It was a double two-story house, or rather three-story, if you count the little rooms in the gables. It was built of stone, coated with a rough sort of plaster, and faced the river; its large square stoop, flanked with its two benches, being protected by the overhanging eaves of the roof itself. The front door, seldom opened, was ornamented with a huge brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head, and was daily burnished with as much thoroughness as though in constant use. Indeed, it must be confessed that in front everything was severe and prim and painfully stiff, but fortunately at the side things were different. Indeed, the house, in its two entirely different aspects, resembled an old army officer, always stern and arbitrary with his men for the sake of discipline, but 'another fellow altogether' when off duty and in the company of his brother officers. At the side it was as though you surprised it in undress uniform. In the first place, there was always, in the season, a great profusion of flowers; not, however, in conventional flower beds, but parading their blaze of color from painted tubs, mounted here and there on the table-like tops of old tree stumps, which had evidently survived the first clearing of the land. Fortunately for general effectiveness, these tubs were not filled with a promiscuous assortment of plants, but each held the luxurious growth of some single variety—here a hydrangea, with its wealth of heavy-headed blooms, fairly concealing its leaves; there a great cluster of peonies or brilliant scarlet geraniums. As might be expected on the first Saturday of October, many of these plants bore only a few tardy blossoms, and some of them had evidently lost all heart with the first intimation of frost; but in the centre of the old-fashioned grass plot was a contrivance that from June well into November presented a remarkable blaze of color, varying with every month, and always beautiful. This contrivance, called by the Van Vleets “The flower fountain,” was composed of a series of five circular shelves, each shelf a little smaller in circumference than the one below it, and terminating, at the height of about five feet from the ground, in a round flat top. These shelves were constantly crowded with pots of plants in full bloom. Indeed, Hans kept a sort of nursery for no other reason than to supply the fountain, and the moment a plant took it into its head to bloom no longer, or only in a spiritless way, back it was marched to the nursery, and another took its place. What a fine thing it would be if some of the little folk too, who are not blooming out into just the sort of grown folk we could wish, might simply be remanded to the nursery, there to be restarted, after the manner of Hans's plants, and perhaps coaxed into a more satisfying growth than they now, alas! give promise of! But if it had not been for this flower fountain, who knows but Hans might have gone to the war? You can see how it would not be an easy thing for a placid, kind-hearted Dutchman, who loved the training and slipping and potting of plants above everything else in the world, to turn his pruning-knife into a sword.
On the afternoon of the tea-party this fountain was ablaze with chrysanthemums, varying in color from the darkest red to the palest pink, and from orange to pure white. The plants of one shelf hid the pots of the shelf above it, and the lowest shelf of all was sunk so low in the ground as to be concealed by the grass. But what gave this side of the house the “homiest” look of all was the row of shining milk tins ranged in a row on a low bench, and tilted against the wall. Then, just beyond them, the kitchen door opened, and such a kitchen! with tables and dresser and every wooden thing in it scoured to immaculate whiteness, and with white sand daily sifted upon the floor in most remarkable patterns. In this kitchen the Van Vleets not only ate, but lived, and so it possessed that undefinable charm which sometimes belongs to the living-room of a family, and never to any other. In preparation for the Bonifaces' coming, large, high-backed Dutch rockers had been ranged round this kitchen door, and here the little party seated themselves under the uncertain shade of a half-leafless oak-tree, that allowed the warm sunshine to slant gratefully down upon them, and where they could enjoy the flower fountain to the full. The Misses Van Vleet were busy within doors attending to the preparations for supper—that is, with the exception of Pauline, who was always at liberty to do pretty much as she chose; and what she had chosen to do this afternoon was this: After the Bonifaces had come up from their boat she had noticed somebody still moving about in it, so down she went to investigate. Then, when she reached a point near enough to be quite satisfactory to her ladyship, she sat herself down on the low, straight limb of a stunted apple-tree, and waited.
CHAPTER XII.—AN INTERRUPTION.
HE somebody moving about in the “Grayling” was Flutters. He was arranging boat cushions, folding up wraps and shawls, and putting things generally to rights. Dear little fellow! No one had told him he ought to do this; he did it quite by grace of his own thoughtful intuition, and he found so many little things all the while to do, and did them all so gladly, that he wondered a trifle proudly how the Bonifaces had ever managed without him, and the Bonifaces wondered too.
Finally, when Flutters had gotten everything into literally ship-shape condition, and quite to his mind, off he started up the bank, bending far over, as one must when one attempts to scale a steep place rapidly. So it chanced that he did not see Miss Pauline at all until she spoke to him, and he was himself directly under the scant shadow of the apple-tree.
“Not so fast, sir,” said Pauline, in an authoritative way, which brought Flutters, surprised and breathless, to a standstill.
“Sit down,” she added in a moment, pointing to a rock covered with gray moss, and confronting the limb where she was sitting.
Flutters mechanically obeyed. He knew she must be one of the family, and as he had met many queer people in his day, did not marvel that here was somebody, to all appearances, a little queerer than the rest. She looked very pretty balanced there on the low limb of the tree, in her full-skirted gray gown, and with the western sunlight shining on her back and turning her curling yellow hair into a sort of halo about her forehead. Flutters sat and stared at her.
“Do you like my looks?” she asked complacently.
“Yes,” replied Flutters, astonished; “you are a Miss Van Vleet, aren't you?”
“Yes, I'm Miss Pauline Van Vleet.”
“I thought so,” Flutters remarked, just by way of saying something.
“It is best never to say what you think,” said Miss Pauline solemnly. “Folks get themselves into trouble that way.”
Flutters felt inclined to suggest that people would be very stupid and uninteresting if they did not sometimes say what they thought, but wisely concluded it was better not to start an argument with this peculiar young person.
“Are you a new Boniface?” asked Pauline, scanning him closely.
“No, not exactly,” laughed Flutters.
“I did not ask what you were exactly; are you a new Boniface at all?”
What a queer question, thought Flutters, and then went to work to answer it to the best of his ability.
“No, I am not a Boniface at all, but I am new in this part of the country. I used to live in England.”
“What is your name?”
“Flutters.”
Miss Pauline seemed very much amused at this, saying it over to herself two or three times. “Did your father use to call you Flutters?” she asked presently, looking at him searchingly.
“No,” he answered, the color rushing into his brown face, for no one had asked him that direct question before.
“What did he call you?”
“He called me—he called me—but that is one of the things I do not tell to anybody.”
“But, Flutters, child, you will tell me, just me,” and Pauline looked at him with a look as pathetic as though she were pleading for her life.
“But I can't, Miss Pauline, really I can't;” whereupon Miss Pauline buried her face in her two pretty hands, and began to cry like a child.
“Why, you're not crying for that, surely?” Flutters asked, never more astonished in his life.
“Yes, just for that—just for that—and I'll cry harder and harder until you tell.”
The truth was, all the Van Vleets were so in the habit of humoring this poor sister of theirs, and never crossing her will if it could possibly be helped, that this refusal on Flutters's part truly seemed to her most preposterous, and she was shedding actual tears. Flutters saw one or two of them find their way through her fingers, and, like other heroes, relented at the sight; besides, what else was to be done?
“I will tell you, I will tell you,” he said softly; “my real name is Arthur Wainwright;” and the mere sound of it, whispered though it was, made him start. It was so long now since he had heard it on the lips of any one! Indeed, it did not seem as though it belonged to him at all.
“That's a pretty name,” replied Pauline, beginning to be comforted and to dry her tears; “now tell me all about you.”
“Oh, I can't,” replied Flutters, pained at the need of refusing; “I must keep it a secret.”
“You can keep it a secret all the same,” said Pauline sadly, and with that insight into her own deficiencies which sometimes flashes across a distraught mind, “for, you see, I cannot remember it long enough to tell it to anybody, so tell me, please—please tell me; nothing makes Pauline so happy as a real true story.”
The entreaty in her voice was too much for Flutters, and he dreaded more than he could express a fresh outburst of tears, therefore he decided to run the risk, and try if he could to make Miss Pauline happy, especially as he thought it highly probable that what she said was true, and that she really would not remember anything long enough to repeat it.
“There is not much about me,” he began, “but I will tell you all there is.” It did not occur to his honest little soul that any story he might have chosen to concoct would have answered just as well for Miss Pauline. He neither added to nor in any way digressed from the exact truth.
“My father was an Englishman,” he continued, “and he lived for a while in India, for he had some business there, and my mother was a colored woman.”
“Oh, dear me!” said Pauline, “I would not like a father of one sort and a mother of another; which kind did you like best?”
“I do not remember my mother at all, but my father said she was beautiful and a good woman, but not just what people call a lady. She died when I was two years old, and then my father took me to England, and then after a while he married a real lady, a white English lady like himself, and they had some lovely white children; but the English mother never liked me. I think she couldn't somehow, Miss Pauline”—he seemed to reason as though he were afraid of blaming anybody—“and I thought I was in the way—in the way even of my father; and so one day I ran off and joined a circus that was coming to America. But I did not care for the circus very much, and so Job Starlight and Miss Hazel helped me to run away from that, and now I'm Miss Hazel's body servant, and the Bonifaces seem to like me, and I never was so happy in all my life before.”
“That's a very nice story, too nice for a secret. Why don't you tell it 'round?”
“Oh, because I don't want my father ever to hear of me, for then he might send for me, and I want to stay with the Bonifaces always. You won't tell, will you, Miss Pauline?”
“I would if I could,” she answered, with a spirit of mischief, “but you can't tell things if your head's like a sieve, and lets everything through, can you? Now is there nothing more?”
“No, there isn't,” Flutters answered, a little shortly, indignant at her answer. It hardly paid, he thought, to be kind to a young lady who acted like that. But fortunately Pauline did not notice the curtness of his reply.
“Then give me your hand, Flutters, and we'll go up to the house.”
“No, I thank you. Boys as big as I am don't need to be helped along by the hand.”
“Flutters,” she said solemnly, “give—me—your—hand or I'll—I'll cry harder than before.”
“Oh dear, dear, dear,” thought Flutters, “is there no way out of this?” and he looked furtively down the bank toward the boat, as though he seriously contemplated taking to his heels and launching out upon the river as the only adequate means of escape. But suddenly Miss Pauline put one hand to her ear, and Flutters, looking in the direction in which she pointed with the other, saw that some one up at the house was ringing a bell, and at the same time too heard its tinkling, which Pauline's keen hearing had been quick to detect.
“Flutters,” she said, gazing down at him with the most satisfied smile imaginable, “that means supper. Come on up;” then away she flew toward the house, leaving Flutters to follow at a reasonable gait, and profoundly thankful to be relieved from the alternative of either being led by the hand or taking refuge in ignominious flight.
CHAPTER XIII.—MORE ABOUT THE TEA-PARTY.
O one had noticed the tête-a-tête which Flutters and Miss Pauline had been holding at a distance, only when Flutters came on the scene Hazel asked what had kept him so long, and he made some evasive reply. He hoped no one would ever know of the encounter. In the first place, because he foolishly felt he had somehow been gotten the best of, and, in the second place, because Miss Pauline had heard what he had fully intended no one of his new friends ever should hear.
As a member of the Van Vleet household, Starlight naturally felt a share in the responsibility of entertaining, and, taking Flutters under his wing, presented him to one and another of the family as “Flutters, the new boy over at the Bonifaces'.”
“No such thing,” said Miss Pauline when in turn Flutters was introduced to her; “he's not a new Boniface at all; I know better than that, don't I, dear?”
“Oh, what shall, what shall I say?” groaned Flutters inwardly; but Starlight dragged him away with the explanation that the young lady was not right in her mind, and so there was no necessity of saying anything.
It proved a most inviting table that the Van Vleets had spread for their Royalist friends. Two deep apple pies graced either end of it; a great platter of doughnuts or “oly keoks,” as the Dutch has it, had been placed in the centre, towered above, on one side, by a long-stemmed glass dish of preserved peaches, and, on the other side, by a similar dish of preserved pears. Frau Van Vleet presided over a large Delft teapot ornamented, as Washington Irving describes a similar pot, “with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses, tending pigs, with boats sailing in the air and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other ingenious Dutch fantasies.” As the kitchen table was not of the extension variety, and so not capable of accommodating the entire party, places had to be set for Hans, Harry Avery, and two of the Van Vleet sisters at a separate table in one corner.
At the back of Frau Van Vleet's customary seat at the larger table was the great open fireplace, which was roomy enough to accommodate two people on each of the benches lining either side of it. On a crane, suspended over the crackling logs, hung a huge copper tea-kettle, from which Harry, since he had been staying with the Van Vleets, had taken upon himself the duty of refilling the Delft teapot whenever needed during the progress of a meal, and indeed had completely won the heart of the kind old Frau, as soon as he had come among them, by his eagerness to serve her in every possible way. To-night he was kept busy, for both Van Vleets and Bonifaces were famous tea-drinkers, only they managed the matter differently in those days. The lump of sugar was placed beside the cup, not in it, and people nibbled and sipped alternately. The principal hot dish of the tea-party was broiled ham, and, done to a turn and deliciously savory, was delicate enough to tempt almost any appetite. Then there were two blue china plates heaped with biscuits, every one of which, from very lightness, had risen and risen, till top and bottom were a long way apart; but notwithstanding these generous proportions, the two blue plates had been emptied and replenished more than once before all were satisfied.
Miss Pauline's seat at the table had been placed at quite a distance from Flutters, but, without daring often to look in her direction, Flutters felt with considerable nervousness that her gaze was riveted almost constantly upon him. Finally, to his astonishment, and at a time when there had been a pause of several seconds, she announced very calmly, “Wainwright's a nice little boy. I like his looks and he likes mine; don't you, Wainwright?”
Flutters kept his eyes on his plate, and in his embarrassment swallowed two or three morsels of ham that were far too large in far too rapid succession. “She'll tell it all, if they only give her time,” he thought savagely, but he did not intend to make any reply.
“She means you, Flutters,” whispered Miss Heide, who sat next to him. “You had better answer her, 'that you do like her looks.' We never differ with her. It is just a fancy of hers, this calling you Wainwright; but where could she ever have heard the name?”
“If it only were a fancy,” thought Flutters, while Miss Pauline sat, with her teacup poised in her pretty hand, waiting his reply.
“Yes, I like your looks,” said Flutters in a compulsory sort of way that made every one smile, while the color surged over his brown face.
“That's right,” she answered complacently, “and I wouldn't mind at all about your mother being colored, because that's how you come by your dark skin, and your dark skin is the beauty of you.”
Miss Pauline was growing rather personal, and it certainly did look as though she knew what she was talking about; but fortunately no one attached any weight to what she said, and as she seemed inclined to follow up a line of thought which must at least be annoying to poor little Flutters, the sister who sat nearest her tried quietly to divert her, while another started a new topic of general conversation.
At last the meal was over, and Flutters was glad; nor was he the only one that felt relieved. Captain Boniface had finished his supper sometime before the others, and for the last ten minutes had been nervously taking up his tumbler and setting it down, and shifting his position in his chair, as though unable longer to keep his long legs penned under the narrow table. Mrs. Boniface had noticed it and wondered at it, and felt thankful when Frau Van Vleet pushed back her chair and so gave the signal to the others.
“Oh, dear, what can the matter be?” screeched a great green parrot hanging in its cage by the doorway, and who had apparently been roused from deep reverie by the scraping of the chairs on the sanded floor. Mrs. Boniface gave a start of surprise, for the parrot had given exact expression to her own thoughts. She was watching her husband closely, and knew by experience that something was troubling him, and yet he had been so gay that very afternoon. “I believe it was all assumed,” she thought to herself, and the more she thought, the more assured she felt that she was right. Oh, how she longed to steal over to him and question him; but no, that would not do. Frau Van Vleet had arranged two chairs side by side for a neighborly chat, and there was no way out of it.
Now that the supper was over, the Misses Van Vleet's domestic duties were over too, the clearing of the table being left to “Rhuna,” an old crone of a negro servant, who had been with them many years. Then, as was their wont, the young ladies resorted each to her particular rush- bottomed chair and the knitting of her own woollen stockings, while Josephine, with little Kate upon her lap, endeavored to make her exhibit some of her pretty accomplishments for their general amusement. Hazel, Starlight, and Flutters had accompanied Hans Van Vleet and his father off to the barn for the milking, while Captain Boniface and Harry, in close conversation, walked off toward the river. Harry had joined the Captain at a signal that he would like to speak to him, but he had not noticed his altered manner, and under the impression that he was in the best of spirits, was altogether unprepared for what he was about to hear.
“Harry,” began the Captain seriously, “I have received the most distressing news within the last twenty-four hours.”
“You don't mean it, sir,” with evident surprise; “I thought matters were looking brighter for you every day. I have reason to know that at least two of the signers of that insulting note you received are heartily ashamed of their behavior, and are actually on the look-out to atone for it in some fashion.”
“So I hear, and I am very grateful; but all that good news is offset by other news which has reached me this morning: some Tory friends of ours in South Carolina have just been brutally murdered by the Whigs,” and then the Captain excitedly narrated all the sad details of the tragedy so far as he knew them.
Harry listened attentively. “It is certainly very dreadful,” he said at last sadly; “but,” he added with characteristic honesty, “I have heard of some of the doings of those South Carolina Tories, and many of them, though possibly your friends were not among them, deserved harsh treatment, Captain Boniface.”
“Harry,” said the Captain abruptly, as though too busy with his own thoughts to have heard what was said, “tell me frankly, do you suppose this community will ever again treat me as a decent member of society?”
“Yes, Captain Boniface, I do, and I have something with me this moment that points that way,” and he handed him an unsealed envelope. It was addressed to the Captain, and he found it to contain a card of invitation, which read as follows: “The Executive Committee of the Assembly respectfully informs the ladies and gentlemen of New York that a dance will be given on Monday next at the City Assembly Rooms, to begin precisely at five o'clock. Price of tickets, six shillings.”
“So they ask us to the Assembly, do they?” said the Captain, glancing over it with evident surprise. “They have contrived to leave us very little heart for dancing,” he added sadly.
“But you will go,” urged Harry; “that invitation means even more than you suspect. It means, I think, that there is an organized effort on foot to fully reinstate you, and some other Tories as well, whom they have treated so uncivilly.”
“So you think it implies all that?” said the Captain, smiling incredulously at his enthusiasm.
“Yes, I'm sure it does, and you will go and take Mrs. Boniface and Miss Josephine; promise me, Captain.”
The Captain did not reply at once, and Harry had time to realize that in his earnestness he was rather overstepping bounds.
“Of course I do not mean to ask you to promise me,” he stammered, coloring up to the roots of his hair, “but you know what I mean. I am so anxious you should meet them half way.”
“And you think we really ought to go? Why, a Dancing Assembly is the last thing in the world we care to have a hand in. But Mrs. Boniface will not stir a step when she hears about this wholesale murder of the Bentons, so that settles it.”
“And you feel that you must tell her?”
“No, of course there is no must about it. I will think it over,” and then the Captain and Harry entered into a thorough discussion of the events that had led up to the sad consummation in South Carolina, and Harry had some facts at his command by which he succeeded in partially convincing the Captain that, in many cases, the Tories had been treated very much as they deserved.
“Well, Harry, you may be right, you may be right,” sighed the Captain, “but that does not make the sacrifice of my old friends any easier to bear.”
“Not a whit, sir, I can understand that,” and then they started toward the house, for they could see that Mrs. Boniface and Frau Van Vleet were taking formal leave of each other.
Twilight was settling down upon the river, and in those days, when it was the custom for fashionable dancing parties to begin at five o'clock, it was surely fitting that the same hour should conclude an unfashionable Dutch tea-party. Indeed, by the time darkness had fairly mastered the twilight, all the Van Vleets were snugly in bed, and only one light could be seen in the whole farm-house; that was in the window of Aunt Frances's gable room. There she sat reading, by the light of a plump little Dutch candle, certain familiar passages from some dearly loved books. She knew most of them by heart, and yet to much pondering of the noble, uplifting thoughts of these comforting little books was due much of that cheerful courage which was such a help to everybody.
Meanwhile the “Grayling” sailed “up river” and “cross river,” and reached her dock. She had one more name on her list of cabin passengers, however, than when she had sailed that morning, for how could Aunt Frances say “No” when Hazel had come to her and begged that she would please be so very good as to let them have Starlight for over Sunday?
CHAPTER XIV.—HAZEL HAS A CONVICTION.
TARLIGHT,” said Hazel, seriously, next morning, as they sat side by side on the porch, “I've been thinking.”
“Yes,” said Starlight, dryly; “most people do.”
“I've been thinking, Starlight,” Hazel continued, “that perhaps I am not doing quite right by Flutters.”
“You're doing mighty kind by him, I'm sure, and he thinks so, too. You've given him a home and clothes and plenty to eat, and all he has to do is to wait on your ladyship and take charge of the pony. I shouldn't call that work, nor Flutters doesn't, either. He says it is all just fun, and if there's a finer family anywhere than the Bonifaces he'd like to see'em, only he knows he never shall see'em, because there isn't such a family.”
“Are you making that up, Job Starlight?”
“Well, I guess not. Flutters says something of that sort every time we're left alone together. It seems as though his heart was so overflowing that he just had to ease it whenever he got a chance.”
“Well, it's certainly very pleasant to have him feel like that.”
“Why, he just worships the ground—”
Starlight paused to shy a stone at a guinea hen that was encroaching on one of the flower beds—“your mother treads on.”
Starlight knew well enough that he ended this sentence quite differently from what Hazel had expected; but Hazel was wise enough not to show her surprise, and besides, if there was any worshipping to be done, she was about as glad to have Flutters worship the ground her mother trod on as that over which her little feet had travelled.
“No, but I've been thinking,” she said, resuming her own line of thought, “that, for all we know, Flutters may be a regular little heathen, for I have an idea that the mulattoes are a very savage tribe. Did you ever hear him say a word about religion, or what he believed, and things like that?”
Starlight scratched his head, by way of helping his memory. “Never a word, come to think of it.”
“Well, now, Starlight, that is very strange, and I believe I'll take him to church this very morning, and see how he acts.”
“Yes, let's,” said Starlight, taking most kindly to the project. “If he's never been in one, it will be awful fun to see how he takes it.”
“People don't go to church to have awful fun. If that's what you're going for, you had better stay home.”
Starlight clapped his hand over his mouth, as though to suppress a most explosive giggle. “My gracious, Hazel! What has come over you?”
“Nothing has come over me, and you know it. I always love to go to church, and I love everything they do there; and I think it's beautiful where they sing, 'Lord, have mercy upon us,' after the commandments, and everybody keeps their head bowed.”
Starlight did not answer. It was evident Hazel was launching upon one of what he called her “high-minded moods;” and, indeed, child though she was, Hazel did have times when she thought very deeply—times when the soul that was in her seemed to reach out after things eternal. It was not at all an unusual experience. It does not always need even ten round years to bring a child to a point of knowing for itself that there is a longing that this world, all wonderful and beautiful though it be, does not fully satisfy. Such a knowing does not make a child less a child, or rob it of an iota of its joyousness, only sometimes lends a sweet and earnest depth to the little God-given life. But to matter-of-fact Job Starlight, it must be confessed that such a mood was not at all satisfactory. He did not comprehend it, and standing in awe of Hazel's “high mindedness,” always endeavored to bring her down to his own level as quickly as possible by means of some diverting subject. This time he fortunately spied it in the shape of two prim little maidens, Prayer-Book in hand, who came demurely walking, side by side, down the path that skirted the roadway.
“Why, there come the Marberrys,” he remarked.
“Sure enough,” said Hazel, flying to the gate. “Are you going to church?” she called over it.
“Yes,” answered the little Marberrys simultaneously; indeed, they were a pair of simultaneous children. In the first place, they were twins; in the second place, they were as alike in appearance as peas in a pod, and, in the third place, one little brain seemed to be the perfect fac-simile of the other. It was no uncommon thing for them to utter the same thought, in the same words, at the same time; and when this did not happen, one would generally echo what the other had said. They had been christened Mathilde and Clothilde; but Milly and Tilly had been the outcome of that, and of course the similarity in the sound of the two names led to much confusion, since the initial letter was all that distinguished them.
Hazel had come to the wise conclusion “that, so far as possible, it was best just to say things that would do for both, because, like as not, if you meant to say something to Milly—it not being so understood—Tilly would answer, and vice-versa.” But these two little Marberrys were warm friends of hers, and in those days, when so many people were estranged from the Bonifaces, she set a specially high value upon their friendship. Not that the Marberrys were in any sense Tories; only, as Dr. Marberry was rector of St. George's, they felt it their duty, as a family, to be kind to everybody in the church. Besides, it would have caused the twins a real pang to have been parted from Hazel, for, as they frequently asserted in the presence of less favored playmates, “Hazel Boniface was the cutest and nicest girl they had ever known.”
Starlight's announcement of “Here come the Marberrys” had suggested to Hazel the idea of joining forces and all going along together. The children were delighted with the plan, as with any plan of hers, and sat down for a friendly chat with Starlight, while Hazel hurried away to summon Flutters. She found him feeding some withered clover heads to Gladys, as he sat comfortably on the top rail of the fence, enclosing the meadow where Gladys was allowed to disport herself on high days and holidays. She waited till she got close up to him, then she announced, “Flutters, you are to go to church with me this morning.”
“To church!” he said, surprised, for he had not heard her coming.
“Yes, go put on the other suit, and meet me at the gate quickly.”
She did not say “your other suit,” feeling, naturally, a certain sense of personal ownership, as far as Flutters's outfit was concerned.
“All right, Miss Hazel,” he answered, moving off with the alacrity of a well-trained little servant.
“Perhaps you will not care to go with me, girls,” Hazel remarked, as she came down the path, some five minutes later, and looking very pretty in her dark red Sunday dress. “You see I am going to take Flutters.”
“And why should we mind that?” chirped Milly Marberry in a high musical little key, and Tilly remarked, “Yes, why should we mind that?”
“Because I have no idea how he will behave. When I told him just now that he was to go to church with me, he said, 'To church!' as though he was very much surprised and had never been in one in his life.”
“I suppose he'll sit still, though, if you tell him to,” said Milly.
“Of course he will not speak if—” but Tilly's sisterly echo was interrupted by a significant hush from Hazel, and the next second Flutters was with them. Then the little party set off, the boys ahead together, and the girls behind.
“Where does Flutters come from, anyway?” asked Tilly.
“Yes, where from?” piped Milly.
“From England,” Hazel answered, softly, “but he's a mulatto.”
“A what?” simultaneously.
“A mulatto. They're a kind of negro tribe.'
“Goodness gracious!”
“Gracious goodness!”
“Are the mulattoes wild and dangerous?” asked Milly, tremulously.
“Yes, I believe so; but then, of course, Flutters isn't so now. Civilization has changed him.”
The Marberrys looked at Hazel with admiration; these occasional big words of hers constituted one of her chief charms in their eyes.
“But the truth is,” Hazel continued, “I do not know very much about Flutters. He does not seem to like to talk about his history, and mother says I have no right to pry into it.”
“I shouldn't think anybody who had been wild and savage could speak such good English,” said Tilly, thoughtfully.
“Neither should I,” said Milly.
“Well, that is queer,” and Hazel looked puzzled. “I hadn't thought of that; but I'm certain his grandfather, if not his father, must have been wild and savage. I'm very sure the mulattoes used to be very ferocious.”
“Where do the mulattoes live?” asked the Marberrys.
“I don't know,” was Hazel's truthful answer. The fact was, as you have discovered, Hazel did not know what she was talking about. She had a trick of mounting an impression, and then of giving rein to her imagination and letting it run away with her, so that the first thing she knew she was telling you something she really quite believed was fact, but which was nothing of the sort. As a result she was sometimes credited with fibbing, and got into many an unnecessary scrape, but, you may be sure, Mrs. Boniface was doing all that she could to correct this unfortunate tendency.
Meantime the boys walked ahead, conversing with no little earnestness as to the comparative merits of two tiny sloop yachts, one of which was taking shape under Starlight's hand, and the other under Flutters's, and whose same comparative merits were to be put to the test, when completed, by a race on the waters of the Collect. At this point in their walk a turn of the road brought St. George's into sight.
“Ever been to church, Flutters?” Starlight asked, quite casually.
“Oh, yes, often.”
“Episcopal?”
“Ye' ep,” was Flutters's unceremonious answer; “but how large are you going to make your foresail?” not willing to be diverted from the all-engrossing subject.
“I shall give her all the sail she can carry, you may be certain.” Starlight did not intend to furnish this rival yachtsman with any exact measurements. And so they talked on till they reached the little stone church, where service had already commenced. The Marberrys walked straight up to their pew, the very front one, but before they reached it each little face flushed crimson. At one and the same moment their two pairs of blue eyes met their father's, for he was leading the General Confession, and did not need to have them upon his book. Judging from the crimson on their faces, the look must have said, “There is no excuse for this, my little daughters; I am ashamed that you should be so late.”
Hazel and Starlight and Flutters had the Boniface pew to themselves, but Hazel allowed Starlight to precede them into it, while she detained Flutters in the vestibule for a little seasonable advice. She had intended to administer it slowly and forcibly by the way. Now she had to compress it all into one hurried little moment. In her excitement she seized hold of Flutters's brown wrist, as she whispered, hurriedly, “Flutters, this is a church, where people come to worship. You will have to sit very still and not speak, only get up and sit down when I do, because part of the time it's wrong to sit down. So, Flutters, watch me very closely. I will find you the place in the Prayer-Book, but you had better not say the things that are written there, even if you can read them, 'cause they're probably things you do not understand at all, and don't know anything about, so it would be best not to say you believed them. You can sing the hymns, though; there won't be any harm in that, only sing very softly, for fear you don't get the tune right. Now that is all, I believe,” putting her finger to her lip in a meditative way, and with an anxious frown on her face, as if fearing she had overlooked some important instruction. “Yes, that is all; now follow me in;” and Flutters following her, took his seat with a most decorous air, and without staring about with such gaping astonishment, as might, perhaps, be looked for in a boy of fourteen, who had never seen the interior of a church before, so that Hazel at once felt much relieved. Her first duty, of course, was to furnish him with the proper page in the Prayer-Book, and her second to anticipate all irregularities in the order of service, by taking the book from his hands in ample time to supply him with the right place at the right moment. Now it must be confessed that all this was accomplished by Hazel in rather an officious and patronizing manner, but, unfortunately for her, there came a time when she herself was at a loss.
She did not know which Sunday it was after Trinity. Flutters did, and seeing her confusion anticipated Dr. Marberry by whispering, “It's the eighteenth Sunday, I think.”