.”
When Phronsie completed her round of calls, beginning with Mrs. Coyle
Campbell, everybody knew that it was to be the fashion to take up
Grace Tupper. And each one vied with the others, to be ahead in the
matter of sympathy and help.
Then Phronsie hurried down town to buy Polly’s red worsted.