Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sigal Alon and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.
[Illustration: THIS WAS A NOVEL EXPERIENCE, THIS HAVING BOTH FATHER
AND MOTHER IN THE NURSERY AT THE SAME TIME]
The
POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL
by
ELEANOR GATES
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP Publishers NEW YORK
The Poor Little Rich Girl
CHAPTER I
Halfway up the shining surface of the gilt-framed pier glass was a
mark--a tiny ink-line that had been carefully drawn across the outer
edge of the wide bevel. As Gwendolyn stared at the line, the reflection
of her small face in the mirror grew suddenly all white, as if some rude
hand had reached out and brushed away the pink from cheeks and lips.
Arms rigid at her sides, and open palms pressed hard against the flaring
skirts of her riding-coat, she shrank back from the glass.
"Oo-oo!" she breathed, aghast. The gray eyes swam.
After a moment, however, she blinked resolutely to clear her sight,
stepped forward again, and, straightening her slender little figure to
its utmost height, measured herself a second time against the mirror.
But--as before--the top of her yellow head did not reach above the
ink-mark--not by the smallest part of an inch! So there was no longer
any reason to hope! The worst was true! She had drawn the tiny line
across the edge of the bevel the evening before, when she was only six
years old; now it was mid-morning of another day, and she was
seven--_yet she was not a whit taller!_
The tears began to overflow. She pressed her embroidered handkerchief to
her eyes. Then, stifling a sob, she crossed the nursery, stumbling once
or twice as she made toward the long cushioned seat that stretched the
whole width of the front window. There, among the down-filled pillows,
with her loose hair falling about her wet cheeks and screening them, she
lay down.
For months she had looked forward with secret longing to this seventh
anniversary. Every morning she had taken down the rose-embossed calendar
that stood on the top of her gold-and-white writing-desk and tallied off
another of the days that intervened before her birthday. And the
previous evening she had measured herself against the pier glass without
even a single misgiving.
She rose at an early hour. Her waking look was toward the pier glass.
Her one thought was to gauge her new height. But the morning was the
usual busy one. When Jane finished bathing and dressing her, Miss Royle
summoned her to breakfast. An hour in the school-room followed--an hour
of quiet study, but under the watchful eye of the governess. Next,
Gwendolyn changed her dressing-gown for a riding-habit, and with Jane
holding her by one small hand, and with Thomas following, stepped into
the bronze cage that dropped down so noiselessly from nursery floor to
wide entrance-hall. Outside, the limousine was waiting. She and Jane
entered it. Thomas took his seat beside the chauffeur. And in a moment
the motor was speeding away.
At the riding-school, her master gave her the customary lesson: She
circled the tanbark on her fat brown pony--now to the right, at a walk;
now to the left, at a trot; now back to the right again at a rattling
canter, with her yellow hair whipping her shoulders, and her
three-cornered hat working farther and farther back on her bobbing head,
and tugging hard at the elastic under her dimpled chin. After nearly an
hour of this walk, trot and canter she was very rosy, and quite out of
breath. Then she was put back into the limousine and driven swiftly
home. And it was not until after her arrival that she had a moment
entirely to herself, and the first opportunity of comparing her height
with the tiny ink-line on the edge of the mirror's bevel.
Now as she lay, face down, on the window-seat, she know how vain had
been all the longing of months. The realization, so sudden and
unexpected, was a blow. The slender little figure among the cushions
quivered under it.
But all at once she sat up. And disappointment and grief gave place to
apprehension. "I wonder what's the matter with me," she faltered aloud.
"Oh, something awful, I guess."
The next moment caution succeeded fear. She sprang to her feet and ran
across the room. That tell-tale mark was still on the mirror, for nurse
or governess to see and question. And it was advisable that no one
should learn the unhappy truth. Her handkerchief was damp with tears.
She gathered the tiny square of linen into a tight ball and rubbed at
the ink-line industriously.
She was not a moment too soon. Scarcely had she regained the
window-seat, when the hall door opened and Thomas appeared on the sill,
almost filling the opening with his tall figure. As a rule he wore his
very splendid footman's livery of dark blue coat with dull-gold buttons,
blue trousers, and striped buff waistcoat. Now he wore street clothes,
and he had a leash in his hand.
"Is Jane about, Miss Gwendolyn?" he inquired. Then, seeing that
Gwendolyn was alone, "Would you mind tellin' her when she comes that I'm
out takin' the Madam's dogs for a walk?"
Gwendolyn had a new thought. "A--a walk?" she repeated. And stood up.
"But tell Jane, if you please," continued he, "that I'll be back in time
to go--well, _she_ knows where." This was said significantly. He turned.
"Thomas!" Gwendolyn hastened across to him. "Wait till I put on my hat.
I'm--I'm going with you." Her riding-hat lay among the dainty
pink-and-white articles on her crystal-topped dressing-table. She caught
it up.
"Miss Gwendolyn!" exclaimed Thomas, astonished.
"I'm seven," declared Gwendolyn, struggling with the hat-elastic. "I'm
a whole year older than I was yesterday. And--and I'm grown-up."
An exasperating smile lifted Thomas's lip. "Oh, _are_ you!" he observed.
The hat settled, she met his look squarely. (Did he suspicion anything?)
"_Yes_. And you take the dogs out to walk. So"--she started to pass
him--"_I'm_ going to walk."
His hair was black and straight. Now it seemed fairly to bristle with
amazement. "I couldn't take you if you _was_ grown-up," he asserted
firmly, blocking her advance; "--leastways not without Miss Royle or
Jane'd say Yes. It'd be worth my job."
Gwendolyn lowered her eyes, stood a moment in indecision, then pulled
off the hat, tossed it aside, went back to the window, and sat down.
At one end of the seat, swung high on its gilded spring, danced the
dome-topped cage of her canary. Presently she raised her face to him. He
was traveling tirelessly from perch to cage-floor, from floor to trapeze
again. His wings were half lifted from his little body--the bright
yellow of her own hair. It was as if he were ready for flight. His round
black eyes were constantly turned toward the world beyond the window. He
perked his head inquiringly, and cheeped. Now and then, with a wild
beating of his pinions, he sprang sidewise to the shining bars of the
cage, and hung there, panting.
She watched him for a time; made a slow survey of the nursery next,--and
sighed.
"Poor thing!" she murmured.
She heard the rustle of silk skirts from the direction of the
school-room. Hastily she shook out the embroidered handkerchief and put
it against her eyes.
A door opened. "There will be no lessons this afternoon, Gwendolyn." It
was Miss Royle's voice.
Gwendolyn did not speak. But she lowered the handkerchief a trifle--and
noted that the governess was dressed for going out--in a glistening
black silk plentifully ornamented with jet _paillettes_.
Miss Royle rustled her way to the pier-glass to have a last look at her
bonnet. It was a poke, with a quilted ribbon circling its brim, and some
lace arranged fluffily. It did not reach many inches above the spot
where Gwendolyn had drawn the ink-line, for Miss Royle was small. When
she had given the poke a pat here and a touch there, she leaned forward
to get a better view of her face. She had a pale, thin face and thin
faded hair. On either side of a high bony nose were set her pale-blue
eyes. Shutting them in, and perched on the thinnest part of her nose,
were silver-circled spectacles.
"I'm very glad I can give you a half-holiday, dear," she went on. But
her tone was somewhat sorrowful. She detached a small leaf of paper from
a tiny book in her hand-bag and rubbed it across her forehead. "For my
neuralgia is _much_ worse to-day." She coughed once or twice behind a
lisle-gloved hand, snapped the clasp of her hand-bag and started toward
the hall door.
It was now that for the first time she looked at Gwendolyn--and caught
sight of the bowed head, the grief-flushed cheeks, the suspended
handkerchief. She stopped short.
"Gwendolyn!" she exclaimed, annoyed. "I _hope_ you're not going to be
cross and troublesome, and make it impossible for me to have a couple of
hours to myself this afternoon--especially when I'm suffering." Then,
coaxingly, "You can amuse yourself with one of your nice pretend-games,
dear."
From under long up-curling lashes Gwendolyn regarded her in silence.
"I've planned to lunch out," went on Miss Royle. "But you won't mind,
_will_ you, dear Gwendolyn?" plaintively. "For I'll be back at tea-time.
And besides"--growing brighter--"you're to have--what do you think!--the
birthday cake Cook has made."
"I _hate_ cake!" burst out Gwendolyn; and covered her eyes once more.
"_Gwen-do-lyn!_" breathed Miss Royle.
Gwendolyn sat very still.
"How _can_ you be so naughty! Oh, it's really wicked and ungrateful of
you to be fretting and complaining--you who have _so_ many blessings!
But you don't appreciate them because you've always had them.
Well,"--mournfully solicitous--"I trust they'll never be taken from you,
my child. Ah, _I_ know how bitter such a loss is! I haven't _always_
been in my present circumstances, compelled to go out among strangers to
earn a scant living. Once--"
Here she was interrupted. The door from the school-room swung wide with
a bang. Gwendolyn, looking up, saw her nurse.
Jane was in sharp contrast to Miss Royle--taller and stocky, with broad
shoulders and big arms. As she halted against the open school-room door,
her hair was as ruddy as the panel that made a background for it. And
she had reddish eyes, and a full round face. In the midst of her face,
and all out of proportion to it, was her short turned-up nose, which was
plentifully sprinkled with freckles.
"So you're goin' out?" she began angrily, addressing the governess.
Miss Royle retreated a step. "Just for a--a couple of hours," she
explained.
Jane's face grew almost as red as her hair. Slamming the school-room
door behind her, she advanced. "I suppose it's the neuralgia again," she
suggested with quiet heat.
The color stole into Miss Royle's pale cheeks. She coughed. "It _is_ a
little worse than usual this afternoon," she admitted.
"I thought so," said Jane. "It's always worse--_on bargain-days_."
"How _dare_ you!"
"You ask me that, do you?--you old snake-in-the-grass!" Now Jane grew
pallid with anger.
Gwendolyn, listening, contemplated her governess thoughtfully. She had
often heard her pronounced a snake-in-the-grass.
Miss Royle was also pale. "That will do!" she declared. "I shall report
you to Madam."
"Report!" echoed Jane, giving a loud, harsh laugh, and shaking her
hair--the huge pompadour in front, the pug behind. "Well, go ahead. And
I'll report _you_--and your handy neuralgia."
"It's your duty to look after Gwendolyn when there are no lessons,"
reminded Miss Royle, but weakening noticeably.
"On _week_-days?" shrilled Jane. "Oh, don't try to fool me with any of
your schemin'! _I_ see. And I just laugh in my sleeve!"
Gwendolyn fixed inquiring gray eyes upon that sleeve of Jane's dress
which was the nearer. It was of black sateen. It fitted the stout arm
sleekly.
"This is the dear child's birthday, and I wish her to have the afternoon
free."
"A-a-ah! Then why don't you take her out with you? You like the
auto_mo_bile nice enough,"--this sneeringly.
Miss Royle tossed her head. "I thought perhaps _you'd_ be using the
car," she answered, with fine sarcasm.
Jane began to argue, throwing out both hands: "How was _I_ to know
to-day was her birthday? You might've told me about it; instead, just
all of a sudden, you shove her off on my hands."
Gwendolyn's eyes narrowed resentfully.
Miss Royle gave a quick look toward the window-seat. "You mean you've
made plans?" she asked, concern supplanting anger in her voice.
To all appearances Jane was near to tears. She did not answer. She
nodded dejectedly.
"Well, Jane, you shall have to-morrow afternoon," declared Miss Royle,
soothingly. "Is _that_ fair? I didn't know you'd counted on to-day.
So--" Here another glance shot window-ward. Then she beckoned Jane. They
went into the hall. And Gwendolyn heard them whispering together.
When Jane came back into the nursery she looked almost cheerful. "Now
off with that habit," she called to Gwendolyn briskly. "And into
something for your dinner."
"I want to wear a plaid dress," announced Gwendolyn, getting down from
her seat slowly.
Jane was selecting a white muslin from a tall wardrobe. "Little girls
ain't wearin' plaids this year," she declared shortly. "Come."
"Well, then, I want a dress that's got a pocket," went on Gwendolyn,
"--a pocket 'way down on this side." She touched the right skirt of her
riding-coat.
"They ain't makin' pockets in little girls' dresses this year," said
Jane, "Come! Come!"
"'They,'" repeated Gwendolyn. "Who are 'They'? I'd like to know; 'cause
I could telephone 'em and--"
"Hush your nonsense!" bade Jane. Then, catching at the delicate square
of linen in Gwendolyn's hand, "How'd you git ink smeared over your
handkerchief? What do you suppose your mamma'd say if she was to come
upon it? _I'd_ be blamed--_as_ usual!"
"Who are They'?" persisted Gwendolyn. "'They' do so _many_ things. And I
want to tell 'em that I like pockets in _all_ my dresses."
Jane ignored the question.
"Yesterday you said 'They' would send us soda-water," went on
Gwendolyn--talking to herself now, rather than to the nurse. "And I'd
like to know where 'They' _find_ soda-water." Whereupon she fell to
pondering the question. Evidently this, like many another propounded to
Jane or Miss Royle; to Thomas; to her music-teacher, Miss Brown; to
Mademoiselle Du Bois, her French teacher; and to her teacher of German,
was one that was meant to remain a secret of the grown-ups.
Jane, having unbuttoned the riding-coat, pulled at the small black
boots. She was also talking to herself, for her lips moved.
The moment Gwendolyn caught sight of her unshod feet, she had a new
idea--the securing of a long-denied privilege by urging the occasion.
"Oh, Jane," she cried. "May I go barefoot?--just for a _little_ while. I
want to." Jane stripped off the cobwebby stockings. Gwendolyn wriggled
her ten pink toes. "May I, Jane?"
"You can go barefoot to _bed_," said Jane.
Gwendolyn's bed stood midway of the nursery, partly hidden by a high
tapestried screen. It was a beautiful bed, carved and enamelled, and
panelled--head and foot--with woven cane. But to Gwendolyn it was, by
day, a white instrument of torture. She gave it a glance of disfavor
now, and refrained from pursuing her idea.
When the muslin dress was donned, and a pink satin hair-bow replaced the
black one that bobbed on Gwendolyn's head when she rode, she returned to
the window and sat down. The seat was deep, and her shiny patent-leather
slippers stuck straight out in front of her. In one hand she held a
fresh handkerchief. She nibbled at it thoughtfully. She was still
wondering about "They."
Thomas looked cross when he came in to serve her noon dinner. He
arranged the table with a jerk and a bang.
"So old Royle up and outed, did she?" he said to Jane.
"Hush!" counseled Jane, significantly, and rolled her eyes in the
direction of the window-seat.
Gwendolyn stopped nibbling her handkerchief.
"And our plans is spoiled," went on Thomas. "Well, ain't that our luck!
And I suppose you couldn't manage to leave a certain party--"
Gwendolyn had been watching Thomas. Now she fell to observing the silver
buckles on her slippers. She might not know who "They" were. But "a
certain party"--
"Leave?" repeated Jane, "Who with? Not alone, surely you don't mean. For
something's gone wrong already to-day, as you'll see if you'll use your
eyes. And a fuss or a howl'd mean that somebody'd hear, and tattle to
the Madam, and--"
Thomas said something under his breath.
"So we can't go after all," resumed Jane; "--leastways not like we'd
counted on. And it's _too_ exasperatin'. Here I am, a person that likes
my freedom once in a while, and a glimpse at the shop-windows,--exactly
as much as old you-know-who does--and a bit of tea afterwards with a--a
friend."
At this point, Gwendolyn glanced up--just in time to see Thomas
regarding Jane with a broad grin. And Jane was smiling back at him, her
face so suffused with blushes that there was not a freckle to be seen.
Now Jane sighed, and stood looking down with hands folded. "What good
does it do to talk, though," she observed sadly. "Day in and day out,
day _in_ and day out, I have to dance attendance."
It was Gwendolyn's turn to color. She got down quickly and came forward.
"Sh!" warned Thomas. He busied himself with laying the silver.
Gwendolyn halted in front of Jane, and lifted a puzzled face. "But--but,
Jane," she began defensively, "you don't ever _dance_."
"Now, whatever do you think I was talkin' about?" demanded Jane,
roughly. "You dance, don't you, at Monsoor Tellegen's, of a Saturday
afternoon? Well, so do I when I get a' evenin' off,--which isn't often,
as you well know, Miss. And now your dinner's ready. So eat it, without
any more clackin'."
Gwendolyn climbed upon the plump rounding seat of a white-and-gold
chair.
Jane settled down nearby, choosing an upholstered arm-chair--spacious,
comfort-giving. She lolled in it, at ease but watchful.
"You can't think how that old butler spies on me," said Thomas,
addressing her. "He seen the tray when I put it on the dumb-waiter.
And, 'Miss Royle is havin' her lunch out,' he says. Then would you
_believe_ it, he took more'n half my dishes away!"
Jane giggled. "Potter's a sharp one," she declared. "But, oh, you
should've been behind a door just now when you-know-who and I had a
little understandin'."
"Eh?" he inquired, working his black brows excitedly. "How was that?"
Gwendolyn went calmly on with her mutton-broth. She already knew each
detail of the forth-coming recital.
"Well," began Jane, "she played her usual trick of startin' off without
so much as a word to me, and I just up and give her a tongue-lashin'."
Gwendolyn's spoon paused half way to her expectant pink mouth. She
stared at Jane. "Oh, I didn't see that," she exclaimed regretfully.
"Jane, what is a tongue-lashing?"
Jane sat up. "A tongue-lashin'," said she, "is what _you_ need, young
lady. Look at the way you've spilled your soup! Take it, Thomas, and
serve the rest of the dinner, I ain't goin' to allow you to be at the
table _all_ day, Miss.... There, Thomas! That'll be all the minced
chicken she can have."
"But I took just one little spoonful," protested Gwendolyn, earnestly.
"I wanted more, but Thomas held it 'way up, and--"
"Do you want to be sick?" demanded Jane. "And have a doctor come?"
Gwendolyn raised frightened eyes. A doctor had been called once in the
dim past, when she was a baby, racked by colic and budding teeth. She
did not remember him. But since the era of short clothes she had been
mercifully spared his visits. "N-n-no!" she faltered.
"Well, you look out or I'll git one on the 'phone. And you'll be sorry
_the rest of your life_.... Take the chicken away, Thomas. 'Out of sight
is'--you know the sayin'. (It's a pity there ain't some way to keep it
hot.)"
"A bit of cold fowl don't go so bad," said Thomas, reassuringly. And to
Gwendolyn, "Here's more of the potatoes souffles, Miss Gwendolyn,--_very_
tasty and fillin'."
Gwendolyn put up a hand and pushed the proffered dish aside.
"Now, no temper," warned Jane, rising. "Too much meat ain't good for
children. Your mamma herself would say that. Come! See that nice
potatoes and cream gravy on your plate. And there you set cryin'!"
Thomas had an idea. "Shall I fetch the cake?" he asked in a loud
whisper.
Jane nodded.
He disappeared--to reappear at once with a round frosted cake that had a
border of pink icing upon its glazed white top. And set within the
circle of the border were seven pink candles, all alight.
"Oh, look! Look!" cried Jane, excitedly, pulling Gwendolyn's hand away
from her eyes. "Isn't it a beautiful cake! You shall have a bi-i-ig
piece."
Those seven small candles dispelled the gloom. With tears on her cheeks,
but all eager and smiling once more, Gwendolyn blew the candles out. And
as she bent forward to puff at each tiny one, Jane held her bright hair
back, for fear that a strand might get too near a flame.
"Oh, Jane," cried Gwendolyn, "when I blow like that, _where_ do all the
little lights go?"
"Did you ever _hear_ such a question?" exclaimed Jane, appealing to
Thomas.
He was cutting away at the cake. "Of course, Miss, you'd like _me_ to
have a bite of this," he said. "You know it was me that reminded Cook
about bakin'--"
"Perhaps all the little lights go up under the big lamp-shade," went on
Gwendolyn, too absorbed to listen to Thomas. "And make a big light." She
started to get down from her chair to investigate.
"Now look here," said Jane irritably, "you'll just finish your dinner
before you leave the table. Here's your cake. _Eat_ it!"
Gwendolyn ate her slice daintily, using a fork.
Jane also ate a slice--holding it in her fingers. "There's ways of
managin' a fairly jolly afternoon," she said from the depths of the
arm-chair.
"You're speakin' of--er--?" asked Thomas, picking up cake crumbs with a
damp finger-tip.
"Uh-huh."
"A certain party would have to go along," he reminded.
"_Of_ course. But a ride's better'n nothin'."
"Shall I telephone for--?" Thomas brought a finger-bowl.
Gwendolyn stood up. A ride meant the limousine, with its screening top
and little windows. The limousine meant a long, tiresome run at good
speed through streets that she longed to travel afoot, slowly, with a
stop here and a stop there, and a poke into things in general.
Her crimson cheeks spoke rebellion. "I want a walk this afternoon," she
declared emphatically.
"Use your finger-bowl," said Jane. "Can't you _never_ remember your
manners?"
"I'm seven to-day," Gwendolyn went on, the tips of her fingers in the
small basin of silver while her face was turned to Jane. "I'm seven
and--and I'm grown-up."
"And you're splashin' water on the table-cloth. Look at you!"
"So," went on Gwendolyn, "I'm going to walk. I haven't walked for a
whole, whole week."
"You can lean back in the car," began Jane enthusiastically, "and
pretend you're a grand little Queen!"
"I don't _want_ to be a Queen. I want to _walk_.
"Rich little girls don't hike along the streets like common poor little
girls," informed Jane.
"I don't _want_ to be a rich little girl,"--voice shrill with
determination.
Jane went to shake her frilled apron into the gilded waste-basket beside
Gwendolyn's writing-desk. "You can telephone any time now, Thomas," she
said calmly.
Gwendolyn turned upon Thomas. "But I don't _want_ to be shut up in the
car this afternoon," she cried. "And I won't! I _won't!_ I WON'T!"
Jane gave a gasp of smothered rage. The reddish eyes blazed. "Do you
want me to send for a great black bear?" she demanded.
At that Gwendolyn quailed. "No-o-o!"
Jane shot a glance toward Thomas. It invited suggestion.
"Let her take something along," he said under his breath, nodding
toward a glass-fronted case of shelves that stood opposite Gwendolyn's
bed.
Each shelf of the case was covered with toys. Along one sat a line of
daintily clad dolls--black-haired dolls; golden-haired dolls; dolls from
China, with slanted eyes and a queue; dolls from Japan, in gayly figured
kimonos; Dutch dolls--a boy and a girl; a French doll in an exquisite
frock; a Russian; an Indian; a Spaniard. A second shelf held a shiny
red-and-black peg-top, a black wooden snake beside its lead-colored
pipe-like case; a tin soldier in an English uniform--red coat, and
pill-box cap held on by a chin-strap; a second uniformed tin man who
turned somersaults, but in repose stood upon his head; a black dog on
wheels, with great floppy ears; and a half-dozen downy ducklings
acquired at Easter.
"Much good takin' anything'll do!" grumbled Jane. Then, plucking crossly
at a muslin sleeve, "Well, what do you want? Your French doll? Speak
up!"
"I don't want anything," asserted Gwendolyn, "--long as I can't have my
Puffy Bear any more." There was a wide vacant place beside the dog with
the large ears.
"The little beast got shabby," explained Thomas, "and I was compelled to
throw him away along with the old linen-hamper. Like as not some poor
little child has him now."
She considered the statement, gray eyes wistful. Then, "I liked him,"
she said huskily. "He was old and squashy, and it wouldn't hurt him to
walk up the Drive, right in the path where the horses go. The dirt is
loose there, like it was in the road at Johnnie Blake's in the country.
I could scuff it with my shoes."
"You could scuff it and I could wear myself out cleanin', I suppose,"
retorted Jane. "And like as not run the risk of gittin' some bad germs
on my hands, and dyin' of 'em. From what Rosa says, it was downright
_shameful_ the way you muddied your clothes, and tore 'em, and messed in
the water after nasty tad-poles that week you was up country. _I_ won't
allow you to treat your beautiful dresses like that, or climb about, or
let the hot sun git at you."
"I'm going to _walk_."
Silence; but silence palpitant with thought. Then Jane threw up her
head--as if seized with an inspiration. "You're going to walk?" said
she. "All right! _All_ right! Walk if you want to." She made as if to
set out. "_Go_ ahead! But, my _dear_," (she dropped her voice in fear)
"you'll no more'n git to the next corner when _somebody'll steal you!_"
Gwendolyn was silent for a long moment. She glanced from Jane to Thomas,
from Thomas to Jane, and crooked her fingers in and out of her twisted
handkerchief.
"But, Jane," she said finally, "the dogs go out walking--and--and nobody
steals the dogs."
"Hear the silly child!" cried Jane. "Nobody steals the dogs! Why, if
anybody was to steal the dogs what good would it do 'em? They're only
Pomeranians anyhow, and Madam could go straight out and buy more.
Besides, like as not Pomeranians won't be stylish next year, and so
Madam wouldn't care two snaps. She'd go buy the latest thing in
poodles, or else a fine collie, or a spaniel or a Spitz."
"But other little girls walk all the time," insisted Gwendolyn, "and
nobody steals _them_."
Jane crossed her knees, pursed her mouth and folded her arms. "Well,
Thomas," she said, shaking her head, "I guess after all that I'll have
to tell her."
"Ah, yes, I suppose so," agreed Thomas. His tone was funereal.
Gwendolyn looked from one to the other.
"I haven't wanted to," continued Jane, dolefully. "_You_ know that. But
now she forces me to do it. Though I'm as sorry as sorry can be."
Thomas had just taken his portion of cake in one great mouthful. "Fo'm
my," he chimed in.
Gwendolyn looked concerned. "But I'm seven," she reiterated.
"Seven?" said Jane. "What has that got to do with it? _Age_ don't
matter."
Gwendolyn did not flinch.
"You said nobody steals other little girls," went on Jane. "It ain't
true. Poor little girls and boys, _no_body steals. You can see 'em
runnin' around loose everywheres. But it's different when a little
girl's papa is made of money."
"So much money," added Thomas, "that it fairly makes me palm itch."
Whereat he fell to rubbing one open hand against a corner of the piano.
Gwendolyn reflected a moment. Then, "But my fath-er isn't made of
money,"--she lingered a little, tenderly, over the word father,
pronouncing it as if it were two words. "I _know_ he isn't. When I was
at Johnnie Blake's cottage, we went fishing, and fath-er rolled up his
sleeves. And his arms were strong; and red, like Jane's."
Thomas sniggered.
But Jane gestured impatiently. Then, making scared eyes, "What has that
_got to do_," she demanded, "_with the wicked men that keep watch of
this house?_"
Gwendolyn swallowed. "What wicked men?" she questioned apprehensively.
"Ah-ha!" triumphed Jane. "I _thought_ that'd catch you! Now just let me
ask you another question: _Why are there bars on the basement windows?_"
Gwendolyn's lips parted to reply. But no words came.
"You don't know," said Jane. "But I'll tell you something: There ain't
no bars on the windows where _poor_ little girls live. For the simple
reason that nobody wants to steal _them_."
Gwendolyn considered the statement, her fingers still busy knotting and
unknotting.
"I tell you," Jane launched forth again, "that if you run about on the
street, like poor children do, you'll be grabbed up by a band of
kidnapers."
"Are--are kidnapers worse than doctors?" asked Gwendolyn.
"Worse than doctors!" scoffed Thomas, "_Heaps_ worse."
"Worse than--than bears?" (The last trace of that rebellious red was
gone.)
Up and down went Jane's head solemnly. "Kidnapers carry knives--big
curved knives."
Now Gwendolyn recalled a certain terror-inspiring man with a long belted
coat and a cap with a shiny visor. It was not his height that made her
fear him, for her father was fully as tall; and it was not his
brass-buttoned coat, or the dark, piercing eyes under the visor. She
feared him because Jane had often threatened her with his coming; and,
secondly, because he wore, hanging from his belt, a cudgel--long and
heavy and thick. How that cudgel glistened in the sunlight as it swung
to and fro by a thong!
"Worse than a--a p'liceman?" she faltered.
"Policeman? _Yes!_"
"Than the p'liceman that's--that's always hanging around here?"
Now Jane giggled, and blushed as red as her hair. "Hush!" she chided.
Thomas poked a teasing finger at her. "Haw! Haw!" he laughed. "There's
other people that's noticed a policeman hangin' round. _He's_ a dandy,
he is!--_not_. He let that old hand organ man give him a black eye."
"Pooh!" retorted Jane. "You know how much I care about that policeman!
It's only that I like to have him handy for just such times as this."
But Gwendolyn was dwelling on the newly discovered scourge of moneyed
children. "What would the kidnapers do?" she inquired.
"The kidnapers," promptly answered Jane, "would take you and shut you up
in a nasty cellar, where there was rats and mice and things and--"
Gwendolyn's mouth began to quiver.
Hastily Jane put out a hand. "But we'll look sharp that nothin' of the
kind happens," she declared stoutly; "for who can git you when you're in
the car--_especially_ when Thomas is along to watch out. So"--with a
great show of enthusiasm--"we'll go out, oh! for a _grand_ ride." She
rose. "And maybe when we git into the country a ways, we'll invite
Thomas to take the inside seat opposite," (another wink) "and he'll tell
you about soldierin' in India, and camps, and marches, and shootin'
elephants."
"Aren't there kidnapers in the country, too?" asked Gwendolyn. "I--I
guess I'd rather stay home."
"You won't see 'em in the country this time of day," explained Jane.
"They're all in town, huntin' rich little children. So on with the sweet
new hat and a pretty coat!" She opened the door of the wardrobe.
Gwendolyn did not move. But as she watched Jane the gray eyes filled
with tears, which overflowed and trickled slowly down her cheeks.
"If--if Thomas walked along with us," she began, "could--could anybody
steal me then?"
Jane was taking out coat, hat and gloves. "What would kidnapers care
about _Thomas?_" she demanded contemptuously. "_Sure_, they'd steal you,
and then they'd say to your father, 'Give! me a million dollars in cash
if you want Miss Gwendolyn back.' And if your father didn't give the
money on the spot, you'd be sold to gipsies, or--or _Chinamen_."
But Gwendolyn persisted. "Thomas has killed el'phunts," she reminded.
"Are--are kidnapers worse than el'phunts?" She drew on her gloves.
Jane sat down and held out the coat. It was of velvet. "Now be still!"
she commanded roughly. "You'll go in the machine if you go at _all_. Do
you hear that?"--giving Gwendolyn a half-turn-about that nearly upset
her. "Do you think I'm goin' to trapse over the hard pavements on my
poor, tired feet just because _you_ take your notions?"
Gwendolyn began to cry--softly. "Oh, I--I thought I wouldn't ever have
to ride again wh-when I was seven," she faltered, putting one
white-gloved hand to her eyes.
"Stop that!" commanded Jane, again, "Dirtyin' your gloves, you wasteful
little thing!"
Now the big sobs came. Down went the yellow head.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" said Thomas. "Little _ladies_ never cry."
"Walk! walk! walk!" scolded Jane, kneeling, and preparing to adjust the
new hat.
The hat had wide ribbons that tied under the chin--new, stiff ribbons.
"Johnnie Bu-Blake didn't fasten _his_ hat on like this," wept
Gwendolyn. She moved her chin from side to side. "He just had a--a
sh-shoe-string."
Jane had finished. "Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake!" she
mocked. She gave Gwendolyn a little push toward the front window. "Now,
no more of your nonsense. Go and be quiet for a few minutes. And keep a'
eye out, will you, to see that there's nobody layin' in wait for us out
in front?"
Gwendolyn went forward to the window-seat and climbed up among its
cushions. From there she looked down upon the Drive with its sloping,
evenly-cut grass, its smooth, tawny road and soft brown bridle-path, and
its curving walk, stone-walled on the outer side. Beyond park and road
and walk were tree-tops, bush-high above the wall. And beyond these was
the broad, slow-flowing river, with boats going to and fro upon its
shimmering surface. The farther side of the river was walled like the
walk, only the wall was a cliff, sheer and dark and timber-edged. And
through this timber could be seen the roofs and chimneys of distant
houses.
But Gwendolyn saw nothing of the beauty of the view. She did not even
glance down to where, on its pedestal, stood the great bronze war-horse,
its mane and tail flying, its neck arched, its lips curved to neigh.
Astride the horse was her friend, the General, soldierly, valorous, his
hat doffed--as if in silent greeting to the double procession of
vehicles and pedestrians that was passing before him. Brave he might be,
but what help was the General _now?_
When Jane was ready for the drive, Gwendolyn took a firm hold of one
thick thumb. And, with Thomas following, they were soon in the entrance
hall. There, waiting as usual, was Potter, the butler. He smiled at
Gwendolyn.
But Gwendolyn did not smile in return. As the cage had sunk swiftly down
the long shaft, her heart had sunk, too. And now she thought how old
Potter was; how thin and stooped. With kidnapers about, was _he_ a fit
guardian for the front door? As Potter swung wide the heavy grille of
wrought iron, with its silk-hung back of plate-glass, Gwendolyn pulled
hard at Jane's hand, and went down the granite steps and across the
sidewalk as quickly as possible, with a timid glance to right and left.
For, even as she entered the car, might not that band of knife-men
suddenly catch sight of her, and, rushing over walk and bridle-path and
roadway, seize her and carry her off?
She sank, trembling, upon the seat of the limousine.
Jane followed her. Then Thomas closed the windowed door of the motor and
took his place beside the chauffeur.
Gwendolyn leaned forward for a swift glance at the lower windows, barred
against intruders. The great house was of stone. On side and rear it
stood flat against other houses. But it was built on a corner; and along
its front and outer side, the tops of the basement windows were set a
foot or more above the level of the sidewalk. To Gwendolyn those windows
were huge eyes, peering out at her from under heavy lashes of iron.
The automobile started. Jane arranged her skirts and leaned back
luxuriously, her big hands folded on her lap.
"My! but ain't this grand!" she exclaimed. Then to Gwendolyn: "You
don't mind, do you, dearie, if Jane has a taste of gum as we go along?"
Gwendolyn did not reply. She had not heard. She was leaning toward the
little window on her side of the limousine. In front of Jane was the
chauffeur, wide-backed and skillful, and crouched vigilantly over his
wheel. But in front of her was Thomas, sitting in the proudly erect,
stiff position peculiar to him whenever he fared abroad. He looked
neither to right nor left. He seemed indifferent that danger lurked for
her along the Drive.
But she--! As the limousine joined others, all speeding forward merrily,
her pale little face was pressed against the shield-shaped pane of
glass, her frightened eyes roved continually, searching the moving
crowds.