The nursery was on the top-most floor of the great stone house--this for
sunshine and air. But the sunshine was gone when Gwendolyn returned from
her drive, and a half-dozen silk-shaded lights threw a soft glow over
the room. To shut out the chill of the spring evening the windows were
down. Across them were drawn the heavy hangings of rose brocade.
There was a lamp on the larger of the nursery tables, a tall lamp,
almost flower-like with its petal-shaped ruffles of lace and chiffon. It
made conspicuous two packages that flanked it--one small and square; the
other large, and as round as a hat-box. Each was wrapped in white paper
and tied with red string.
"Birthday presents!" cried Jane, the moment she spied them; and sprang
forward. "Oh, I wonder what they are! What do _you_ guess, Gwendolyn?"
Gwendolyn followed slowly, blinking against the light. "I can't guess,"
she said without enthusiasm. The glass-fronted case was full of toys,
none of which she particularly cherished. (Indeed, most of them were
carefully wrapped from sight.) New ones would merely form an addition.
"Well, what would you _like?_" queried Jane, catching up the small
package and shaking it.
Gwendolyn suddenly looked very earnest.
"Most in the whole _world?_" she asked.
"Yes, what?" Jane dropped the small package and shook the large one.
"In the whole, whole big world?" went on Gwendolyn--to herself rather
than to her nurse. She was not looking at the table, but toward a
curtained window, and the gray eyes had a tender faraway expression.
There was a faint conventional pattern in the brocade of the heavy
hangings. It suggested trees with graceful down-growing boughs. She
clasped her hands. "I want to live out in the woods," she said, "at
Johnnie Blake's cottage by the stream that's got fish in it."
Jane set the big package down with a thump. "That's _awful_ selfish of
you," she declared warmly. "For you know right well that Thomas and _I_
wouldn't like to leave the city and live away out in the country.
_Would_ we, Thomas?"--for he had just entered.
"Cer-tain-ly _not_," said Thomas.
"And it'd give poor Miss Royle the neuralgia," (Jane and Miss Royle
might contend with each other; they made common cause against _her_.)
"But none of you'd _have_ to" assured Gwendolyn. "When I was at Johnnie
Blake's that once, just Potter went, and Rosa, and Cook. And Rosa
buttoned my dresses and gave me my bath, and--"
"So Rosa'll do _just_ as well as me," interrupted Jane, jealously.
"--And Potter passed the dishes at table," resumed Gwendolyn, ignoring
the remark; "and _he_ never hurried the best-tasting ones."
"Hear that will you, Thomas!" cried Jane. "Mr. _Potter_ never hurried
the best-tastin' ones!"
Thomas gave her a significant stare. "I tell you, a certain person is
growin' keen," he said in a low voice.
Jane took Gwendolyn by the arm. "Put all that Johnnie Blake nonsense out
of your head," she commanded. "Folks that live in the woods don't know
nothin'. They're silly and pokey."
Gwendolyn shook her head with deliberation. "Johnny Blake wasn't pokey,"
she denied. "He had a willow fishpole, and a string tied to it. And he
caught shiny fishes on the end of the string."
"Johnnie Blake!" sniffed Jane. "Oh, I know all about _him_. Rosa told
me. He's a common, poor little boy. And"--severely--"I, for _one_, can't
see why you was ever allowed to play with him!...
"Now, darlin',"--softening--"here we stand fussin', and you ain't even
guessed what your presents are. Guess something that's real fine:
something you'd like in the city, pettie." She began to unwrap the
larger of the packages.
"Oh," said Gwendolyn. "What I'd like in the _city_. Well,"--suddenly
between her brows there came a curious, strained little wrinkle--"I'd
like--"
The white paper fell away. A large, round box was disclosed. To it was
tied a small card.
"This is from your papa!" cried Jane. "Oh, let's see what it is!"
The wrinkle smoothed. A smile broke,--like sudden sunlight after clouds,
and shadow. Then there poured forth all that had filled her heart during
the past months:
"I'd like to eat at the grown-up table with my fath-er and my moth-er,"
she declared; "and I don't want to have a nurse any more like a baby!
and I want to go to _day_-school."
Jane gasped, and her big hands fell from the round box. Thomas stared,
and reddened even to his ears, which were large and over-prominent. To
both, the project cherished so long and constantly was in the nature of
a bombshell.
"Oh-ho!" said Jane, recovering herself after a moment. "So me and Thomas
are to be thrown out of our jobs, are we?"
Gwendolyn looked mild surprise. "But you don't _like_ to be here," she
reminded. "And you and Thomas wouldn't have to work any more; you could
just play all the time." She smiled up at them encouragingly.
Thomas eyed Jane. "If we ain't careful," he warned in a low voice, "and
let a certain party talk too much at headquarters--"
The other nodded, comprehending "I'll look sharp," she promised. "Royle
will, too." Whereupon, with a forced change to gayety, and a toss of the
white card aside, she lifted the cover of the box and peeked in.
It was a merry-go-round, canopied in gay stripes, and built to
accommodate a party of twelve dolls. There were six deep seats, each
lined with ruby plush, for as many lady dolls: There were six prancing
Arab steeds--bay and chestnut and dappled gray--for an equal number of
men. A small handle turned to wind up the merry-go-round. Whereupon the
seats revolved gayly, the Arabs curvetted; and from the base of the
stout canopy pole there sounded a merry tune.
"Oh, darlin', what a grand thing!" cried Jane, lifting Gwendolyn to
stand on the rounding seat of a white-and-gold chair (a position at
other times strictly forbidden). "And what a pile of money it must've
cost! Why, it's as natural as the big one in the Park!"
The music and the horses appealed. Other considerations moved
temporarily into the background as Gwendolyn watched and listened.
Thomas broke the string of the smaller package. "This is the Madam's
present," he declared. "And I'll warrant it's a beauty!"
It proved a surprise. All paper shorn away, there stood revealed a green
cabbage, topped by something fluffy and hairy and snow-white. This was a
rabbit's head. And when Thomas had turned a key in the base of the
cabbage, the rabbit gave a sudden hop, lifted a pair of long ears,
munched at a bit of cabbage-leaf, turned his pink nose, now to the
right, now to the left, and rolled two amber eyes.
"And look! Look!" shouted Jane "The eyes light up" For each was glowing
as yellowly as the tiny electric bulbs on either side of Gwendolyn's
dressing-table.
"Now what _more_ could a little lady want!" exclaimed Thomas. "It's as
wonderful, _I_ say, as a wax figger."
The rabbit, with a sharp click of farewell, popped back into the
cabbage. Gwendolyn got down from the chair.
"It _is_ nice," she conceded. "And I'm going to ask fath-er and moth-er
to come up and see it."
Neither Thomas nor Jane answered. But again he eyed the nurse, this time
flashing a silent warning. After which she began to exclaim excitedly
over the rabbit, while he wound up the merry-go-round. Then the ruby
seats and the Arabs careened in a circle, the music played, the rabbit
chewed and wriggled and rolled his luminous eyes.
An interruption came in the shape of a ring at the telephone, which
stood on the small table at the head of Gwendolyn's bed. Jane answered
the summons, and received the message,--a brief one. It worked, however,
a noticeable change. For when Jane turned round her face was sullen.
Gwendolyn remarked the scowls. Also the fact that the moment Jane made
Thomas her confidant--in an undertone--he showed plain signs of being
annoyed. Gwendolyn saw the merry-go-round--cabbage and all--disappear
into the large, round box without a trace of regret. So much ill-feeling
on the part of nurse and man-servant undoubtedly meant that something
of a decidedly pleasant nature was about to happen to herself.
It was a usual--almost a daily--occurrence for her to visit the region
of the grown-ups at the dinner-hour. On such occasions she saw one,
though more often both, of her parents--as well as a varying number of
guests. And the privilege was one held dear.
She coveted a dearer. And her eyes roved to the larger of her two
tables, where stood the tall lamp. There she ate all her meals, in the
condescending company of Miss Royle. What if the telephone message meant
that henceforth she was to eat _downstairs?_
Standing on one foot she waited developments, and concealed her
eagerness by snapping her underlip against her teeth with one busy
forefinger.
Her spirits fell when Thomas appeared with the supper-tray. And she ate
with no appetite--for all that she was eating alone--alone, that is,
except for Thomas, who preserved a complete and stony silence. Miss
Royle had not returned. Jane had disappeared toward her room, grumbling
about never having a single evening to call her own.
But at seven cheer returned with the realization that Jane was not
getting ready the white-and-gold bed. Still in a very bad humor, and
touched up smartly by a fresh cap and a dainty apron, the nurse put
Gwendolyn into a rosebud-bordered mull frock and tied a white-satin bow
atop her yellow hair.
"Where am I going, Jane?" asked Gwendolyn. (She felt certain that this
was one of the nights when she was invited downstairs: She hoped--with a
throb in her throat that was like the beat of a heart--that the supper
just past was only afternoon tea, and that there was waiting for her at
the grown-up table--in view of her newly acquired year and dignity--_an
empty chair_.)
"You'll see soon enough," answered Jane, shortly.
Next, a new thought! Her father and mother had not seen her for two
whole days--not since she was six. "Wonder if I show I'm not taller,"
she mused under her breath.
At precisely fifteen minutes to eight Jane took her by the hand. And she
went down and down in the bronze cage, past the floor where were the
guest chambers, past the library floor, which was where her mother and
father lived, to the second floor of the great house. Here was the
music-room, spacious and splendid, and the dining-room. The doors of
this latter room were double. Before them the two halted.
Not only the pause at this entrance betrayed whereto they were bound,
but also Jane's manner. For the nurse was holding herself erect and
proper--shoulders back, chin in, heels together. Gwendolyn had often
noted that upon both Jane and Thomas her parents had a curious
stiffening effect.
The thought of that empty chair now forced itself uppermost. The gray
eyes darkened with sudden anxiety.
"Now, Gwendolyn" whispered Jane, leaning down, "put your best foot
forward." Her face had lost some of its accustomed color.
"But, Jane," whispered Gwendolyn back, "which _is_ my best foot?"
Jane gave the small hand she was holding an impatient shake. "Hush your
rubbishy questions," she commanded "We're goin' in!" She tapped one of
the doors gently.
Gwendolyn glanced down at her daintily slippered feet. With so little
time for reflecting, she could not decide which one she should put
forward. Both looked equally well.
The next moment the doors swung open, and Potter, white-haired, grave
and bent, stepped aside for them to pass. They crossed the threshold.
The dining-room was wide and long and lofty. Its wainscot was somberly
stained. Above the wainscot, the dull tapestried walls reached to a
ceiling richly panelled. The center of this dark setting was a long
table, glittering with china and crystal, bright with silver and roses,
and lighted by clusters of silk-shaded candles that reflected
themselves upon circular table mirrors. At the far end of the table sat
Gwendolyn's father, pale in his black dress-clothes, and haggard-eyed;
at the near end sat her mother, pink-cheeked and pretty, with jewels
about her bare throat and in her fair hair. And between the two, filling
the high-backed chairs on either side of the table, were strange men and
women.
Gwendolyn let go of Jane's hand and went toward her mother. Thither had
gone her first glance; her second had swept the whole length of the
board to her father's face. And now, without heeding any of the others,
her look circled swiftly from chair to chair--searching.
Not one was empty!
The gray eyes blurred. Yet she tried to smile. Close to that dear
presence, so delicately perfumed (with a haunting perfume that was a
very part of her mother's charm and beauty) she halted; and
curtsied--precisely as Monsieur Tellegen had taught her. And when the
white-satin bow bobbed above the level of the table once more, she
raised her face for a kiss.
A murmur went up and down the double row of chairs.
Gwendolyn's mother smiled radiantly. Her glance over the table was
proud. "This is my little daughter's seventh birthday anniversary," she
proclaimed.
To Gwendolyn the announcement was unexpected. But she was quick. Very
cautiously she lifted herself on her toes--just a little.
Another buzz of comment circled the board. "_Too_ sweet!" said one; and,
"_Cunning!_" and "Fine child, that!"
"Now, dear," encouraged her mother.
Gwendolyn would have liked to stand still and listen to the chorus of
praise. But there was something else to do.
She turned a corner of the table and started slowly along it, curtseying
at each chair. As she curtsied she said nothing, only bobbed the satin
bow and put out a small hand. And, "How do you do, darling!" said the
ladies, and "Ah, little Miss Gwendolyn!" said the men.
The last man on that side, however, said something different. (He, she
had seen at the dinner-table often.) He slipped a hand into a pocket.
When it came forth, it held an oblong box. "I didn't forget that this
was your birthday," he half-whispered. "Here!"--as he laid the box upon
Gwendolyn's pink palm--"that's for your sweet tooth!"
Everyone was watching, the ladies beaming, the men intent and amused.
But Gwendolyn was unaware both of the silence and the scrutiny. She
glanced at the box. Then she looked up into the friendly eyes of the
donor.
"But," she began; "--but which _is_ my sweet tooth?"
There was a burst of laughter, Gwendolyn's father and mother joining in.
The man who had presented the box laughed heartiest of all; then rose.
First he bowed to her mother, who acknowledged his salute graciously;
next he turned to her father, whose pale face softened; last of all, he
addressed her:
"Miss Gwendolyn," said he, "a toast!"
Gwendolyn looked at those bread-plates which were nearest her. There was
no toast in sight, only some very nice dinner-rolls. Moreover, Potter
and Thomas were not starting for the pantry, but were standing, the one
behind her mother, the other behind her father, quietly listening. And
what this friend of her father's had in his right hand was not anything
to eat, but a delicate-stemmed glass wherein some champagne was
bubbling--like amber soda-water. She was forced to conclude that he was
unaccountably stupid--or only queer--or else indulging in another of
those incomprehensible grown-up jokes.
He made a little speech--which she could not understand, but which
elicited much laughter and polite applause; though to her it did not
seem brilliant, or even interesting. Reseating himself, he patted her
head.
She put the candy under her left arm, said a hasty, half-whispered
Thank-you to him, went to the next high-backed chair, curtsied, bobbed
the ribbon-bow and put out a hand. A pat on the head was dismissal:
There was no need to wait for an answer to her question concerning her
sweet tooth. Experience had taught her that whenever mirth greeted an
inquiry, that inquiry was ignored.
When one whole side of the table was finished, and she turned a second
corner, her father brushed her soft cheek with his lips.
"Did your dolls like the merry-go-round?" he asked kindly.
"Yes, fath--er."
"Was there something else my little girl wanted?"
Now she raised herself so far on her toes that her lips were close to
his ear. For there was a lady on either side of him. And both were
plainly listening.
"If--if you'd come up and make it go," she said, almost whispering.
He nodded energetically.
She went behind his chair. Thomas was in wait there still. Down here he
seemed to raise a wall of aloofness between himself and her, to wear a
magnificent air, all cold and haughty, that was quite foreign to the
nursery. As she passed him, she dimpled up at him saucily. But it failed
to slack the starchy tenseness of his visage.
She turned another corner and curtsied her way along the opposite side
of the table. On this side were precisely as many high-backed chairs as
on the other. And now, "You _adorable_ child!" cried the ladies, and
"Haw! Haw! Don't the rest of us get a smile?" said the men.
When all the curtseying was over, and the last corner was turned, she
paused. "And what is my daughter going to say about the rabbit in the
cabbage?" asked her mother.
There was a man seated on either hand. Gwendolyn gave each a quick
glance. At Johnnie Blake's she had been often alone with her father and
mother during that one glorious week. But in town her little
confidences, for the most part, had to be made in just this way--under
the eye of listening guests and servants, in a low voice.
"I like the rabbit," she answered, "but my Puffy Bear was nicer, only he
got old and shabby, and so--"
At this point Jane took one quick step forward.
"But if you'd come up to the nursery soon," Gwendolyn hastened to add.
"_Would_ you, moth--er?"
"Yes, indeed, dear."
Gwendolyn went up to Jane, who was waiting, rooted and rigid, close by.
The reddish eyes of the nurse-maid fairly bulged with importance. Her
lips were sealed primly. Her face was so pale that every freckle she
had stood forth clearly. How strangely--even direly--the great
dining-room affected _her_--who was so at ease in the nursery! No smile,
no wink, no remark, either lively or sensible, ever melted the ice of
_her_ countenance. And it was with a look almost akin to pity that
Gwendolyn held out a hand.
Jane took it with a great show of affection. Then once more Potter swung
wide the double doors.
Gwendolyn turned her head for a last glimpse of her father, sitting,
grave and haggard, at the far end of the table; at her beautiful,
jeweled mother; at the double line of high-backed chairs that showed,
now a man's stern black-and-white, next the gayer colors of a woman's
dress; at the clustered lights; the glitter; the roses--
Then the doors closed, making faint the din of chatter and laughter.
And the bronze cage carried Gwendolyn up and up.