A SURPRISE
IN order to understand the excitement that prevailed at the Wigwam when
it was announced that the Little Colonel was on her way toward it, one
would first have to understand what an important part she had played in
the Ware household. To begin with, the place where she lived had always
seemed a sort of enchanted land to the children. "The Old Kentucky Home"
was their earliest cradle-song, and their favourite nursery-tales were
about the people and places of Lloydsboro Valley, where their mother's
happy girlhood had been passed.
They might grow tired of Red Riding Hood and Cinderella. Aladdin and
even Ali Baba and the forty thieves might lose their charm, but no story
failed to interest them that began "Once upon a time in Lloydsboro
Valley." These reminiscences had passed from Joyce to Jack, and on down
the line, with the high chair and the Cock Robin book and the red
building-blocks, belonging to each in turn, but claimed by all. Mary's
tears, Holland's tempers, and Norman's tantrums had many a time
disappeared as if by magic, at those familiar words.
After Joyce's return from the house-party at Locust, the Little Colonel
became the central figure of interest, and all the glamour with which
their childish imaginations had surrounded the place, now gathered
around her like a nimbus around a saint. To Mary, who had read the
"Princess Winsome" until she knew it all by heart, Lloyd was something
between an ideal princess, who played on a golden harp, and an ideal
little schoolgirl, who lived in a real palace, and did exactly as she
pleased. She could talk of nothing else, after the letter came, and
followed Joyce and her mother with innumerable questions, pausing often
before the pictures of Lloyd and Tarbaby.
The boys' interest in her coming was increased when they found that she
was going to bring a rifle, and that her father had promised to hire a
horse for her as soon as they arrived.
Phil, who came so often to the Wigwam now that he seemed almost one of
the family, caught so much of its enthusiasm over the coming guest,
that he planned picnics and excursions for every day of her visit. He
even had a voice in what he called the Council of War, in which it was
decided to let the two older boys move their cots out-of-doors. Holland
had been clamouring to sleep outside the tent ever since George Lee told
him that he had begun to do so, and that was what made the cowboys so
strong.
So the gaily decorated tent, with its "figures mystical and awful," was
made ready for Lloyd, and Norman took Joyce's place in his mother's
tent.
"She'll know that she's really out West when she once sets her eyes on
those gods of the Dacotahs," Holland said to Mary on their way to school
one morning. "As long as we call this the Wigwam, I think we ought to be
dressed up in war-paint and feathers when she gets here. I'll do it,
Mary, if you will. I'll dare you to. I'll double dare you!"
Usually a double dare never failed to have the desired effect upon Mary.
She would attempt anything he suggested. But it was too serious a matter
to risk the first impression that such an appearance would make upon
Lloyd, so she trudged on with a resolute shake of her little blond
braids and big blue bows.
"No, sir-ree, Holland Ware. I'm going to stay home from school that day,
and wear my very best white dress and my rosebud sash. It's just as good
as new if it is two years old, and the little spots on it where I
squirted orange-juice don't show at all when it's tied. And Joyce said
that she is going to put your hands to soak overnight, to see if she
can't get them clean for once, for if there's anything the Little
Colonel abominates, it's dirty hands and finger-nails. And you've got to
wear a necktie every day, and go into Phoenix and have your hair cut. So
there!"
"Oh, I have, have I?" repeated Holland, mimicking her tone. "If Joyce
has all those plans in her head, she can just get them out again. I'm
not going to be a dude for any old girl in the country, I don't care if
it is Lloyd Sherman. And if she is so dreadful particular as all that,
I'll do something to shock her every day, till she gets used to it. Yes,
I believe I'll come to the table the very first meal in a blanket, with
feathers in my hair, and if you dare tell anybody beforehand,
I'll--I'll--well, I'll get even with you in a way you won't like."
"Oh, Holland, please don't! _Please_ don't disgrace us," begged Mary,
who always took his threats in earnest. "It would be too dreadful. I'll
give you something nice if you'll promise not to."
"What will you give me?"
"What have I got that you want?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'll have to think about it."
Holland had no intention of carrying out his threats, but he kept Mary
in a fever of anxiety all week, saying one hour that he'd think about
her offer, and the next that she didn't have anything he cared for, and
that he preferred the fun of tormenting the girls to anything she could
give.
Joyce drew a star on the kitchen calendar, over the date on which they
expected Lloyd to arrive; a big five-pointed red star. She rejoiced that
it fell on a Wednesday, for by that time the washing and ironing would
be out of the way. Her first experience in laundry-work made her look
ahead to the coming Mondays as weekly bugbears. But the second was not
so hard as the first. True to his promise, Jack did all the rubbing and
wringing, getting up at daybreak to start the fire under the big
wash-boiler out in the yard.
This morning, as he touched a match to the little pile of kindling, and
fanned the blaze with his hat, the new pony, grazing in the alfalfa
field, came up to the pasture-bars with a whinny, and put his head over
the fence, as if to watch him.
"Oh, you think you'll boss this job, do you, Mr. Washington?" said Jack,
who, in the short time he had had the pony, had grown as fond of him as
if he were a person, and who talked to him as if he had human
intelligence. "Well, you ought to take an interest in the washing, since
that's the way you got your name, and the reason you are here. Wait till
I get this boiler filled, and I'll bring you a lump of sugar."
Washington was a wiry little pony. He had a wicked light in his eyes,
and was too free with his heels at times, but he had been raised as a
household pet, and stood like a kitten while Jack rubbed his nose and
fed him sugar.
"Take it easy while you can," said Jack. "If I have to work like a dog
all morning on your account, to earn half the dollars that you cost us,
I'll put you through your paces this afternoon to make up for it. You'll
think that you are the Wild Mazeppa by the time we get back. Oh, you're
such a nice old fellow!"
Nobody was near to see the impulsive way in which the boy threw his arms
around the pony's neck and hugged him tight. The feeling of possession
made him happy as a king, as he sat on the topmost bar braiding
Washington's shaggy forelock, while the sun came up over the Camelback,
and the morning chorus of bird-calls swelled louder and sweeter over the
awakening world.
The fire under the boiler was crackling merrily, and the water was
steaming, when Joyce came out of her tent and started toward the
kitchen. She stopped a moment by the pasture-bars to reach through and
give the pony a friendly stroke, for she was almost as proud and fond of
him as Jack. She had had several delightful rides on him; once with Jack
for company, on Phil's new horse, and twice with Phil, when they had
raced for miles down the sandy road, past olive orchards and orange
groves, sweet with the coming of spring.
"I'm going to clip his mane to-morrow," said Jack, as he slipped down
from his seat, and followed Joyce toward the kitchen. "He must look his
best when Lloyd comes."
"We've done everything to that tune for a week," laughed Joyce. "'When
Lloyd comes' has grown to be a sort of refrain, running through all our
conversation. You notice now, at breakfast, and see how often it will be
used."
Holland was the first to repeat the well-worn phrase, as he took his
seat at the table, and waited hungrily for his plate to be served.
"When Lloyd comes you'll have some of those good little corn muffins for
breakfast, won't you, Joyce? Kentucky people aren't used to cold bread."
Joyce smiled at Jack as the words they were waiting for were repeated,
and then almost mechanically used them herself in her answer. "We'll
have them once in awhile, I suppose, but we can't afford a very great
change in our bill of fare. We'll have a mighty skimpy dinner to-day,
for there's not much left over from Sunday, and we'll be too busy
washing to stop to cook. But I want to have a big baking before Lloyd
comes. If I go in to meet her Wednesday, in the ranch surrey, I'll have
to do the extra cooking to-morrow afternoon, I suppose, after the
ironing is out of the way."
Mary cast an inquiring glance at the red star on the calendar.
"Only to-day and to-morrow, then I can stay home the day after that when
Lloyd comes, and wear my best white dress and my rosebud sash."
"Oh, that will be joyful," chanted Holland, imitating her tone.
"I wish that I were able to help you more with the work," said Mrs.
Ware, wistfully. "Then you would have more time for preparation. Norman
and I can manage the tent work, I think, this morning. Then I'll go down
to the seat under the willows, and finish that Indian head sofa pillow.
We must have that done before Lloyd comes."
"Seems to me that I can hardly wait," said Mary, giving an impatient
little wiggle that nearly upset her glass of milk.
"I wish Betty were coming, too," said Joyce. "She would be making up
stories from morning till night about the strange things out here; but
she wouldn't have much peace. You children would never let her out of
your sight."
"Like Davy did at the cuckoo's nest," said Mary, who knew Betty's
history almost as well as her own, and loved dearly to talk about it.
Betty's devotion to her godmother since she had gone to live at Locust,
and her wonderful gift for writing verses and stories made her almost as
interesting to Mary as the Little Colonel herself. As she moved about
the house after breakfast, doing the little duties that fell to her lot
before school-time, she chanted in a happy undertone all the play of the
"Rescue of the Princess Winsome," from beginning to end.
Sir Feal, the faithful knight, had been associated in her mind with
Phil, since the day he rescued her from her fright when she was running
away from the Indian. She was the princess, and Phil the gallant knight,
who, she dreamed in her romantic little heart, might some day send her
messages by the morning-glories and forget-me-nots, as Sir Feal had
done. Of course, not now, but some day when she was grown, and wore
long, lovely dresses, and had a beautiful voice. She had pictured
herself many a time, standing by a casement window with a dove clasped
to her breast, and singing the song, "Flutter, and fly, flutter, and
fly, bear him my heart of gold."
But now that the real princess was coming, she lost interest in her own
little day-dreams, which were of such a far-away time and so vague and
shadowy, and began dreaming them for Lloyd. She wondered what Phil would
think of her when they first met. She had already recited the entire
play to him, and showed him the miniature, and, as he studied the sweet
face at the casement, bending over the dove, he had hummed after Mary in
an absent-minded sort of way:
"Spin, spin, oh, golden thread,
He dreams of me night and day.
The poppy's chalice is sweet and red,
Oh, Love will find a way."
She was still humming it this morning when she came out of the back
door, ready to start to school, and her thoughts were full of the play.
"Joyce," she remarked, critically, pausing to watch her sister put more
wood on the camp-fire and poke the clothes in the boiler with the end of
an old broom-handle, "you look like the witch in the play:
"'On the fire
I'll pile my faggots higher and higher,
And in the bubbling water stir
This hank of hair, this patch of fur.
Bubble and boil, and snake-skin coil!
This charm shall all plans but the Ogre's foil.'"
Joyce laughed, and Mary, slipping through the bars, followed Holland
across lots to school. "I do feel like a witch in this old dress and
sunbonnet," she said, "and I must look like one. But no one ever comes
here in the mornings but Phil, and he has had his orders to stay away on
Mondays."
"What is the use of worrying about how you look?" asked Jack. "Nobody
expects a fellow to play Chinese laundryman with a high collar and kid
gloves on."
Sousing the tubful of clothes into the rinse-water, Joyce went on
vigorously with her morning's work. She and Jack relapsed into busy
silence as the morning wore on, and when the clock struck eleven,
neither had spoken for nearly an hour.
Suddenly a sound of wheels, coming rapidly along the road, and a child's
high-pitched voice made them both stop and look up to listen. "Aren't we
getting back-woodsy!" Joyce exclaimed, as Jack shook the suds from his
arms, and ran to the corner of the kitchen to watch a buggy drive past.
"So few people come out this desert road, that it is really an event to
see any one. I suppose we ought not to be blamed for staring."
"It is Hazel Lee," said Jack. "I'm sure that's her voice. There must be
some new boarders at the ranch, for there's a strange gentleman and a
girl in the buggy with her, and she's standing up in front pointing out
the country to them."
Joyce came and looked over his shoulder. "Yes, that's Hazel," she said.
"She's the knowingest little thing I ever saw for a child of five. You
couldn't lose her anywhere around this region, and she is as good as a
guide-book, for giving information. Mr. Ellestad was laughing the other
day about her disputing with the White Bachelor over the market price of
chickens. She was in the right, too, and proved it. She hears
everything, and never forgets anything she hears."
[Illustration: "'I THOUGHT WE'D NEVAH, NEVAH GET HEAH!'"]
"She's saying something now to amuse those people mightily," said Jack,
as a hearty laugh rang out above the rattle of wheels. Joyce transferred
her gaze from the chubby, bareheaded child, leaning over the dashboard
with eager gestures, to the two strangers behind her. Then she grasped
Jack's elbow with a little cry of astonishment. "It's Lloyd!" she
gasped. "Lloyd Sherman and her father, two days ahead of time. What
shall we do? Everything is in a mess, and nothing in the house for
dinner!"
That instant Hazel's bright eyes spied them, her plump little finger
pointed them out, and Joyce had no more time to consider appearances;
for, springing over the wheel, Lloyd came running toward her, calling in
the soft Southern accent that was the sweetest music to Joyce's ears,
"Oh, you deah, darling old thing! What made you move away out to the
edge of nowhere? I thought we'd nevah, nevah get heah!"
In the delight of seeing her again, Joyce forgot all about things being
topsyturvy, and how little there was in the house for dinner. She even
forgot to introduce Jack, who stood awkwardly waiting in the background,
till Mr. Sherman, amused at the girls' absorption in each other,
stepped out of the buggy and came forward, laughing.
"It looks as if the two Jacks will have to introduce themselves," he
said, holding out his hand. Jack's awkwardness vanished instantly at
this hearty greeting, and a moment later he was shaking hands with Lloyd
as easily as Joyce was welcoming Lloyd's father, wholly indifferent to
his outgrown overalls and rolled-up shirt-sleeves.
In the meantime, Hazel, who was a major-general in her small way for
comprehending situations, had, of her own accord, raced off to find Mrs.
Ware and bring her to welcome the unexpected guests.
"And you are Aunt Emily!" exclaimed Lloyd, turning with outstretched
hands as the sweet-faced little woman came toward them. "Mothah said you
wouldn't mind if I called you that, because you and she have always been
such deah friends."
There were tears in Mrs. Ware's eyes as she returned the impulsive kiss.
She had expected to be fond of Elizabeth's only daughter. She had hoped
to find her pretty and sweet, but she had not looked for this
winsomeness, which had been the Little Colonel's greatest charm since
babyhood. With that greeting, Lloyd walked straight into her heart.
The surprise ended more satisfactorily than most surprises do, for,
while Jack was unhitching the horse, and Mrs. Ware was talking over old
times with Mr. Sherman, whom she had known in her school-days, some one
went whizzing around the house on a bicycle.
"It's Jo, the Japanese chef from the ranch," said Joyce, springing up
from the front door-step where she sat with Lloyd, and starting back to
the kitchen to ask his errand.
"Oh, let me go, too," cried Lloyd, following. "I nevah saw a Jap close
enough to speak to."
Lloyd could not understand the pigeon-English with which he delivered a
basket he had brought, but it was evidently a funny proceeding to Jo. He
handed it over as if it had been a joke, doubling up like a jack-knife
as he pointed to the contents, and laughing so contagiously that Joyce
and Lloyd could not help laughing, too.
"He not velly nice pie, maybe," giggled Jo. "But you eat him allee same.
Mis' Lee say you not lookee for comp'nee. You not have nuzzing cook."
"Did Mrs. Lee tell you to bring the basket, Jo?" asked Joyce.
He shook his head. "Mis' Lee say take soup," pointing to the large
glass jar of clearest consomme, smoking hot, which Joyce had just lifted
from the basket. "I, _me_, bling along the pie, for my compli_ment_. She
no care. She kind, Clistian lady."
"She certainly is," laughed Joyce. "Now we can at least begin and end
our dinner in style. That's a _lovely_ pie, Jo; the prettiest I ever
saw."
The little almond eyes twinkled, as he watched her hold up the dainty
pastry with its snowy meringue for Lloyd to admire.
"Aw, he not velly good pie," protested Jo, with a self-conscious smirk,
knowing in his soul that it was the perfection of pastry, and eager to
hear Joyce say so again. "I make-a heap much betta nex-a time."
Then, with another laugh, he whizzed away on his wheel, pausing under
the pepper-trees to catch up Hazel, and take her home on his
handle-bars.
"Joyce," asked Lloyd, as she watched him disappear down the road, "did
you uncawk a bottle, or rub Aladdin's lamp? I feel as if I had walked
into the Arabian nights, to have a foreign-looking, almond-eyed chef
suddenly appear out of the desert with consomme and pie, like a genie
out of a bottle."
"It doesn't happen every day," laughed Joyce. "I suppose that after you
stopped at the ranch to inquire the way here, and picked up Hazel for a
guide, that it occurred to Mrs. Lee that we were not looking for you
until Wednesday, and that, as this is our wash-day, maybe we wouldn't
have a very elaborate dinner prepared, and she thought she would help us
out in a neighbourly way. Jo enjoyed coming. When we were at the ranch,
he was always making delicious little extra dishes for mamma."
"Oh, I hope our coming soonah than you expected hasn't made a
difference!" exclaimed Lloyd. "I nevah thought about yoah doing yoah own
work. Mr. Robeson decided not to stop in New Mexico as long as he had
planned, and, when I found that would put us heah two days soonah, I
wouldn't let Papa Jack telegraph. I'm so sorry."
"Don't say another word about it," interrupted Joyce. "The only
difference it makes is to you and your father. You've not been received
in quite such good style as if we'd been dressed in our best bibs and
tuckers, but maybe you'll feel more at home, dropping right down in the
middle of things this way."
Lloyd felt as if she certainly had dropped down in the middle of things,
into a most intimate knowledge of the Ware family's affairs. For, as
Joyce circled around, setting the table, she saw that a pitcher of milk,
bread and butter, and some cold boiled potatoes, sliced ready to fry,
was all that the pantry held for dinner. If Joyce had spoken one word of
apology, Lloyd would have felt exceedingly uncomfortable, but she only
laughed as she put the consomme on the stove to keep hot, and set out
the pie-plates on the sideboard.
"Lucky for you," she said, "that the genie came out of his bottle. We
were spending all our energy in rushing through the laundry work, so
that we could make grand preparations for to-morrow, but we couldn't
have equalled Jo, no matter how hard we tried."
While Joyce, talking as fast as she worked, fried the potatoes and
sliced the bread, Jack wrung out the last basketful of clothes and hung
them on the line, and then disappeared in his mother's tent to make
himself presentable for dinner. Lloyd had already had a peep into the
tent that she was to share with Joyce, and had called her father to come
and have a laugh with her over the green-eyed gods of the Dacotahs which
were to guard her slumbers during her visit to the Wigwam. He was to
leave that same night, and go on to the mines with Mr. Robeson and his
party.
Her trunk was brought out from town soon after dinner, and, while she
partly unpacked it, putting the things she would need oftenest into the
bureau drawers that Joyce had emptied for her, Jack and Mr. Sherman
drove away to look at the horses one of the neighbours kept to hire to
tourists. They came back later with a shaggy Indian pony, which Lloyd at
once mounted for a trial ride.
Joyce went with her on Washington as far as the White Bachelor's. Lloyd
was not accustomed to a cross saddle, or to guiding a horse by the
pressure of the bridle-reins against its neck, so they rode slowly at
first. When they were almost opposite the camp at Lee's ranch, Joyce saw
a familiar little figure trudging along the road, and wished with
sisterly solicitude that they could avert a meeting. It was Mary on her
way home from school, dusty and dishevelled, as usual at such times, one
hair-ribbon lost, and the braid it had bound hanging loose and limp over
her ear. Joyce was not near enough to see, but she felt sure that her
shoe-laces were dangling, that there was ink on her hands and maybe her
face, and that at least one button, if not more, had burst loose from
the back of her dress. She knew that the child would be overwhelmed
with mortification if she should come face to face with the Princess
Winsome in such a condition, when she had set her heart upon appearing
before her in her white dress and rosebud sash.
Before Joyce could think of an excuse to turn back, Mary had settled the
matter for herself. Hazel had stopped her at the gate to tell her of the
unexpected arrival, so she was not wholly unprepared for this sudden
meeting. Darting up the high bank of the irrigating ditch like a little
gray lizard, she slid down on the other side into its dry bed and
crouched there till they passed. There had been no water running for
several days, but it would have made no difference to Mary. She would
have plunged in just the same, even if it had been neck deep. She simply
could not let the adored Little Colonel see her in such a plight.
Joyce almost laughed aloud at the frantic haste in which she scuttled
out of sight, but seeing that Lloyd had been too absorbed in guiding her
pony to notice it, she said nothing, and delayed their return until she
was sure that Mary was safe in her tent. So it was that when Lloyd went
back to the Wigwam one member of the Ware family was arrayed in all her
glory according to the original programme. Mary stood out under the
pepper-trees, washed, combed, and clad, painfully conscious of her
festive garments, which had had so few occasions to be donned on the
desert, and in a quiver of eagerness. It was not only Lloyd Sherman who
was coming toward her up the road. It was the Little Colonel, the Queen
of Hearts, the Princess Winsome, the heroine of a hundred familiar
tales, and the beautiful Dream-Maiden around whom she had woven all she
knew or imagined of romance.