Gwendolyn was lying on her back in the middle of the nursery floor. The
skein of her flaxen hair streamed about her shoulders in tangles. Her
head being unpillowed, her face was pink--and pink, too, with wrath. Her
blue-and-white frock was crumpled. She was kicking the rug with both
heels.
It was noon. And Miss Royle was having her dinner. Her face, usually so
pale, was dark with anger--held well in check. Her expression was that
of one who had recently suffered a scare, and her faded eyes shifted
here and there uneasily. Thomas, too, looked apprehensive as he moved
between table and tray. Jane was just gone, showing, as she
disappeared, lips nervously pursed, and a red, roving glance that
betokened worry.
Gwendolyn, watching out from under the arm that rested across her
forehead, realized how her last night's breach of authority had
impressed each one of them. And secretly rejoicing at her triumph, she
kept up a brisk tattoo.
Miss Royle ignored her. "I'll take a little more chocolate, Thomas," she
said, with a fair semblance of calm. But cup and saucer rattled in her
hand.
Thomas, too, feigned indifference to the rat! tat! tat! of heels. He
bent above the table attentively. And to Gwendolyn was wafted down a
sweet aroma.
"Thank you," said Miss Royle. "And cake, _too?_ Splendid! How did you
manage it?" A knife-edge cut against china. She helped herself
generously.
Gwendolyn fell silent to listen.
"Well, I haven't Mr. Potter to thank," said Thomas, warmly; "only my own
forethoughtedness, as you might say. The first time I ever set eyes on
it I seen it was the kind that'd keep, so--"
From under the shielding arm Gwendolyn blinked with indignation. _Her
birthday cake!_
"Say, Miss Royle," chuckled Thomas, replenishing the chocolate cup,
"that was a' _awful_ whack you give Miss J--last night."
At once Gwendolyn forgot the wrong put upon her in the matter of the
cake--in astonishment at this new turn of affairs. Evidently Miss Royle
and Thomas were leagued against Jane!
The governess nodded importantly, "She _was_ only a cook before she came
here," she declared contemptuously. "Down at the Employment Agency,
where Madam got her, they said so. The common, two-faced thing!" This
last was said with much vindictiveness. Following it, she proffered
Thomas the cake-plate.
"Thanks," said he; "I don't mind if I do have a slice."
Now, of a sudden, wrath and resentment possessed Gwendolyn, sweeping her
like a wave--at seeing her cake portioned out; at having her kicking
ignored; at hearing these two openly abuse Jane.
"I want some strawberries," she stormed, pounding the rug full force.
"And an egg. I _won't_ eat dry bread!" Bang! Bang! Bang!
Miss Royle half-turned. "Did you ask to go down to the library?" she
inquired. She seemed totally undisturbed; yet her eyes glittered.
"Did she ask?" snorted Thomas. "She's gettin' very forward, she is."
"No, you knew better," went on Miss Royle. "You _knew_ I wouldn't permit
you to bother your father when he didn't want you--"
"He _did_ want me!"--choking with a sob.
"Think," resumed the governess, inflecting her tones eloquently, "of the
fortune he spends on your dresses, and your pony, and your beautiful
car! And he hires all of us"--she swept a gesture--"to wait on you, you
naughty girl, and try to make a little lady out of you--"
"I hate ladies!" cried Gwendolyn, rapping her heels by way of emphasis.
"Tale-bearing is _vulgar_," asserted Miss Royle.
"Next year I'm going to _day_-school like Johnnie _Blake!_"
"Oh, hush your nonsense!" commanded Thomas, irritably.
Miss Royle glanced up at him. "That will do," she snapped.
He bridled up. "What the little imp needs is a good paddlin'," he
declared.
"Well, _you_ have nothing to do with the disciplining of the child. That
is _my_ business."
"It's what she needs, all the same. The very idear of her bawlin' all
the mornin' at the top of her lungs--"
"I did _not_ at the top of my lungs," contradicted Gwendolyn. "I cried
with my mouth."
"--So's the whole house can hear," continued Thomas; "and beatin' about
the floor. It's clear shameful, _I_ say, and enough to give a sensitive
person the nerves. As I remarked to Jane only---"
"You remark too many things to Jane," interposed the governess, curtly.
Now he sobered. "I _hope_ you ain't displeased with me," he ventured.
"_Ain't_ displeased?" repeated Miss Royle, more than ever fretful. "Oh,
Thomas, _do_ stop murdering the King's English!"
At that Gwendolyn sat up, shook back her hair, and raised a startled
face to the row of toys in the glass-fronted case. Murdering the King's
English! Had he _dared_ to harm her soldier with the scarlet coat?
"I was urgin' your betterin', too, Miss Royle," reminded Thomas, gently.
"I says to Jane, I says--"
The soldier was in his place, safe. Relieved, Gwendolyn straightened out
once more on her back.
"--'The whole lot of us ought to be paid higher wages than we're
gettin' for it's a real trial to have to be under the same roof with
such a provokin'--'"
Miss Royle interrupted by vigorously bobbing her head. "Oh, that I have
to make my living in this way!" she exclaimed, voice deep with
mournfulness. "I'd rather wash dishes! I'd rather scrub floors! I'd
rather _star-r-ve!_"
Something in the vehemence, or in the cadence, of Miss Royle's
declaration again gave Gwendolyn that sense of triumph. With a sudden
curling up of her small nose, she giggled.
Miss Royle whirled with a rustle of silk skirts. "Gwendolyn," she said
threateningly, "if you're going to act like that, I shall know there's
something the matter with you, and I shall certainly call a doctor."
Gwendolyn lay very still. As Thomas glanced down at her, smirking
exultantly, her smile went, and the pink of wrath once more surged into
her face.
"And the doctor'll give nasty medicine," declared Thomas, "or maybe
he'll cut out your appendix!"
"Potter won't let him."
"Potter! Huh!--He'll cut out your appendix, and charge your papa a
thousand dollars. Oh, you bet, them that's naughty always pays the
piper."
Gwendolyn got to her feet. "I _won't_ pay the piper," she retorted. "I'm
going to give all my money to the hand-organ man--_all_ of it. I like
_him_," tauntingly. "But I hate--you."
"_We_ hate a sneak," observed Miss Royle, blandly.
The little figure went rigid. "And I hate _you_," she cried shrilly.
Then buried her face in her hands.
"_Gwen-do-lyn'!_" It was a solemn and horrified warning.
Gwendolyn turned and walked slowly toward the window-seat. Her breast
was heaving.
"Come back and sit in this chair," bade the governess.
Gwendolyn paused, but did not turn.
"Shall I fetch you?"
"Can't I even look out of the window?" burst forth Gwendolyn. "Oh,
you--you--you--" (she yearned to say Snake-in-the--grass!--yet dared
not) "you mean! _mean!_" Her voice rose to a scream.
Miss Royle stood up. "I see that you want to go to bed," she declared.
The torrent of Gwendolyn's anger and resentment surged and broke bounds.
She pivoted, arms tossing, face aflame. There were those wicked words
across the river that each night burned themselves upon the dark. She
had never pronounced them aloud before; but--
"Starch!" she shrilled, stamping a foot, "Villa sites! Borax! _Shirts!_"
Miss Royle gave Thomas a worried stare. He, in turn, fixed her with a
look of alarm. So much Gwendolyn saw before she flung herself down
again, sobbing aloud, but tearlessly, her cheek upon the rug.
She heard Miss Royle rustle toward the school-room; heard Thomas close
the door leading into the hall. There were times--the nursery had seen a
few--when the trio found it well to let her severely alone.
Now only a hoarse lamenting broke the quiet.
It was an hour later when some one tapped on the school-room door--Miss
French, doubtless, since it was her allotted time. The lamentations
swelled then--and grew fainter only when the last foot-fall died away on
the stairs. Then Gwendolyn slept.
Awakening, she lay and watched out through the upper panes of the front
window. Across the square of serene blue framed by curtains and casing,
small clouds were drifting--clouds dazzlingly white. She pretended the
clouds were fat, snowy sheep that were passing one by one.
Thus had snowy flocks crossed above the trout-stream. Oh? where was that
stream? the glade through which it flowed? the shingled cottage among
the trees?
With all her heart Gwendolyn wished she were a butterfly.
Suddenly she sat up. She had found her way alone to the library. Why not
put on hat and coat _and go to Johnnie Blake's?_
She was at the door of the wardrobe before she remembered the kidnapers,
and realized that she dared not walk out alone. But Potter liked the
country. Besides, he knew the way. She decided to ask him to go with
her--old and stooped though he was. Perhaps she would also take the
pretty nurse-maid at the corner. And those who were left behind--Miss
Royle and Thomas and Jane--would all be sorry when she was gone.
But let them fret! Let them weep, and wish her back! She--
That moment she caught sight of the photographs on the writing-desk. She
stood still to look at them. As she looked, both pictured faces
gradually dimmed. For tears had come at last--at the thought of leaving
father and mother--quiet tears that flowed in erratic little S's between
gray eyes and trembling mouth.
How could she forsake _them?_
"Gwendolyn," she half-whispered, "s'pose we just pu-play the Johnnie
Blake Pretend ... Oh, very well,"--this last with all of Miss Royle's
precise intonation.
The heavy brocade hangings were the forest trees. The piano was the
mountain, richly inlaid. The table was the cottage, and she rolled it
nearer the dull rose timber at the side window. The rug was the grassy,
flowery glade; its border, the stream that threaded the glade. Beyond
the stream twisted an unpaved and carefully polished road.
The first part of this particular Pretend was the drive to the
village--carved and enameled, and paneled with woven cane. A hassock did
duty for a runabout that had no top to shut out the sun-light, no
windows to bar the fragrant air. In front of the hassock, a pillow did
duty as a stout dappled pony.
Her father drove. And she sat beside him, holding on to the iron bar of
the runabout seat with one hand, to a corner of his coat with the other;
for not only were the turns sharp but the country road was uneven. The
sun was just rising above the forest, and it warmed her little back. The
fresh breeze caressed her cheeks into crimson, and swirled her hair
about the down-sloping rim of her wreath-encircled hat. That breeze
brought with it the perfume of opening flowers, the fragrance exhaled by
the trees along the way, the essence of the damp ground stirred by hoof
and wheel. Gwendolyn breathed through nostrils swelled to their widest.
Following the drive to the village came the trip up the stream to
trout-pools. Gwendolyn's father led the way with basket and reel. She
trotted at his heels. And beside Gwendolyn trotted Johnnie Blake.
The piano-seat was Johnnie. His eyes were blue, and full of laughter.
His small nose was as freckled as Jane's. His brown hair disposed itself
in several rough heaps, as if it had been winnowed by a tiny whirlwind.
"Good-morning," said Gwendolyn, curtseying.
"Hello!" returned Johnnie--while Gwendolyn smiled at herself in the
pier-glass. Johnnie carried a long willow fishing-pole cut from the
stream-side. Reel he had none, nor basket; and he did not own a belted
outing-suit of hunter's-green, and high buckled boots. He wore a plaid
gingham waist, starched so stiff that its round collar stood up and
tickled his ears. His hat was of straw, and somewhat ragged. His brown
jeans overalls, riveted and suspendered, reached to bare ankles fully as
brown. The overalls were provided with three pockets. Bulging one was
his round tin drinking-cup which was full of worms.
"Are there p'liceman in these woods?" inquired Gwendolyn.
"Nope," said Johnnie.
"Are there bears?"
"Nope."
"Are there doctors?"
"Nope. But there's snakes--some."
"Oh, I'm not afraid of snakes. I've got one at home. It's long and
black, and it's got a wooden tongue."
"'Fraid to go barefoot?"
"Oh, I wish I could!"
Here she glanced over a shoulder toward the school-room; then toward the
hall. Did she dare?
"Well, you're little yet," explained Johnnie. "But just you wait till
you grow up."
"Are--are _you_ grown-up?"--a trifle doubtfully.
"Of _course_, I'm grown up! Why, I'm _seven_." Whereat she strode up and
down, hands on hips, in feeble imitation of Johnnie.
But here the inclination for further make-believe died utterly--at a
point where, usually, Johnnie threw back his head with a triumphant
laugh, gave a squirrel-like leap into the air (from the top of the
nursery table), caught the lower branch of a tall, slim tree (the
chandelier), and swung himself to and fro with joyous abandon. For
Gwendolyn suddenly remembered the cruel truth borne out by the ink-line
on the pier-glass. And instead of climbing upon the table, she went to
stand in front of her writing-desk.
"I was seven my last birthday," she murmured, looking up at the
rose-embossed calendar.
Seven, and grown-up--and yet everything was just the same!
She went to the front window and knelt on the cushioned seat. Across the
river red smoke was pouring up from those chimneys on the water's edge
that were assuredly a mile high. Red smoke meant that evening was
approaching. Jane would enter soon. With two in the nursery, the
advantage was for her who did not have to make the overtures of peace.
She turned her back to the room.
Jane came. She drew the heavy curtains at the side window and busied
herself in the vicinity of the bed, moving about quietly, saying not a
word. Presently she went out.
Gwendolyn faced round. The bed was arranged for the night. At its head,
on the small table, was a glass of milk, a sandwich, a cup of broth, a
plate of cooked fruit.
The western sky faded--to gray, to deep blue, to jade. The river flowed
jade beneath. Along it the lights sprang up. Then came the stars.
Gwendolyn worked at the buttons of her slippers. The tears were falling
again; but not tears of anger or resentment--only of loneliness, of
yearning.
The little white-and-blue frock fastened down the front. She undid it,
weeping softly the while, found her night-dress, put it on and climbed
into bed.
The food was close at hand. She did not touch it. She was not hungry,
only worn with her day-long combat. She lay back among the pillows. And
as she looked up at the stars, each sent out gay little flashes of light
to every side.
"Oh, moth-er!" she mourned. "Everybody hates me! Everybody hates me!"
Then came a comforting thought: She would play the Dearest Pretend!
It was easy to make believe that a girlish figure was seated in the dark
beside the bed; that a tender face was bending down, a gentle hand
touching the troubled forehead, stroking the tangled hair.
"Oh, I want you all the time, moth-er!... And I want _you_, my precious
baby.... How much do you love me, moth-er?... Love you?--oh, big as the
sky!... Dear moth-er, may I eat at the grown-up table?... All the time,
sweetheart.... Goody! And we'll just let Miss Royle eat with Jane
and--"
She caught a stealthy _rustle! rustle! rustle!_ from the direction of
the hall. She spoke more low then, but continued to chatter, her
pretend-conversation, loving, confidential, and consoling.
Finally, "Moth-er," she plead, "will you please sing?"
She sang. Her voice was husky from crying. More than once it quavered
and broke. But the song was one she had heard in the long, raftered
living-room at Johnnie Blake's. And it soothed.
"Oh, it is not while beauty and youth are thine o-o-own,
And thy cheek is unstained by a tear,
That the fervor and faith of a soul can be kno-o-own--"
It grew faint. It ended--in a long sigh. Then one small hand in the
gentle make-believe grasp of another, she slept.