"I mean it’s not worth a second thought. If they didn’t intend anything,
there’s no sense in worrying. And if they did, they’re beneath your
notice."
"But, Peggy!" Elaine expostulated, "don’t you see I can’t go on with
this if people are going to look down on me and despise me? I don’t mind
how hard I work, but this--"
Something in Peggy’s look halted her mid-way in the sentence. The other
girl’s eyes were ablaze.
"Elaine, see here. Why did you apply for that position in the first
place?"
"Why, I needed the money, Peggy."
"You didn’t do it on the spur of the moment, did you? You thought about
it, and made up your mind that it was the right thing to do?"
"Why, ye-es--" Elaine hesitated, feeling a little suspicious that she
was walking into a trap.
"You’re the same Elaine to-night that you were yesterday, aren’t you?
You haven’t been spoiled, by spending a day in Uncle John’s office. Is
there any reason why anybody should like you less or respect you less?"
"Of course not, Peggy. It’s only the way people feel about such
things."
Peggy did not mean to stop till she had spoken her mind. "You’re ready
to give up doing something you’re sure is right and sensible because of
what people think. You know they’re wrong. You know such prejudices
are silly and mistaken and yet you haven’t got the courage to fight
them."
"I don’t know who would be brave enough for that," Elaine said
dejectedly.
"Everybody ought to be brave enough. Think of the people in the world
who’ve conquered real obstacles, people like Helen Keller, for instance.
It’s a shame for such a girl as you to give in to a lie, to let herself
be beaten by something she despises. You’re in the right and you know
it. Hold your head up and let people think what they please."
Peggy’s exhortation broke off abruptly on the discovery that there was a
fourth person in the room. A tall girl stood behind her, looking down
upon her with a face oddly like Elaine’s, though something--not years
alone--had given it a rather pathetic maturity. She was pale, and the
shadows under her eyes made them seem unnaturally large. As she met
Peggy’s startled gaze a little smile fluttered across her lips, and
then, as if unaccustomed to those surroundings, was lost in instant
gravity.
"I’ve been listening to you, Peggy Raymond," she said, in a voice which
Peggy instantly recognized as one she had heard before, and that over
the telephone. "And I think the cap fits me."
Peggy sprang to her feet. Even in her excitement she was on her guard
against betraying the secret of Elaine’s confidence. Fortunately her
confusion over Grace’s unexpected appearance and contribution to the
conversation was sufficient for the exigencies of the case. No one
could have guessed from her manner that she had a previous knowledge of
Grace’s presence in the house.
"Sit down, Peggy Raymond." The older girl touched Peggy’s shoulder
lightly, and seated herself near by. A furtive glance told Peggy that
Mrs. Marshall’s face was colorless, and that Elaine was sitting bolt
upright in her chair, her eyes protruding, as if her sister had been a
chance visitor from another planet.
Apparently Grace was not impressed by the excitement due to her
unheralded appearance. "I’m Grace Marshall," she said, addressing Peggy.
"Elaine’s sister."
"I couldn’t help knowing that you were Elaine’s sister, after really
looking at you," Peggy replied, trying to smile naturally. Grace
reflected a minute, apparently studying the pattern of the carpet.
"So you don’t believe in giving in to a lie."
"No!" Peggy gulped. "I don’t."
"And if you’re in the right, you should hold your head up and let people
think what they please. Isn’t that what you said?"
"It’s what I believe, anyway, with all my heart."
"I half think you’re right. And do you know, Peggy Raymond, I’ve been
acting on a very different plan. I’m going to tell you something that
happened not so very long ago and see what you have to say about that."
It was the story Peggy had heard before, shorn of some of its tragedy,
compressed into as few words as possible; a bald little tale, if the
burning eyes of the narrator had not supplied the pathos. She sat with
crossed hands as she told it, and when she had finished, looked
expectantly in Peggy’s direction. "Well?" she said as the other
hesitated.
"Well," cried Peggy, voicing a sentiment she had expressed earlier,
"somebody ought to hide. But not you."
"Then you think I’ve been silly."
"Yes." Peggy’s smile took the edge off her bluntness.
"And cowardly?"
"You could be braver."
"Well, I’ve been brave enough to come down and see you, anyway." Grace
laughed out, and Peggy noticed that both Elaine and her mother started
nervously at the sound. "You mustn’t think me familiar on short
acquaintance. You see I’ve known you for some time, and the most popular
topic of conversation in this house since we moved in has been Peggy
Raymond. You don’t mind my calling you _Peggy_?"
"I’d mind dreadfully if you called me anything else. And, by the way!"
Peggy had some sensible ideas as to striking when the iron is hot.
"Mayn’t I bring some of the girls in to see you? They will be so
interested when they know Elaine’s sister has come."
Grace’s gesture reminded Peggy of one who, coming from the darkness of a
cellar, blinks and shrinks away from the sunshine.
"Not yet. Not quite yet," she pleaded. "Let me get a little used to
things first." And Peggy wisely forbore to press her, guessing that as
soon as Grace began to live normally her unnatural shrinking from
companionship would disappear.
It was an exciting evening. Peggy stayed till her mother telephoned to
ask if anything was the matter. When some reference was made to
Elaine’s headache, Elaine protested.
"Headache! I haven’t any headache. I never felt better in my life."
Peggy viewed her with approval. It was not only that Elaine’s color had
returned, and her languid eyes had brightened. There was another
change, indefinable, but not to be mistaken. When courage and
resolution come flooding back into a heart deprived of both the least
observing cannot fail to note the difference.
"Going to the office, to-morrow?" Peggy demanded, as she rose to go.
"Of course."
"And you’re not going to say silly things any more, are you, about
people who look down on you?"
"I’m not going to be beaten by my sister. Grace needn’t think she’s got
a monopoly in the courage of the family." Elaine slipped her arm about
Grace’s shoulders, her face so transformed by tenderness and pride that
it was hardly recognizable.
Grace looked rueful over the implied compliment. "I’m afraid neither of
us could be called heroines. But Peggy’s started us right, and we’ll
have to help each other to be brave."
It certainly was a remarkable evening. But the thing which astonished
Peggy even more than the dramatic appearance of Elaine’s mysterious
sister, was the fact that Mrs. Marshall kissed her good night.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*AMY IS DISILLUSIONED*
"Elaine’s sister here! Why, I didn’t even know she had a sister. Is
she nice, Peggy? Has she come here to live? It’ll be lovely for Elaine,
won’t it?"
That was the way Friendly Terrace received the announcement of the third
member of the Marshall household. It was surprisingly easy, Peggy
found, to evade answering questions as to the date of Grace’s arrival,
and the reason she had not joined the family earlier. Peggy said with
perfect truth that Grace was not very strong and that even now it might
be some time before she was able to see Elaine’s friends.
But by the end of a fortnight Grace was so far restored to the normal
attitude of girlhood toward the world outside that she no longer shrank
back from the window if a passer-by chanced to look up, nor gave
evidences of collapse when Peggy suggested that one of the girls might
come in with her after school.
As a matter of fact Grace made a much more favorable impression on the
girls of the Terrace than Elaine had done. There was something in her
look of fragile delicacy that was distinctly appealing. Ruth lost her
heart to her at once, after the impulsive fashion of school girls.
Priscilla, who, ever since her misunderstanding with Peggy, had been on
her good behavior, took especial pains to be cordial to the new-comer.
It occurred to Peggy one afternoon to wonder how it happened that Amy
had not as yet accepted any of their invitations to call and meet
Elaine’s sister.
"I’m sure you’d like her, Amy. And you’re just the one to do her good.
Suppose we run in for a few minutes."
"I guess not." Amy’s tone was hollow. "I don’t feel like meeting
strangers."
Peggy cast a sidelong glance in her direction, and made a discovery
which temporarily banished from her mind the topic under discussion.
"Amy, I believe you are growing thin."
She made the announcement jubilantly, expecting it to be received with
enthusiasm, but Amy did not speak.
"Have you really left off eating candy?" continued Peggy, innocently
interested. "Seems to me I haven’t noticed any boxes of chocolates in
your desk lately."
"I haven’t been eating very much candy." Amy sighed so heavily that
Peggy looked at her again. Amy had really lost flesh, but that was not
all. About her hung an air of depression, as inconsistent with the
normal Amy as hollow cheeks, or a total loss of appetite.
"Amy, I believe something is the matter. What is it?"
"You’d think it was silly." Amy’s tone indicated a longing to confide
her griefs, only restrained by a dread of being laughed at.
"Silly troubles are the very worst of all sometimes," Peggy declared
comfortingly. "Go ahead, dear. Out with it."
For a moment Amy hesitated. Then her pent-up woes burst bounds.
"I’m not going to live through the year."
"What!" Peggy could not believe that she had heard aright. "What did
you say? I didn’t understand."
"I’m not going to live through the year." Amy repeated her startling
statement with a deliberation and an emphasis which carried the
conviction that at least she meant what she said. Peggy burst into
excited expostulation.
"Amy, you’re crazy. I never heard anything so absurd. You have lost a
little flesh, to be sure, but no more than is becoming. I thought you
would be delighted. What makes you think that anything ails you?"
"I didn’t say that anything ailed me, did I?"
"If you don’t expect to live, it stands to reason that you must be
sick."
Amy shook her head. "I might be killed in an accident. Or I might be
taken sick suddenly, and not live more than two or three days."
Peggy’s suspicions were aroused. "Amy Lassell, you’ve been doing
something silly."
"You can laugh if you like. I dare say it seems funny to you." Amy
spoke with an injured air which Peggy failed to notice, so busy was she
in following the clue which her quick wit had suggested.
"I know," she burst out. "It’s a fortune teller."
Amy made no effort at evasion. On the whole it seemed a relief to be
found out.
"Yes, it was a fortune teller. But if she’d been a faker she never
would have told me that, you know yourself. They tell you how rich
you’re going to be, and whether you’re going to be married once or
twice, and things of that sort. But the ones who are just tricksters,
don’t ever tell people they are going to die right away."
Peggy checked her impulse to laugh. The thing might seem a joke to her,
but it was serious enough to Amy. Her loss of flesh, and even more the
haunted look in her eyes, was proof of that.
"Tell me all about it," she said soothingly, and Amy closed with her
offer so hastily as to suggest that all she had wanted was a chance.
"She’s a woman on West Spring Street, Madame Planchet. Lots of girls go
there to get their fortunes told, just for the fun of the thing. One
day Blanche Estabrook and I were going past, when she suggested that we
should stop. Madame Planchet only charges a quarter."
"That’s cheap, considering what she gives you," observed Peggy with an
irony that glanced harmlessly from her friend’s armor.
"Of course neither of us took it a bit seriously," Amy explained. "We
were both laughing when we went in and all the time Blanche was having
her fortune told I fairly stuffed my handkerchief into my mouth, I
giggled so. Blanche’s fortune didn’t sound a bit true, you know. It was
all about coming into a lot of money, and that she was going to have a
serious sickness when she was about twenty, but she’d recover and be a
lot healthier after that. And I supposed mine would be just the same.
But it wasn’t."
"Go on!" Peggy prompted impatiently, for poor Amy paused, as if she
found it difficult to disclose to another the black page of the future
so unexpectedly revealed to herself.
"Well, she looked at my hand a minute, and then she said, ’I can’t tell
your fortune. There is nothing to tell.’ I was so stupid that I didn’t
understand for a minute. I thought she only meant that there wouldn’t
be much doing in my life, you know. And I asked her if I wasn’t going
to get married. I thought fortune tellers married everybody off. And
then she said in a dreadful voice, ’You have no future,’ and I began to
understand."
"Poor Amy! To pay a quarter for that!" Peggy cried, but Amy refused to
smile.
"I asked her how long I was likely to live, and she said it wasn’t
possible to be exact. It might be six months, and it might be a little
more. She was sure I shouldn’t live out the year." Amy paused a moment
before she added, "And one month has gone already."
"O, you goose!" cried Peggy. "You dear silly goose! Don’t you see how
perfectly absurd it all is?" She launched into arguments convincing to
herself, but useless as far as Amy was concerned. More profound
logicians than Peggy long ago discovered the hopelessness of mere reason
when confronted with a well-grounded superstition.
Peggy went home thoroughly uneasy, and reproaching herself that her
absorption in Elaine’s affairs had blinded her to Amy’s troubles. The
month of anxiety had told upon the girl. The dismal prophecy might
fulfil itself. Peggy’s attention wandered from her geometry that
evening. More absorbing than the theorem assigned for her lesson was
the question of helping Amy.
When she suggested a walk the following afternoon there was a brightness
in her eye which indicated that her hard thinking had not been
unprofitable, in her own opinion at least. Amy was not inclined to be
enthusiastic over the proposal.
"I don’t know as I care much about walking where I’m likely to be seen.
I thought it was going to rain this morning, and I put on this old tam I
haven’t had on my head this year."
"All the better," Peggy said jubilantly. Then, as Amy looked as if she
would like to know what was meant by that speech, if it were not too
much trouble to ask, Peggy added hastily, "We’ll take the side streets.
It won’t matter if your tam is old."
Once under way Peggy set herself to be entertaining. She talked so
rapidly, changing the subject with such abruptness as to hold Amy’s
attention fixed on her conversational gymnastics. When she halted
suddenly in front of a shabby looking building on West Spring Street Amy
cast a startled glance about her and fixed her gaze on a fly-specked
card, in the window, bearing the announcement, "Madame Planchet,
Palmist." Then she turned on Peggy eyes brimful of reproach.
Peggy had expected this. "We are going in," she said quietly.
"No, Peggy. O, not again! I can’t stand it."
"Yes, we are, my dear. And the only thing I ask of you is not to say a
word more than you can help. Leave me to do the talking."
She pushed Amy up the steps ahead of her, and held tightly to her arm,
as she rang the bell, apparently apprehensive that her captive would
take to flight if not forcibly detained. Amy’s air of shrinking horror
did much to justify this suspicion. When shuffling footsteps sounded in
the hall, and a slatternly girl opened the door, Amy drew back with a
precipitateness which came near sending the two of them to the bottom of
the steps.
"Is Madame Planchet at home?" demanded Peggy, righting herself adroitly,
and clutching Amy more tightly than before.
"Walk in," said the slattern, and led them down the hall to a stuffy
little room hung with mysterious charts. Peggy looked about her with an
air of interest.
"I am almost sure this is the place," she cried. "Charts on the wall
and red curtains, just as Roxanna said. Yes, I’m pretty sure we’re
right."
Amy opened her mouth and closed it without emitting a sound, in a
fashion suggestive of a dying fish. She perceived from Peggy’s
expression that she was expected to listen to her friend’s observations,
instead of taking part in the conversation.
"I don’t know why you should act so scared over the idea of having your
fortune told, as lucky a girl as you are. For of course your Uncle
Philander’s money is all coming to you."
Again Amy’s jaw dropped. She looked frankly stupid.
"Doesn’t it seem lovely to think you’re going to see Europe this
summer?" continued Peggy enthusiastically. "I think you were sensible
though, to travel all over this country first. O, dear! It would make
me fairly envious if it were anybody but you. To think that I’ve hardly
been out of the town I was born in, and here you go everywhere."
Peggy’s fancy sketches were beginning to be interesting, by virtue of
their sheer audacity. Amy listened, a faint amusement showing through
her air of perplexity.
"Won’t it seem funny to settle down in Germany to study your music,
after your lovely summer? But I suppose you love that too, almost as
much as travelling. That’s what comes of being a genius."
This time Amy was forced to bite her lips to keep from laughing.
Musical appreciation had been left out of Amy’s composition. She could
not recognize the most familiar air when she heard it hummed, and, as
far as she could see, the only difference between a street band and a
symphony orchestra was that one made more noise in proportion to the
number of players. But even her amusement over the role of a musical
genius, so unexpectedly assigned her, vanished when the red curtains
parted and a tall woman came into the room.
The discovery of her callers appeared to surprise Madame Planchet. "My
assistant neglected to inform me that anyone wished to see me," she
explained, in what Peggy mentally denominated as a "mincing voice."
"You wish your fortunes told, of course. I give several grades of
readings, ranging in price from twenty-five cents to a dollar."
"I think the twenty-five cent ones will be all we can afford for
to-day," said Peggy with an artlessness which would have made Amy smile,
if the horror of her last visit had not been overshadowing her. "And
please tell my friend’s fortune first. I want to know if she’s going to
keep on being as lucky as she has been so far."
Amy surrendered her hand to Madame Planchet’s inspection, and Peggy
noted with sympathy that the girl’s face was colorless. She also
improved the opportunity to study the appearance of the unconscious
fortune teller. The woman’s heavy, coarse face gave conclusive proof of
bad temper. The lines about her mouth, the furrow plowed between her
brows, something in the glance of her restless black eyes, all indicated
to Peggy that she would not scruple to take a cruel revenge on the
unlucky person who offended her.
"A very good hand." The voice was smooth. "I see a few illnesses in
early childhood, but after the twelfth year there is no sign of
sickness. You will live to a good old age and enjoy excellent health."
Amy’s gasp was so pronounced that Peggy thought best to distract Madame
Planchet’s attention by dropping her umbrella. As the clatter subsided,
she picked it up again and begged pardon.
"Other good fortune is in store for you," continued Madame Planchet. "I
see a large amount of money coming to you soon. It is to be left you by
a near relative. I should say a cousin, or possibly an uncle." She
studied Amy’s palm with absorbed interest for a moment and started out
on a new tack.
"You have remarkable gifts in the line of music. I see that through
their cultivation a great future will be open to you. There is fame in
store. You will study abroad, and earn laurels as a singer."
"Wonderful!" Peggy murmured abstractedly. And she was rewarded by a
sudden convulsive twitch of Amy’s shoulders.
After emphasizing the fact that Amy had already seen much of the world
and was to travel extensively in the near future, the fortune teller
contented herself with a few prophecies which would apply with equal
exactness to nine girls out of ten. She paused with a complacent air,
for after following Peggy’s supposed clues she was very sure that she
had hit the mark with unusual correctness.
Peggy’s fortune was the usual jumble. To tell the truth, she hardly
listened, and apparently Madame Planchet was of the opinion that after
doing so well by one of the pair it was unnecessary to put herself out
to make shrewd guesses regarding the other. Peggy was glad when the
monotonous voice ceased, and she could drop her half dollar on the
table.
"It was well worth it," she said with a significance lost on the smiling
Madame Planchet.
"If you young ladies should try the dollar readings," observed the
fortune teller, pocketing the coin, "you would find them much more
satisfactory. I describe your personal characters fully, showing you
the weaknesses against which you should guard, and also the traits which
should characterize your life partner. Kindly mention me to your
friends. Good afternoon."
Once outside, the two stood looking at each other. "Well, Amy Lassell,"
Peggy cried, "if you’re not convinced now that that woman is a
thorough-going, outrageous old fraud, I’ll wash my hands of you."
Amy had hardly recovered from her daze. "But why did she do it?" she
persisted.
"Don’t ask me. Though I think I could make a fair guess. You said
yourself that you laughed all the time she was telling Blanche’s
fortune. I suppose she thought you were making fun of her art or
science, or whatever she calls it, and she wanted to get even."
Amy straightened herself and drew a long breath, like one who lays down
an intolerable burden. The face she turned on her friend was radiant.
"Peggy," she cried joyously, "let’s go down to Bird’s--I don’t care if I
do look like a fright--and get a nut sundae."
*CHAPTER XX*
*AN EVENTFUL PICNIC*
For some time Peggy had been waiting anxiously for warm weather. Not
that Peggy had any quarrel with the winter months. Her vigorous
constitution responded joyfully to the challenge of the cold. When the
snow "crunched" under her elastic tread, and the air was full of frost
crystals, and the wind whistled boisterously, and played tricks with
people’s hats and umbrellas, then Peggy’s eyes were brightest and the
blood in her veins raced most jubilantly.
Peggy’s reasons for being impatient for spring’s return were not
personal ones. They concerned the Dunn family. Various remarks let
fall by Estelle, Isabel and the others, had indicated such incredible
ignorance of the country, that at first Peggy could not believe that it
was not assumed. Gradually, however, she had reached the conclusion
that these children, living within a few miles of grass-covered acres
and groves of trees, knew as little of either as young Hottentots might
be supposed to know of the North Pole.
Along in February Peggy’s friends began to hear plans discussed for
giving the Dunns a day’s outing in the country, as soon as spring should
arrive in earnest. Little by little they had all come to feel a
personal interest in the affair. Indeed "Peggy’s Dunns" had gradually
grown to be almost a neighborhood possession, and more than one
household had their welfare at heart.
When Peggy decided that the grass was green enough, the air balmy
enough, and the orchard trees sufficiently like bridal bouquets to make
it practicable to carry out her plan, she passed the word along the
line. And in honor of the occasion Amy fell to making fudge, and
Priscilla bribed Susan to undertake a batch of doughnuts which would go
a long way toward satisfying the inner cravings of the picnic party.
Elaine had not expected to share in the fun. But when she came home one
Friday evening to announce that, owing to the presence of calsiminers in
the office, the next day would be a holiday, Peggy was inclined to
regard the occurrence as an especial interposition of Providence. And
truth to tell, the sequel did not cause her to change her mind in that
regard.
"It’s perfectly heavenly to think that you can go with us. And now
perhaps you can coax Grace into coming. It would do her any amount of
good."
But Grace, though the change in her from day to day was almost as marked
as that taking place in the springtime world, drew the line at
chaperoning the Dunn family for a day in the country. The rest of the
girls went along, Peggy, Priscilla, Ruth, Amy--now restored to her
customary cheerfulness--and Elaine, who, after the long hours and close
confinement of office work, found the prospect of a day in the open
unspeakably alluring. Each girl had a child in charge, for though
Francesca could not leave the factory Jimmy had succeeded in arranging
his business affairs so as to take a day off, and the Dunn picnickers
numbered five.
They were an odd quintet, as they climbed aboard the street car, for
though "Peggy’s Dunns" were the first ones thought of along the Terrace
when outgrown clothing was to be given away, Mrs. Dunn seemed to have a
genius for putting the half-worn suit on the boy it could not fit by any
possibility, and for dividing up the girls’ garments so that each should
present as patched and piecemeal an appearance as possible. But, after
all, the misfit coats and mismated skirts mattered very little, Peggy
thought, since the faces of the company were beaming with anticipation.
Peggy had selected a charming picnic ground on the edge of a small lake,
lying in a cup-shaped hollow, with woods for a background, where spring
flowers palpitatingly awaited discovery, and with farmhouses accessible,
where milk could be purchased, and other provisions, for that matter, if
the contents of the lunch baskets gave out. Peggy, however, had no
concern over this possibility, for to all appearances the aforesaid
baskets contained ample provisions for fifty.
The Dunns knew what to expect. There was to be a lake, and woods, and
wild-flowers, for Miss Peggy had said so, but that the terms meant
little to them was proved when Estelle uttered an excited cry. "There’s
the lake!"
The others joined in rapturously. "Ain’t it grand!" "O, my!" Peggy
turned wonderingly.
"Lake! Why, we’re not nearly there. O, you poor children!" For
Estelle’s grimy forefinger was pointing triumphantly at a puddle in an
adjacent field, a pool perhaps ten feet across, its surface ruffled by a
cheerful little breeze. "Well, there’s one comfort," Peggy thought.
"They’ll be wiser before they get home."
When the real lake came in view, the Dunns were breathless with
excitement. They climbed down from the street car on the edge of a
green meadow and the children walked gingerly across the turf, looking
about them apprehensively, as if on the lookout for the warning, "Keep
off the Grass." Isabel, who had fallen a little behind, galloped up to
Peggy with a spring beauty in her hand.
"Miss Peggy!" She was breathing hard, but whether from her run or from
excitement Peggy did not know. "Miss Peggy, kin they put me in jail for
that?"
"O, dear!" Peggy cried, an unaccountable lump appearing in her throat.
"They won’t put you in jail for picking all the flowers you can carry
home. Can’t I make you understand that everything here belongs to
everybody?"
It was a very wonderful picnic. Jimmy Dunn had visited the city park,
and boasted a proud familiarity with trees and birds. But the other
children could not recover from their amazement at seeing trees that did
not grow in rows, out of squares obligingly left in cement sidewalks for
that particular purpose, while the unexpected discovery of a blue bird
was as startling as the appearance of a blue rabbit would be to the
majority of people. "I thought birds was brown," drawled Johnny Dunn.
"They is down ’round us."
"Maybe they gets sooty," suggested Estelle wisely. "My, wouldn’t it be
grand, though, if they’d get washed up, and be flying ’round all red and
yaller and ev’ry color."
[Illustration: "LUNCHEON WAS SERVED SHORTLY AFTER THEIR ARRIVAL."]
Luncheon was served shortly after their arrival. "I don’t know why it
is," Peggy confessed. "But it always seems as if you couldn’t get
fairly started on a picnic, till you’d had something to eat. I feel
that way myself and I guess these children are just the same only more
so." Accordingly they sat in a ring in the fresh young grass, and
disposed of such quantities of sandwiches and doughnuts that the
scientific estimate of the capacity of the human stomach was then and
there proved incorrect, beyond a shadow of a doubt. Peggy expected that
the gorged Dunns would find a period of inactivity necessary, but
instead of stretching in somnolent attitudes under the trees when the
moment arrived that they could hold no more, they scattered in all
directions. As it seemed quite impossible that they should get into
mischief or danger the girls left them to their own devices, and sat
talking happily while the breeze brought the coolness of the little
lake, and the fragrance of the apple orchards, mingled with more
delicate scents, the perfume of the moist earth, the breath of tiny
flowers fading unseen, perhaps, but making earth the sweeter for their
blooming.
"I found some grand ones."
Peggy looked up smilingly into Estelle’s radiant face. Then she got to
her feet rapidly, for the child’s hands were filled with early garden
flowers, with several clusters of geraniums showing up dazzlingly among
the more modest blossoms. "Where did you get them?" Peggy gasped.
"Over back of that house." Estelle gestured with her treasures in the
direction of a snug-looking farmhouse standing on a rise of land above
the lake.
"Don’t pick any more there, dear. I guess those flowers belong to the
people who live in the house. But all the flowers in the woods, and
growing around the meadows, belong to everybody." She made a grimace at
the other girls, over the head of the unconscious Estelle. "I’ve got to
go up to the farmhouse and explain matters."
"I’ll go with you," said Elaine, jumping to her feet, and the two
started up the long slope, Peggy sighing penitently. "It was all my
fault. I was so anxious those children shouldn’t think they were going
to be arrested if they picked a dandelion, I guess I went a little too
far the other way. Who would have thought that they would have stumbled
on a garden first thing?"
The farmer’s wife, being indoors, had not noticed the rifling of her
garden, but so far from displaying annoyance over Peggy’s explanations,
she was manifestly interested. "I’ve heard tell," she replied, "that
some of those city children set store by flowers to beat all. And she
picked her hands full, did she? Didn’t know the difference between
wildflowers and garden stuff? Well, well!"
But when Peggy, producing a not over-full pocketbook, made tentative
offers to pay for the damage Estelle had wrought, the good woman’s
protest waxed indignant.
"Now I’d like to know what you take me for? Pay for ’em? I’d be
ashamed to look my husband in the face when he came in if I took your
money." She went to the window and looked with interest down the long
slope, to the slight figures moving with such joyous abandon. "All
brothers and sisters, you say?"
"Yes, and there’s two others not here, a sister who’s about fourteen and
the baby."
"And we haven’t chick nor child," said the farmer’s wife. The shadow
that crossed her kindly face, as she stood watching the small flitting
shapes, had not lifted when Peggy and Elaine said good-bye.
At the door Peggy had an idea, and halted. "There isn’t any boat that we
could get around here, is there? I’d like to take those children out on
the water if I could."
The farmer’s wife came to the door. "Why, we’ve got an old dug-out tied
down under the willows. It leaks a little, but you’d have to load it
with stone to sink it. We keep it there, ’cause it’s handier if we want
to go to Mr. Miller’s, t’other side of the lake, to row across, than to
go all the way ’round. ’Tain’t so easy rowing as it might be, but
you’re welcome to it if you want it."
The ungainly craft, tied under the sheltering willow trees, did not look
as if it would be so easy rowing. But the girls undaunted, took their
seats, each with a pair of oars, and started bravely for the other
shore, the water slapping the square end of the dug-out, as if the two
were in a plot to make progress slow and difficult. The appearance of
the boat was hailed with shrieks of delight by the Dunn family, who
rushed to the water’s edge to view its advance.
"There’s room enough for all of them at once, if it wouldn’t be too
heavy," Peggy remarked.
"O, I guess we can take them all," returned Elaine, tugging at her oars.
"They’ll be satisfied if we just keep it moving, you know."
"They’re all waiting to welcome us." Peggy glanced at the row of
motionless figures, ranged along the shore as if held spell-bound by the
spectacle afforded by the stately craft and the toiling oarsmen. Then
instinctively Peggy began counting, "Three, four, five. Where’s number
five?"
"It’s one of the little girls that’s missing, Estelle or Isabel. I
can’t tell them apart." Elaine’s eyes travelled from the waiting row,
across a clump of trees reaching to the water’s edge, on to the cleared
acres belonging to the Miller farm. Then she uttered a startled
exclamation.
"Peggy! See that child! Will she know enough to let them alone?"
"What? Where?" Wildly Peggy’s eyes followed those of her friend, and
at the sight which had prompted Elaine’s frightened question Peggy
rested on her oars, staring blankly ahead.
Against the green of the hillside rows of little white boxes stood out
in bold relief. Among them wandered Isabel Dunn, as Gulliver might have
wended his way among the habitations of Lilliput, looking about her with
a curiosity that betrayed no twinge of timidity.
"Bee-hives!" Peggy gasped. "And I suppose she never heard of such a
thing as a bee-sting. O, if she’d only look this way!"
But Isabel Dunn was too absorbed in her own discovery to have any eyes
for the pageant on the lake, so attractive to the other members of her
family. She stood absorbed in front of one of the hives, watching the
busy occupants with an interest which owed part of its zest to the fact
that here was something of which Miss Peggy had said nothing. Out in
the country folks made houses for bugs to live in. She wondered that
Miss Peggy had failed to comment on such surprising philanthropy.
Heedless of the line-up of the Dunn family, eagerly anticipating a row,
the girls turned the boat toward the absorbed student of nature.
Apprehension put fresh energy into their stroke. The dug-out toiled
ahead at what was really a surprising rate of speed. The little Dunns,
disappointed, joined in a howl of protest. The sound reached Isabel’s
ears, and she turned, inadvertently stumbling against a hive. An
instant later, her knowledge of natural history was increased by a
significant item, in a fashion to impress it on her memory indelibly.
Shrieking wildly, Isabel started down the slope, the enraged bees in
pursuit. Peggy and Elaine had thought they were pulling their hardest
but at the sight of the child’s danger the dug-out seemed fairly to leap
ahead, like a lazy horse pricked with a spur and roused to unwonted
speed.
Down the hill came Isabel, gaining momentum with every step, driven to
frenzy by the darts of her relentless pursuers. Whether the blue lake
seemed a refuge, or whether she would have rushed with equal blindness
into flames, it is impossible to say. But it is certain when she
reached the water’s edge she kept on running, with the result that in an
instant she had splashed out of sight, while the boat was still some
distance away.
"Pull!" gasped Peggy. "Pull hard!" But she would have done better to
save her breath, for Elaine, her lips parted, showing her clenched
teeth, was putting into each stroke every ounce of energy at her
disposal. In an appallingly short time, a tow-colored head came to the
surface of the water and again disappeared.
"A little harder on the right oar," warned Elaine. Again she set her
teeth and pulled. Again the mop of drenched hair showed on the surface
of the water and went under. The girls watched to see it come in sight
again, but it did not reappear.
"She’s not coming up." Elaine rose in the boat, kicking off her low
shoes, and unfastening her heavy walking skirt. Then she went over the
side with the ease and celerity of the practised swimmer. Peggy, who
had not added swimming to her many accomplishments, and had watched for
Isabel’s reappearance in an agony of helplessness, felt hope revive.
Elaine seemed so sure of herself that it was impossible not to share in
her confidence.
The little group on the shore had discovered what was happening. The
children ran about crying shrilly. Above the sound of their frightened
voices rose Amy’s lamentations as she wailed, "O, why didn’t I watch
her! O, why didn’t I watch her!" Not that Peggy spared time just then
to interpret the medley of sounds beating upon her ears. She saw
nothing but the placid water, heard nothing but the sound of the little
ripples breaking against the boat’s side.
Elaine came to the surface, after some seemingly interminable seconds,
spluttered, filled her lungs and went under again. Peggy, white and
shaking, sat crouched in her seat. O, those crawling seconds, that
terrible waiting, the ghastly uncertainty. She felt the scented breeze
in her face, and dimly realized that overhead the sky was blue. A
snatch of bird-song dropping to her ears made her suspense seem unreal.
It could not be that this dreadful thing was happening, while all the
world around was unchanged.
Peggy came out of her trance when Elaine’s dripping head cleaved the
blue water. This time Elaine did not come alone. Her left hand was
supporting a limp little figure, whose hair floated on the surface of
the water like yellow seaweed. Half a dozen strokes brought Peggy
alongside the pair. Leaning over, she took Elaine’s burden from her.
The head that swayed like a broken flower, the open, unseeing eyes, the
colorless face, seemed to her inexperience proof that the worst had
happened. She sat like one stunned while Elaine gripped the dug-out and
pulled her dripping self over the side.
"Quick, Peggy!" Elaine’s teeth were chattering, for though the sun was
bright the water of the little lake still retained a coolness suggestive
of melting snow. "Quick! We must get her to the house, as soon as we
can, and get to work."
The suggestion that something still could be done, put new life into
Peggy. It is quite certain that the clumsy dug-out made record time in
reaching the landing. The farmer’s wife was waiting for them there, and
she took the unconscious child in her motherly arms, and almost ran up
the slope, while the girls followed, Elaine walking with difficulty in
her wet clothing, Peggy weak from fear.
Fortunately for them all the suspense was nearly over. For the farmer’s
wife had hardly begun her work of resuscitation when a soft little sigh
escaped from the child’s blue lips. A minute after she opened her eyes.
Apparently it was too great an effort to be prolonged, for immediately
she closed, them again. But the flutter of the lids was enough to
render Peggy limp with relief and thankfulness.
"There! There! Have a good cry if you feel like it," exclaimed the
farmer’s wife, bustling about. "There ain’t nothing like a good cry, if
anybody’s been all keyed up. I’ll get some hot milk down her, and she’ll
be all right. But your friend had better be getting out of her wet
things, or she’ll be coming down with something. ’Tain’t too late yet
for pneumonia."
It was a good thing for Peggy to divert her mind with anxiety about
Elaine, who, having been duly rubbed and given something hot to drink,
was ordered to bed, while her clothing dried by the kitchen fire. By
this time Isabel was sufficiently revived so that the other children
could be admitted to admire her appearance as she lay between blankets
smelling strongly of the ammonia which the farmer’s wife had applied to
the bee stings. There was a gleam of envy in Estelle’s eyes as she
gazed upon her sister. It was not fair that Isabel should have
everything, first be stung by bees, and then nearly drowned. It would
have been more generous of her to have divided those claims to
distinction with some equally deserving member of the family.
"Seems like a shame to disturb that child by trying to take her home
to-day," said the farmer’s wife. "Why don’t you leave her with me over
Sunday? By that time she wouldn’t get any harm from going out."
"I don’t know as she would be willing to stay," Peggy replied, but when
the case was laid before Isabel she indicated the greatest satisfaction
with her present surroundings. Isabel was not accustomed to being a
person of importance. She liked the sensation, as she liked the
softness of the bed on which she lay and the brightness and neatness of
the pleasant little room.
"Of course it would be a great deal better for her to stay. Do you
think your mother would mind, Jimmy?" asked Peggy, reflecting that the
responsibility of taking a party of children to the country for a day
was greater than she could have imagined. Jimmy’s attitude was
reassuring. "Ma! Why, she’ll be glad to get rid of her over Sunday,"
he declared. "Pa hates so many underfoot on Sundays." It was
accordingly arranged that the farmer’s wife should bring Isabel home
Monday morning, provided Isabel’s condition warranted it. Otherwise she
was to communicate with Peggy, who assumed the responsibility of
conveying the information to Mrs. Dunn.
The picnic was resumed, awaiting the drying of Elaine’s clothing, but it
is safe to say that no one of the Dunn family had the opportunity again
that day to get into mischief. Each girl made herself responsible for a
child, and watched it with a hawk’s alertness, though not with a hawk’s
motive. "We’ve let them steal flowers, and get stung by bees, and then
pretty nearly drowned," Amy remarked. "And for one day that’s enough,"
a sentiment received without any dissenting voice.
But in spite of the drawbacks of the day and the fact that Isabel was
left behind, the small Dunns were enthusiastic over the picnic. "Be you
goin’ to take us again some day, Miss Peggy?" little Johnny asked, as he
hugged his armful of flowers closer, and smiled at her over the heads of
the blossoms.
"I don’t know," Peggy answered with a gasp. "I’ll have to wait to get
thoroughly over this, before I’ll be able to make up my mind."
*CHAPTER XXI*
*AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR*
The papers Monday evening contained an account of a heroic rescue.
There was a fancy sketch of a young woman diving from the deck of a
pleasure yacht to save a child who with uplifted arms was drowning in
the most dramatic manner imaginable. Elaine saw the sketch over the
shoulder of the man who occupied the seat in front of her in the street
car, and it was not till she reached home that she discovered that the
theatrical young heroine was supposed to represent herself.
Along the Terrace they had found it out long before and each of the
girls had made a beeline for the Marshall home with a paper under her
arm. Peggy was the first arrival, with Amy a close second, while Ruth
and Priscilla reached the door at the same minute. What with the
rustling of papers, and the chorus of voices all explaining at once,
Mrs. Marshall conceived the idea that something dreadful had happened,
and it was necessary to produce the smelling-salts before she was equal
to hearing the account.
The story had been written up with high regard for picturesqueness. The
Dunn family had multiplied into a car-load of ragged children and the
five Terrace girls had become wealthy young women who devoted a large
share of their leisure to philanthropy. Upon Elaine, as the heroine of
the occasion, adjectives were lavished with the generosity
characteristic of newspaper reporters when they start out to be
complimentary. Mrs. Marshall gradually lost her look of apprehension as
she listened, and her face took on a motherly pride, which obliterated,
for the time, its habitual expression of fretful weakness.
When Elaine arrived there was a rush in her direction. Four newspapers
were shaken in her face. Four voices, each uplifted in the laudable
effort to drown out the other three, read the most thrilling of the
head-lines. Elaine stared incredulously at the heroine with the
dishevelled hair, on the point of plunging from the deck of the yacht
into tossing waves below. At last the truth dawned upon her.
"You don’t mean, girls," she gasped, "you can’t mean that it is intended
for--me. O, it can’t be possible."
In chorus four voices read, "The heroine of the occasion is Miss Elaine
Marshall, 2618 Friendly Terrace." Further disclosures were checked by
Elaine’s putting her hands over her ears.
"All that in the paper about me? How perfectly dreadful! How in the
world could they have found out about it?"
Ruth looked a little guilty. On her arrival home Saturday night, she
had painted Elaine’s exploit in glowing colors, and Graham’s friend,
Jack Rynson, was a reporter on the _Star_. Fortunately Elaine did not
notice the incriminating color in Ruth’s cheeks, and Peggy was saying
consolingly, "Why, I think it’s splendid. Just listen, Elaine! ’Seeing
the peril of the child, the intrepid young woman, with a magnificent
disregard for her own peril--’"
"Please," implored Elaine, her cheeks flaming. "I feel like a hypocrite,
when I look at that yacht and those foaming waves, and think of that
ridiculous old dug-out and the smooth little pond. Heroine! It’s the
most absurd thing I ever heard of."
But though Elaine protested, the fact remains that there are more
unpleasant things than to be overpraised for what one has done. Her
mother’s air of radiant pride, the satisfaction the other girls took in
the highly decorated account of the exploit, even the reporter’s
superfluous adjectives were not without their agreeable side. When the
departure of the girls with the rustling newspapers left the house to
its customary quiet, Elaine was aware of an inconsistent, and thoroughly
inexplicable impression that something very pleasant had happened.
The peremptory ringing of the telephone bell interrupted Elaine’s
supper. Mrs. Marshall and Grace listened to the following one-sided
conversation.
"Yes, yes, it’s the same one."
"Why, I didn’t know."
"O, it was dreadfully exaggerated. It really wasn’t anything."
"No indeed. I feel as well as ever."
"She’s very well, thank you, and Grace too."
"I’m sure we’re glad to know our friends haven’t forgotten us."
"O, we’d be so pleased to see you any time. O, thank you, very much.
Good night."
When she had hung up the receiver she turned a luminous face upon her
family. "What do you think," she cried tremulously. "That was Mrs.
Winthrop."
"Not Mrs. Littleton Winthrop!" Mrs. Marshall set down her tea-cup, her
hand shaking.
"Yes. She had read that ridiculous account in the paper, and she said
the nicest things. And she and Vivian are coming to see us very soon.
O, dear, I’m too excited to eat."
But the excitements of the evening were not over by any means. Shortly
after eight o’clock, a motor coughed outside the door. There was a sound
of feet on the walk and then a ring at the bell which somehow suggested
that somebody who knew exactly what he wanted had his finger on the
button.
Elaine opened the door, for enough of Grace’s shrinking remained so that
she found that simple office difficult. A plump, red-cheeked gentleman,
who looked rather like an understudy for Santa Claus, greeted her with
something more than cordiality.
"Elaine Marshall! Well, upon my word! You’ve grown almost out of
knowledge." He put his hand upon her shoulder and gave her a smacking
kiss on the cheek nearest him. "That’s for the heroine," he said.
"Mother in? And Grace? Good. First rate."
He had his arm about the girl’s shoulder when he walked into the
living-room, where Mrs. Marshall and Grace had sprung to their feet at
the sound of his voice, and he held Elaine firmly while he shook hands
with the others. Then he seated himself, stroking his snowy beard, and
looking about him with eyes that twinkled serenely. He looked more like
Santa Claus than ever.
"Look here," he said. "I’m not going to scold. That isn’t my way. But
for you to hide yourselves away from your friends isn’t a square deal,
you know. I could say considerable on the subject if I were that sort
of a man. But as long as our little heroine here--"
"Little!" cried Elaine, her indignation over the adjective eclipsing for
the time being her modest reluctance to accept the noun.
"Has given me the clue to your whereabouts," continued the visitor,
ignoring the interruption. "We’ll let bygones be bygones."
The talk turned to less delicate topics. But presently the caller, who
gave increasing evidence of being a man who knew his own mind, turned on
Grace with a question.
"Given up the idea of finishing your college course?"
"O, yes, Mr. Clement."
"Why?"
Grace hesitated. "If there were no other reason," she said at last, in
a low voice, "the question of expense would settle it."
"That’s what I fancied. Suppose you start in next fall, and send your
bill to me."
"But, Mr. Clement--"
"It’s good business sense, Grace. A thing half done is undone, and
that’s all you can say. Go ahead and get your education. Fit yourself
for the work you like, and the work you want to do."
"But, Mr. Clement, I wouldn’t think of accepting--"
"Stop right there, my dear. You’re going to talk nonsense about being
under obligations and that sort of thing. Your father and I were
friends in our boyhood and it was the sort of friendship that stood by
in a rough sea. More than once your father has come to my help when his
name on my note was all that stood between me and bankruptcy." Santa
Claus took out his handkerchief and blew his nose violently. "And after
that if his daughter had a silly pride which wouldn’t allow her to
accept my help in making as much of herself as possible, I should be
driven to conclude that she wasn’t worthy the name she bears."
Elaine looked at her sister furtively, and something she saw in Grace’s
face made her heart flutter with a glad expectancy so keen as to be
almost pain. Grace’s brow was knit, and her face was pale, visible
signs of an inner battle. Elaine breathed hard, guessing the tremendous
importance of the struggle, and the significance of victory.
"I’ve grounds for being very angry," Mr. Clement went on with his
whimsical smile. "When the three of you disappeared without a word or
sign, I was hurt, and many of your friends felt as I did. I tried to
make myself think that you would write me soon, but the weeks and months
went by, and not a line from any of you. I had a right to be angry, and
I was. However, I’m not a man to continue bringing up old scores.
We’ll call it square, Grace, if you’ll close with my offer. What do you
say? Is it a bargain?"
His compelling eyes were on her. For a moment he looked less like Santa
Claus than some old viking, fearless of tempestuous seas, accustomed to
conquest. As Grace’s troubled gaze met his a curious change was
apparent in her face, as if a spark of his resolution had fired hers.
"I’ll--I’ll do it, Mr. Clement," she faltered, and checked herself
quickly, as if frightened by the rashness of her own promise. But Mr.
Clement gave her no time for wavering.
"Done!" he cried, and catching the frail hand in his he shook it
heartily. "And this spring and summer devote yourself to getting a
little color, and putting a few pounds of flesh wherever you need them
most. If you’re not careful, this little sister of yours will be
putting on airs, and ordering you about just because she’s the biggest."
It was not early when Mr. Clement left, but, in spite of the lateness of
the hour, Elaine yielded to an overwhelming desire to see Peggy. It was
to Peggy alone that she had confided her great unhappiness, and it
seemed to her that she could not sleep unless Peggy had heard the good
news, the wonderful sequel to the incident which had made the close of
the previous week eventful.
Elaine framed some excuse for a late call on Peggy which she herself had
forgotten as soon as the door shut behind her, and made her way across
the dewy grass. Overhead the stars twinkled in friendly fashion. The
splendid winter constellations had given place to the less showy pageant
of the summer, but it flashed across Elaine’s mind that she had never
before dreamed there were so many stars. The sky seemed golden with
them. Peggy, upstairs in her own room, struggling with an essay due the
end of the week, looked up amazed at an Elaine to whom she had never
been introduced. For the new stars which Elaine had seen flashing in
the sky, were only reflected from her shining eyes. Her radiant face
prepared Peggy for the best news that could be spoken.
"O, Peggy! What do you think? Grace is going back to college."
"To college!" Peggy’s sympathy was never of the half-hearted sort. Now
the two words fairly tinkled as she spoke them, as if Elaine had
announced some tremendous good fortune which had befallen Peggy herself.
"An old friend of papa’s, Mr. Clement, is going to send her. And, O,
Peggy, another old friend, Mrs. Winthrop, called up while we were eating
supper. She had seen that account in the paper and was so sweet about
it. I’m afraid that perhaps we weren’t just fair to the people we used
to know. Perhaps they were better friends than we thought."
"Of course," cried Peggy. "People are almost always better than you
think. The things that seem horrid can generally be explained."
"And isn’t it funny!" Elaine found in a burst of laughter the relief
that might as easily have come through tears. "All this wouldn’t have
happened, if it hadn’t been for those blessed Dunns."
Peggy jumped, as if the name had touched a nerve. "O, I’ve just been
aching to tell you that Isabel was going to stay."
"To stay?"
"Jimmy came over and told me just before supper. That farmer’s wife
came in bright and early this morning. She wanted to keep Isabel, and
Jimmy said his mother was willing, because it would be one less to take
care of. There’s a sad side to it," Peggy concluded, her bright face
falling, "to think that the mother of any child would give her up as
easy as that, but I can’t help being glad that little Isabel will grow
up with grass and flowers around her, and plenty to eat, and all the
rest of the things they don’t have on Glen Echo Avenue."
Elaine had risen to go. "I feel like staying and talking all night but
I must get to bed and be ready for my work to-morrow. Yes, indeed. I’m
awfully glad about little Isabel. It seems as if everything was turning
out right for everybody."
"It’s a pretty good world after all," smiled Peggy, voicing a favorite
theory.
The words rang in Elaine’s ears as again she sped across the dewy clover
under the spangled sky. "Of course," she told herself. "How could it
help being a good world as long as it has such people as Peggy Raymond
in it?"