CHAPTER XVIII
THE PARTY
Very early, on the morning of the day of the party, Nancy and Aunt Milly and B'lindy and Jonathan and Nonie and Davy and Peter Hyde, each, scanned a sunny, cloudless sky with relief and joy.
"Well, it isn't going to rain, anyway," each thought.
Even Miss Sabrina, lifting her shade slowly, felt her pulse beat more quickly as a sunbeam danced into her face. This day was a new day for Happy House; she could not count the years since a "party" had been given in her home; her old hands trembled now as she dressed hurriedly. "What if something goes wrong!" she thought. Had they forgotten anything?
A little later Nancy, standing with her arms full of girlish finery of thirty years ago, voiced the same fear to Aunt Milly.
"What if something should go wrong!" But there had been a giggle in her voice as she had said it. This was the most delightfully funny party she had ever known, and it was going to be the very jolliest, too.
Directly after breakfast Nonie had run home with the made-over white dress. She thought it much lovelier than velvet and in her joy over a pair of Nancy's slippers the child forgot her cherished dream of a train.
What Miss Milly should wear to the party was a matter that demanded much thought. "You see, I want you to look happy," Nancy explained to Aunt Milly. She had dragged down from the attic a little trunk in which, after the accident, many of Aunt Milly's girlish possessions had been packed. It was great fun taking them out and selecting from them what Aunt Milly should wear. There were not many things—compared to Nancy's own wardrobe it was pitifully small and spoke eloquently of the limited pleasures of Aunt Milly's girlhood.
"This will be lovely," Nancy held out a flowered silk. "And you can wear these darling beads. And this," picking out a shell comb, "in your hair. And I will send Jonathan over to Judson's for a bunch of their lovely roses. I know they have some!"
"But isn't this—queer—and out of date? I'm old now, Nancy!"
"You dear, funny Aunt Milly! Don't you know that you're not a bit old? All this time you've been shut away the years have been rolling right past you and have left you untouched. You're going to be the sweetest picture and you're going to be a—surprise, too!"
She was a picture when Nancy's eager fingers had finished with her. The pink of the quaintly fashioned dress was not more pink than the color that flushed her delicate cheeks; into her soft hair Nancy had thrust the shell comb and around her neck hung a chain of tiny corals. Jonathan had returned from Judson's with four bunches of roses and one of them now adorned Miss Milly.
"You're just lovely," Nancy had cried, imprinting a warm kiss upon the blushing cheek.
She awarded the same stamp of approval upon Aunt Sabrina, too, who was very stately in a black silk with one of the Judson roses pinned in the net fichu about her throat.
"And I shall kiss you, too," Nancy called out to B'lindy, catching, through the open door a glimpse of marvellously starched calico.
"You go 'long and keep out from under my feet," had been B'lindy's retort as she retreated from Nancy's threatened attack. "I guess there's work has to be done before this party's over!" But the grumbling in her voice could not conceal her pride and satisfaction.
"Oh, everything is just lovely," Nancy exclaimed, tiptoeing about to add a finishing touch here and there. And indeed, some magic wand seemed to have scattered gladness everywhere about the old place; the great rooms, open now to the sunshine, radiated it in the fragrance of the flowers that Nancy had heaped everywhere.
"I wish it would stay like this," was her unspoken thought.
But in her plans for the party which was to show all Freedom that Happy House was a happy house, Nancy had reckoned without Mrs. Cyrus Eaton.
Since trouble had shadowed Happy House and shut its hospitable doors, time had brought changes to Freedom just as it had to every place on the globe; commerce, trade, politics, a certain democratizing of the standards of living had made their inroads even upon the little village; new families came and old ones died out. And new influences challenged and threatened the old Island aristocracy.
Not the least of these was the influence of trade. When Cyrus Eaton bought and rebuilt the general store next to the post-office he made for himself—or for his wife—a social prestige that was beyond dispute. As the years had gone by he had strengthened this materially by certain credits which he extended to different families in the village.
Webb had gone to Mrs. Eaton's first with his invitation and his story. That lady had flipped the little card upon the table with a snort. Did Miss Leavitt or anyone else think she'd go anywhere where those Hopworths were? Was it not her duty, too, to warn her friends as to what this party would be like—to tell them of this hoydenish, impertinent girl, "of the bad branch of the family," who seemed to have hypnotized Miss Sabrina?
By the time Mrs. Eaton had finished her baking, put on her best purple poplin and started out in Webb's trail, her rage had carried her to such heights of eloquence that it was not difficult for her to convince her neighbors that some "hoax" was about to be played upon the good folks of Freedom and that each one must show her pride by remaining away from the party. She talked so fast, and repeated her stories so often, that she digressed, quite unconsciously, from the truth and, at the last few calls, made Nancy out a most shocking young person!
"I can't tell you—I wouldn't tell you—all the goings on at that Cove," was her favorite introduction. "And in the orchard, too! Anyone could have told Sabrina Leavitt she was a fool bringing the creature here—that branch of the family, everyone knows, wouldn't be above doing anything!"
So while happy Nancy arranged flowers for the party the expected guests entrenched themselves behind their closed blinds, their righteous satisfaction tinged the very least bit by regret born of immense curiosity.
However, there were two exceptions. Samuel Todd, the postmaster, was an aspirant for a seat in the State Legislature. His ancestors had never lived anywhere else but on the Island and he had inherited a wholesome respect for the Leavitt name. He was enough of a politician, too, to know that, even though she was an old woman, he might sometime need Miss Sabrina's good-will.
"You go 'long and keep your eyes open and your mouth shut," he had advised his wife when, after Mrs. Eaton's hurried call, she had sought his counsel. "You women talk too much, anyway."
Mrs. Todd, for once, was delighted to do his bidding; Carrie Baker, over at North Hero, had made over her yellow muslin so that it was "better'n new—and just lyin' up there in the closet catchin' dust," she explained to Mrs. Sniggs. Mrs. Sniggs promptly offered to accompany her.
"I'm that curious to see that mantel—and the girl, too!"
So that, when the hour of the party struck and found Nancy, like a flower, with Miss Sabrina and Miss Milly, on the lawn, ready to receive their guests, the only guests (excepting Peter Hyde and the Hopworths and Miss Sabrina and B'lindy, peeking from the door, did not count them) were Mrs. Sniggs and Mrs. Todd.
Liz Hopworth with Nonie and Davy had come early. Davy shone as to face and feet; the grandeur of the new shoes Peter Hyde had given him quite made up for the small things lacking in the rest of his appearance. Liz was trying not to pant in a plum-colored cashmere that was many sizes too small for her gaunt frame. Nancy had managed to place her near Aunt Milly—Aunt Milly was sure to be cordial and gentle with her and put her at her ease.
Webb and Peter Hyde had come early, too. Nancy had caught herself watching for Peter Hyde. She had given a little involuntary gasp when she saw him—he was resplendent in immaculate white flannels!
"Of course he bought them—just for this!" she thought regretfully. However, she had a moment of delicious satisfaction when she took him to Miss Sabrina; they should all see that a hired man could be very much of a gentleman.
"Peter," she managed to whisper to him, "I have a feeling that something awful is going to happen!" Then Mrs. Todd and Mrs. Sniggs had come through the gate and she had gone forward to meet them.
It was Webb who gave Nancy a hint of the real truth. He was, as he expressed it, "so gol darn flubberin' mad at the hul parcel of womenfolks he'd liked to burst!" Gossip had crept to the post-office stoop and Webb had sensed what was going on. "Skunks—beggin' your pardon, Miss Anne, but that's what!"
Nancy had a moment of panic; her eyes sought wildly for Peter Hyde. Then her fighting blood stirred. "Thank you, Webb," she said with well-assumed calmness. "Don't worry a bit! We'll show them—we'll act just as though we hadn't invited anyone else!"
But her nonchalant manner cloaked real distress. There was Miss Sabrina, proud Miss Sabrina who had opened the doors of her trouble for all Freedom to come and gape at—Nancy knew it had not been easy! There was pretty, fluttering, expectant Aunt Milly in the dress she had had made when she was eighteen; Nonie who had dreamed of throngs of guests paying homage before her; and B'lindy, who had made a cake that was "like as a twin to the one my mother made for the Gov'nor!" What would they say?
Was she not, indirectly, the cause of the humiliation that threatened them?
Nancy hurried to Peter Hyde where, in a corner of the garden, he stood paying court to Nonie. In answer to his pleasant nonsense Nonie's delighted laughter was rising shrilly. Nancy sent Nonie back to Aunt Milly. Then she caught Peter's arm.
"Peter! Pe-ter! Quick—come behind this bush! I'm—I'm—I've got to cry——"
And to Peter Hyde's consternation Nancy did burst into tears.
"For Heaven's sake, Nancy, what——"
"I'm just—mad," Nancy blurted from behind a handkerchief. "The—the cats!" She lifted her head, relieved by her sudden outburst. "It's that Mrs. Eaton again! She's—just—getting even!" She told what Webb had said. "And here's the—party—and no one will come! Aunt Sabrina will never, never get over it. And B'lindy—I wish I could run away."
Peter Hyde wanted very much to laugh, but the real distress in Nancy's face touched him. He patted her consolingly.
"Can't I do something? Can't Webb and I round 'em up at the point of a gun?"
"N-no, it's too late! We've just got to act as though the—the garden was full and make the best of it! I wanted it to be such a success. I wanted it to be a party that Nonie 'd never forget. And I wanted everyone to see Aunt Milly! Oh, why, oh, why doesn't something happen!" For Nancy had suddenly remembered the huge pails of ice-cream and the cake that was "like as a twin to the one my mother made for the Gov'nor."
At that moment the loud whirring of an automobile caught their attention. Nancy, red-eyed, peeped from behind their bush.
"It's at our gate!" she cried. "Peter——" she clutched his arm. From the tonneau a tall man was alighting. To Nancy there was something vaguely familiar in the sharp-featured, clean-shaven face and in the mass of wavy white hair that fringed his coat collar.
"Peter, it's—it's—Theodore Hoffman!"
CHAPTER XIX
THE MASTER
A bolt from the cloudless blue could not have startled the little gathering on the lawn more than did the arrival of the distinguished stranger at the gate of Happy House. Moreover, French Mercedes cars did not often pass through North Hero; this was purple and cream color and the chauffeur wore purple livery. And the man who walked up the path had a bearing that distinctly set him apart from ordinary mortals.
Nancy, in a panic, wanted the earth to swallow her, but as the earth was very solid, she had no choice but to drag herself forward. She had, only a moment before, prayed that something would happen—and something had!
Peter Hyde had rushed forward to greet the newcomer and this had given Nancy a moment to rally her scattered wits. She was too busy whispering an explanation to Miss Sabrina to notice how friendly had been the master's greeting to Peter.
"Miss Leavitt, may I present Mr. Theodore Hoffman—and Miss Anne Leavitt."
Peter's voice was as steady as though he was introducing any John Smith; there was even a twinkle in his eye, as it caught Nancy's glance, that seemed to say: "I have brought the master to you—now!"
There was a gentleness in the keen, deep-set eyes, a friendliness in the musical voice of the master that suddenly quieted Nancy's fluttering nerves. Time and again, at the very thought of this meeting, she had been so frightened and now—she was not a bit afraid. She was even glad he had come when the garden looked so pretty, when Aunt Sabrina was so proudly garbed in her best silk, when Aunt Milly, all pink and white, with Nonie perched on the arm of her chair, was leaning over explaining some intricate stitch in a bit of embroidery to Liz, to whom embroidery was not less remote than Sanskrit literature.
Mrs. Sniggs and Mrs. Todd were staring, open-mouthed, first at the stranger, then at the cream-and-purple car at the gate.
Nancy's spirits that had dropped to such depths behind the syringa bushes soared again. At last her moment had come! The master was declaring his delight in having chosen such a happy afternoon to come to Happy House; he admired the garden, and the old house; he admitted to a great curiosity concerning the Islands—he had never visited them before.
Nancy left him with Aunt Sabrina. Aunt Sabrina would manage to tell him a great deal—Nancy, watching, knew just when she left the Indians and the burning of Freedom and began on Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain Boys and the coming of Benedict Arnold and his flagship to the Island.
"He'll love her," she whispered to Peter Hyde, nodding toward where the master leaned with deep attention over Miss Sabrina's chair. "Look me square in the eye, Peter! Did you know he was coming to-day?"
"On my honor, I didn't. Is the play ready?"
"All ready, in a nice fat envelope. For goodness sake, look at Webb!"
Webb, returning from the house where he had hurried to tell B'lindy of the coming of the distinguished guest ("Don' know who he is nor whar he come from, but he's got one of them thur autymobiles that's bigger'n a steam enjine and a fellar drivin' it thet's dressed up like a circus lady") was standing in the path wildly gesticulating with one hand to attract Nancy's attention and with the other clapped over his mouth to suppress the laughter that was plainly shaking his entire body.
Nancy and Peter turned to see what had so convulsed him. Up the road toward the gate were approaching three separate groups of women, all coming hurriedly, breathlessly, with a great deal of chatter and fussing with hats and gloves.
Mrs. Maria Slade, behind her blind had seen the purple and cream-colored car. So had Miss Merry, across the street; so had a dozen others from behind their entrenchments. Simultaneously, in as many hearts, the urge of curiosity conquered resentment.
"It'll only take me half a minit to slip on my green dress," Mrs. Slade had called to Miss Merry. "Wait fer me!"
Mrs. Brown, next door, had heard her.
"I'll come along, too," she called out.
All through the street there was a stirring behind closed blinds, a hurried taking down of the Sunday-best and a feverish changing of shoes and searching for gloves.
"It's all very well for Sarah Eaton to tell us to show our pride," Mrs. Dexter had confided to Mrs. Hill, "but I just said to myself nobody done nothing to hurt me, I was goin' to see for myself what Sabriny Leavitt was havin' up there! Did you see that automobile? Purple, as I live. My, ain't this sun hot! I've got to go slower or I'll have a stroke."
"Every blessed woman in Freedom," cried Peter Hyde.
"Oh, how funny! Look at them coming. They saw the purple car. Peter, the party is a success! Aunt Sabrina will never know. Watch me now!" With a saucy tilt of her chin Nancy stepped down the path to greet the first of the late comers.
"So glad you have come," she murmured prettily, clasping Mrs. Slade's warm hand. "Do come under the trees where it is cool. I am so sorry you hurried."
In her most gracious manner Nancy presented each one in turn to Mr. Theodore Hoffman, of New York, then carried them off to Miss Milly.
"—and Miss Hopworth! But of course you know Miss Hopworth. Doesn't Nonie look darling to-day?" she would say to each one, with wicked intent.
Then a sudden inspiration seized her. "Nonie should play one of her pretend games for the master and their guests," she whispered excitedly to Aunt Milly and Nonie and Peter Hyde.
"Wheel Aunt Milly's chair back toward those bushes—that'll be the stage. Now, Nonie, play your best! Perhaps—perhaps the fairy godmother is here."
After a few moments of excited consultation Peter Hyde announced in a loud tone that, for the entertainment of the guests, a fairy fantasy, "The Visit of the Moon-Queen," would be presented by Miss Nonie Hopworth.
"Well, I swun, with folks here from N'York, encouragin' that girl to act her nonsense," murmured Mrs. Sniggs to a neighbor.
But the man-from-New York's face brightened expectantly when Nancy waved her hand out over their heads as though to touch them all with a fairy wand. "Let my magic give you fairy eyes so that you may see that this is not the garden of Happy House but a woodland, peopled by fairy creatures! If you will listen very hard, you will hear them stirring. It is the Flowers. They come to the Woodland to make it ready for the Moon-Queen who will visit them this night!"
Down through the trees danced Nonie, bare-footed, arms outflung, as though she was, indeed, joyously preparing for the triumphal coming of a Queen. In turn she characterized the Daisy, the Hollyhock, the Buttercup and the Rose—then became the good old Dandelion.
"Lily, you are so lazy," the Dandelion sternly admonished her fair sister. "Don't you know the Queen likes tidy gardens when she comes here? And see the muss Buttercup has left around. Oh, dearie me, children will be children and I'll be so glad when Buttercup and Daffy-down-dilly grow up! Daisy, it isn't lady-like to complain that your dress is so plain! I am sure the Queen will think you look very well, if your petals are clean. It's what you do, anyway, and not what you wear!"
Nancy saw Peter Hyde's laughing face drop suddenly between his arms.
With quaint, childish phrasing and with dancing steps Nonie interpreted her story to her audience. When each flower had done its part toward preparing the Garden for the coming of the Queen, Nonie, as the old Dandelion, admonished them to sit very still, "so as not to muss their dresses," and then disappeared only to appear again as the stately Queen. Like a peacock, holding an imaginary train in one hand, Nonie strutted across the grass, now nodding graciously to right and left, now haughtily chiding imaginary moonbeams who accompanied her. Then—the Queen supposedly in state upon her throne—Nonie was again the Dandelion, leading forward her sister flowers to pay court to their Queen.
Suddenly (from the direction of Aunt Milly's chair) came a slow, sorrowful voice that the Flowers (or at least Dandelion) lamented loudly as Trouble. The Flowers were sadly dismayed that Trouble should have intruded upon this festive gathering in honor of the Moon-Queen! But the Moon-Queen implored them "not to worry a bit."
"I know all about Trouble and the harm she does! I see everything as I ride through the sky. But, never fear, we will find a way to get rid of her!" The Queen threw out her hand with an imperial gesture. "Summon Youth!"
Nancy, as Youth, trying very hard not to giggle, answered the summons. In her pink dress, a flush dying her tanned cheeks, her eyes alight with life, she was so much the embodiment of joyous, appealing youth that Peter Hyde, absorbedly watching, felt a catch at his heart.
Gravely the Moon-Queen touched Youth with her magic wand.
"Go out into the world and drive Trouble away! I will give you fairy presents to help you in your fight. This," holding out a flower, "is a magic flower. If you wear it all the time you'll remember that there's always flowers and birds and nice things to make people happy. And here's a fairy leaf. If you wave that in people's faces they'll all be kind and never be cross to little children or animals or old people. And here is a fairy ring," placing a twisted dandelion stem in Youth's hand, "that'll make you love everybody and everybody love you. And here is a magic coat," putting Aunt Milly's shawl over Youth's arm, "when you wear it you'll always do beautiful things and you'll always seem beautiful and never grow old or ugly!"
Then the Flowers, at the Queen's bidding, danced wildly about Youth to show their joy at her coming—at least Nonie danced wildly, with utter abandon. Forgetting her audience, she had thrown herself heart and soul into the "game."
Again the Queen, she bade the pretty Rose step forward and take Youth by the hand and "walk along with her so that she'll see everything through your spectacles. I bid all adieu!"
After one sweeping bow Nonie had to unceremoniously leave the poor Moon-Queen in order to become the joyous Rose to whom had been allotted the pleasant task of accompanying Youth through her life's journey. She caught Youth by the hand and together, amid loud applause, led mainly by Webb and Peter Hyde, they danced away through the trees and shrubbery to the kitchen garden beyond.
"Author! Author!" came from Peter Hyde's corner and brought Nancy and Nonie, flushed by their play, back to the gathering under the trees.
"I'm blessed if I could make head'nor tail out of any of it, but did you see, Mary Sniggs, the way thet N'York man watched the two of them galivantin'?"
Mrs. Sniggs discreetly snorted into her handkerchief. "That kind o' play-actin' may be very well for Sabriny Leavitt's niece, but I don' believe it'll do any girl any good that's gotta earn her livin'!"
Nancy, still breathless, found Peter Hyde at her side. There was an earnestness in the gaze he kept fixed upon her that brought an added color to her cheeks.
"Was it dreadfully silly, Peter? I couldn't resist it. Could you see their faces when they watched Nonie?"
"I could only see you! I feel as though fairies had been here!"
"Peter—you're silly," rebuked Nancy. "Shall I give you one of my fairy gifts? The flower—or the leaf——"
"I want the ring," he answered with provoking gravity.
"There—you shall have it! Now you will love everybody and everybody will love you," Nancy laughed, placing the dandelion stem in his outstretched hand.
She was tremendously glad that at that moment Theodore Hoffman joined them—Peter Hyde had so seriously patted the pocket into which he had placed the ring—as though he really believed it could work its magic! She turned eagerly to the master but he spoke first.
"Tell me—I am haunted by a thousand memories—who in the world is this strange little creature?"
Nancy told the master of Nonie, of that first night in the orchard, of her strange gift of imagination, of her "pretend" games by which she had persistently gilded over the very rough spots of a sordid, lonely life.
"She is always reaching out for the spirit of the things about her and trying to make each her own!"
"She is like a flower that has grown up among weeds," muttered the great man, his thoughts far away, a frown wrinkling his brow. "Sometimes, it is in such places that we find the greatest gifts. I wonder," he gave a little start, as though bringing himself, with an effort, back to the garden. "It's always been a hobby of mine, hunting around in queer places for something I can give to my Art. Perhaps you don't understand me, but, wherever I am, I am watching, watching all the time, for a promise of talent that, if properly cultivated and trained, will give something to the greatest of the Arts—dramatic expression."
Thrilled, Nancy sat tongue-tied, afraid to speak. He went on: "I said I was haunted—years ago I ran across another child, not unlike this one. She gave rare promise of genius. I put her in my school. I had her there several years. I looked for a great deal from her. But—she failed me."
"Did she—die?"
The master laughed. "No, she loved a man more than she did her art. I was jealous—unreasonable. I let her go away—heard nothing more of her. I suppose she married. She's probably fat now, with a half-dozen squalling babies. Yes, I was jealous—I wanted to give her to my art, soul and body—as a fanatic would make his offering to his gods. And this child has made me think of her again. It has been a most interesting hour, Miss Leavitt. You say the child's head is full of this sort of thing? H-mm."
Now the garden was filled with a babble of voices intermingled with the clinking of spoons and dishes. Someone had overheard the great man's praise of Nonie's "play-actin'," and the word spread quickly. Mrs. Brown allowed it was "just spooky the way that child could make you think she was what she wasn't" and Mrs. Slade's sister's sister-in-law had seen Maude Adams in a play where she'd "pretended something all the time—something 'bout Cinderella, and like as not it might have been 'bout fairies, too." Under the stimulation of iced tea and cakes and caramel ice cream, served from delicate china, praise for Nonie grew and the fairy leaf that Youth carried, so that "people would be kind," began to work its magic in the garden.
It was well toward sunset when the last guest departed. Nancy, standing in the doorway with the empty house behind her, and before her the deserted garden, with its chairs and tables in crazy disarray, sent a wild little prayer down the road after the purple automobile that had whirled away carrying the great master and her poor little play.
"Please think it's good! I worked so hard."
As her eye caught the gleam of gabled housetops through the trees Nancy suddenly pictured how, at that very moment, every home in Freedom was echoing with the story of the party.
It had been a success! All Freedom—through the women's eyes—had been there to see precious Aunt Milly; now they knew that Happy House was a happy house. And, wonder of wonders, she had heard Mrs. Sniggs, in a most friendly way, ask Liz Hopworth to drop in and show her how she made her "plum jell."
Suddenly Nancy seemed to hear Peter Hyde saying: "I didn't see anything but you!" How silly he'd been—putting that absurd dandelion stem into his pocket, as though it really had some magic! Then, with quite unaccountable haste, as though to run away from her own meditations, Nancy rushed to the kitchen and begged B'lindy to let her help "clear up."
CHAPTER XX
A PICNIC
A reaction set in after the party, Miss Milly, over-fatigued, had had to stay in her room. Happy House, itself, fell back into its old ways; again the blinds were shut, the flower vases disappeared and the peacock feathers were returned to their places of honor. B'lindy developed rheumatism.
Too, a week followed of long hot days and stifling nights, "brewin' up for somethin'," B'lindy declared.
Nancy, her play finished, suffered from a restlessness she had never known before. She told herself that, now her work was done, she must not linger at Happy House; then found that she could not bear to face the thought of going! These ties that she had made bound her closely. It was not as though she might come back as they would think she could—the separation must be forever. And the day must come when these good people she had grown to love would know that she had deceived and cheated them!
"That is my punishment," she thought, in real distress.
On the morning of a day that differed only from the other cloudless days in that the sky was bluer and the sun hotter, Jonathan brought Nancy a letter from Mrs. Finnegan. Enclosed in it was a cable from her father telling her that he had booked passage on the Tourraine, leaving Le Havre within two days.
"Oh," Nancy cried aloud, "he is coming home!"
So intent was she upon her letter that she did not see the rapid approach of a shiny Ford; but at a terrific whirring and grating of wheels and levers she turned, startled.
"Love letter?" queried Peter Hyde, jumping from the driver's seat.
"How you frightened me! And why this magnificence? No, it is not a love-letter!" Nancy laughed joyously as she tucked it away in her pocket. Oh, why couldn't she tell Peter Hyde that it was word that her dearest father was at that moment sailing home to her! (Nancy could not know that the letter had lain in Tim Finnegan's pocket for five whole days.)
"This——" and Peter Hyde caressed his new possession, "is the latest tool at Judson's. You have no idea how many things it can do—'most everything except milk the cows. To-day I thought, if Miss Nancy Leavitt was willing, it might take us on a picnic—say, up to Isle La Motte. I'm beastly tired of work!"
"Oh, lovely," declared Nancy. "I've felt these last few days as though I wanted to rush off somewhere! Besides, I have something to tell you!"
Peter pretended alarm at her serious tone; then making her promise to be ready within a half-hour, he drove off.
It would be very pleasant to have a last picnic with Peter Hyde. She would give herself one day of frolic before she faced the problem of getting away from Happy House. It was too hot for Aunt Milly to go out to the orchard, she would leave word with B'lindy that if Nonie came the child should be sent to Miss Milly's room to amuse her. And perhaps it would be wiser if she slipped away without telling Aunt Sabrina. Aunt Sabrina was sure to look as though, when she was a girl, young ladies did not dash off on long automobile rides unchaperoned!
Avoiding the living room and the hollyhock porch, Nancy sought out B'lindy and begged a little lunch.
"We're going for a little ride in Mr. Judson's new car, B'lindy, but we might not get back in time for lunch—you know you never can tell what'll happen when you start out in an automobile! A few nice jelly sandwiches and a little cold chicken and some fruit cake and—tarts——"
B'lindy shook her head. "'Tain't the lunch that's botherin' me, child, but I can't get the pesky idee out o' my head that somethin' is goin' to happen! I've been feelin' that way in my bones all day and all day yesterday, too."
"B'lindy, you foolish, superstitious thing—it's your rheumatism!"
"I guess it ain't my rheumatiz, Miss Anne, and my bones generally feels right. I ain't forgotten when Miss Milly had that accident nor when Judson's barn burned. I thought mebbe it was poor Mis' Hopkins dyin'. Didn't you know the poor soul dropped right off in her sleep last night and left Timothy Hopkins with those ten children to care for? I sez this mornin' when Jonathan told me that there was no use tryin' to understand the ways of the Lord—ten children and that poor Timothy Hopkins as helpless a body as ever was, anyway, and not much more'n 'nough to feed his own stomach and no one to manage now!"
"How dreadful! Poor man." Nancy tried to make her tone sympathetic. "Of course that was what your bones were feeling, B'lindy!"
B'lindy turned a truly distressed face to Nancy. "But it wa'nt! No, sir, right this minit my bones is feelin' worse than ever that somethin' is goin' to happen!" She sighed as she patted a sandwich together. "Lord knows mebbe it's the heat. There's somethin' brewin', Miss Anne, and you'd better keep an eye open for a storm—they come up fast in this valley!"
But Nancy refused to let B'lindy's fears or warnings dampen her gay spirits. Indeed, she promptly forgot them in the joy of dashing off over the dusty road. B'lindy's lunch was tucked away in the back; ahead stretched miles of smooth inviting highway, winding through pleasant green meadows.
And this man who grasped the wheel of the car with such complete confidence, who seemed bent upon nothing more important than making the little hand of the speedometer climb higher and higher—this was a new Peter Hyde, unfamiliar and yet strangely familiar in that now he resembled the dozens of other young men Nancy had known.
Nancy felt suddenly shy. Always before, when with Peter, she had enjoyed the least bit of a feeling of superiority, that she was graciously bringing, with her friendship, much into a life that must, because it was limited to Judson's farm, often seem dull and empty. But it was not easy to feel that way toward this very good-looking young man in immaculate blue serge who tended to her comfort with the assurance of a person quite accustomed to taking young ladies on automobile picnics!
Because they were both young, because the breeze blowing deliciously against their faces was fragrant with summer smells, their hearts were light; they chattered merrily, as young people will, about everything under the sun, then lapsed into pleasant silences, broken only by the regular humming of the engine.
However, after a little, these silences irritated Nancy. Peeping from a corner of her eye at Peter Hyde's blonde head, she was annoyed by an overwhelming curiosity as to what was going on, within it! What was the mystery concealed behind that pleasant mask? And why, when they seemed such good friends, could he not tell her?
Then she suddenly realized, with a quick sense of shame, that she, too, was concealing much from Peter Hyde!
As they rode along he pointed out old landmarks with the familiarity of a life-long Islander. He admitted that history fascinated him. "Not in books as much as when you can hook it up with the very ground you're walking on! Look at that lake over there—can't you picture it covered with the canoes of the Indians? They used to come around here in flotillas—the Iroquois, the Algonquins and the Hurons, always fighting. Great lot they were—scrapping all the time!"
He seemed to have at his tongue's end some interesting bit of information about every spot they passed. As they wandered around Isle La Motte, he told how on this little Island Champlain had first landed on his voyage down into the valley. He explained that a Jesuit mission had been established there as far back as 1660, long before any other white men had ventured into the wilderness.
They visited the ruins of Fort Ste. Anne on Sandy Point and the little chapel with its cross, to which, on the Feast of Ste. Anne, came pilgrims from great distances, to pray at the shrine.
"We think this America of ours is so young," he laughed. "And here we are living on soil that has been consecrated by brave sacrifices of centuries ago! Not so bad."
Driving homeward their backs were turned to the little ominous pile of clouds darkening a corner of the blue sky. At a spot where the road ran close to the edge of the lake, under a wide-spreading maple tree, they laid out B'lindy's lunch.
"Now I'll tell him I'm going," Nancy vowed to herself, with a little unaccountable fluttering.
He was on his knees before the picnic box. She could not see his face.
"Peter!" She had not realized how hard it was going to be to say it. "I'm—going—away! Really."
She had expected that he would be startled—show real consternation. Her going must make a difference in his life at Freedom—there were no other young people to take her place.
He was surprised; he held a jelly sandwich suspended for a moment, as though waiting for her to say something more. Then he laid it down on a paper plate.
"White meat or dark meat," he asked.
Nancy could not know that he was not really concerned as to whether she preferred white meat or dark meat, that his indifference was, indeed, covering a moment's inability to express his real feelings. She was suddenly angry—angry at herself more than at Peter Hyde!
"Of course I shall hate to go, I have grown very fond of Aunt Sabrina and Aunt Milly and B'lindy—and dear little Nonie. It's hardest to leave her!"
"They'll miss you. You've changed Happy House. And Nonie's a different child."
"He's very careful not to say he'll miss me," thought Nancy with childish pique. Then, aloud: "But I can't stay at Happy House forever. I only planned to spend three weeks there at the most and it's been six. And it seems as though I'd been there ages! I suppose one day on the Islands is like a week in the cities, where you live right next to people and never really touch their lives. However, it's in the rush of the cities I belong; I should die if I had to stay here!" She wanted him to understand that the attractions of Happy House could not hold her; she wanted to punish him for that abstraction that she had thought indifference.
"Judson's will be a dull hole without you at Happy House, Nancy," Peter put in, gravely.
She laughed lightly. "By Christmas you will have forgotten all about me! Anyway, you will have Miss Denny."
With wicked delight over his embarrassment Nancy told him of Nonie's plan that Miss Denny should be Mr. Peter's "dearest."
"Your fate is as plain as the nose on my face," she laughed, tantalizingly. "You won't have to cross my palm with silver to know your future, Mr. Hyde! A cottage on the ten-acre piece where you will live happily—ever afterward. As a wedding gift, with my best wishes, I'll give you the Bird's-Nest."
She dodged the drum-stick that Peter threw at her. "You are not at all grateful for the nice fortune I'm giving you," she declared.
"I am, indeed! Though it doesn't seem quite fair for me to make too many plans without consulting Miss Denny, and I've never seen the lady. She may be old and ugly, black—or yellow."
"I'll tell you—if you'll promise not to tell that I've told! She is old and ugly; she's blind in one eye and stutters and limps and has straggly gray hair and——"
"For Heaven's sake, stop! When all my life I've been looking for a girl with brown hair that looks sort of red and freckles—about three thousand of them!"
"Peter!" Nancy sprang precipitously to her feet. "Look—there is a storm coming!"
B'lindy's threatened storm was approaching swiftly. The black cloud that had been piling up behind them now overspread the whole western sky. "What a shame—to have it spoil our day! This has been such fun. I'll never forget it, after I've gone." Then, hastily, "Gather up the napkins and the baskets; I promised B'lindy I'd bring them home! Isn't there a short cut home? I'm really dreadfully afraid of lightning." But she had caught something in the expression of Peter Hyde's face that frightened her more than the threatened storm.
"Let's hurry," she cried, running unceremoniously to the automobile.
CHAPTER XXI
DAVY'S GIFT
Real need recognizing no distinction of class, it had been Liz Hopworth who had been summoned to the Hopkins home when Mrs. Hopkins "dropped off" in the middle of the night, leaving ten children motherless.
Over Dan'l's late breakfast Liz, wan-eyed from loss of sleep, but dignified by a new importance, related all the sad circumstances of poor Sarah Hopkins' passing. "Who'd a' thought," she exclaimed as she vigorously beat her pan-cake batter, "yesterday when I see the poor woman out a hangin' her clothes that this blessed night I'd a' been called in to straighten her limbs and do for those poor young 'uns!"
To Nonie and Davy death was a strangely mysterious thing which they took for granted; dogs and cats and calves died; frequently there was a burial in the village cemetery. These had always had an element of excitement which even stirred the Hopworth home, detached though it was from the village life. They looked at Liz, now, with wide eager eyes. To have "straightened poor Sarah Hopkins' limbs" seemed to have transformed her—her tone was kinder, something almost tender gleamed in her tired eyes, and she was making pan-cakes for their breakfast!
"Just fetch that grease, Nonie. Step spry, too—there's a lot to be done before this day's over. Lordy, I thought to myself last night, that the Lord strikes hard—leavin' those ten children that haven't done no wrong without any mother to manage and Timothy Hopkins sittin' there as helpless like he'd been hit over the head, he's that stunned. And scarcely a bite in the house."
Old Dan'l had long since gotten past the day of worrying over the ways of the Lord. Nor to him was there anything particularly startling in a lack of food. His had always been a philosophy that believed that from somewhere or other Providence would provide, and if it didn't—
"Scarcely a bite, and all steppin' on one another, there's so many of 'em, and then when I think o' Happy House and the plenty there's there, well, 's I say, the Lord's ways are beyond me! Eat up your breakfast, Nonie. You gotta do up the work here, for I told that poor man I'd come back quick as ever I could. There's no end of work to be done 'fore that place will look fit for folks to come and see her."
"Can I go, too, Liz?" asked Davy. "Mebbe I can help."
Normally Liz would have made a sharp retort. Now she considered a moment.
"Mebbe you can. You can play with the baby so's Jennie can help me sweep and dust. Sarah Hopkins would turn over if she thought folks was goin' to see the muss and litter. Hurry along."
All that Liz had said of the house of mourning had been true. Davy found the muss and litter; the poor smithy wandering helplessly around and the "young 'uns" stepping on one another. He shut his eyes tight so that he would not have to catch the tiniest glimpse of poor Sarah Hopkins lying very still in the bedroom off the kitchen. He was glad when Liz, in a strangely brisk tone, bade Jennie, the oldest Hopkins girl, give the baby over to Davy.
"He's come 'long to mind the baby, so's you can help. Take him outside, Davy, and keep him out from under foot. Take up these dishes! Sure's I'm livin' I see Mrs. Sniggs comin' up the road this blessed minit."
Davy, gathering up his charge, retreated hastily. In fact, his pace did not slacken until he was well away from the Hopkins home. Then he put his burden down under a tree and stared at it.
The baby, blissfully unconscious of its loss, cooed ecstatically to express his joy at the unusual attention. He reached out tiny hands to Davy. "Go——go!" he gurgled, coaxingly.
"You sit right there! I gotta think," was Davy's scowling answer.
And Davy was thinking—hard. Liz' story, over the breakfast, had sunk deep into his soul. He knew what it was to live in a household where there was no mother and not much food!
It did not take Davy very long to make up his mind. Then, with determination written in every wrinkle of his frowning face, he lifted the baby and hurried to his home. An hour later, still carrying the baby, he trudged doggedly up the road to Happy House, through the gate, along the path to the door. Only for a moment did he pause on the threshold; then, softly opening the door, he entered, and came out again, empty-armed.
The oppressiveness of the day had decidedly ruffled the atmosphere of Happy House. Miss Sabrina had taken the news of Nancy's flight with a disapproving grunt; B'lindy had sharply come to Nancy's defense. She "guessed girls had to be girls anyways, though she'd a feelin' in her bones that somethin' might happen and one never could tell 'bout them pesky machines."
Then Miss Sabrina, taller and straighter than ever, had walked haughtily away as far as the sitting room, when a shriek brought B'lindy running.
Miss Sabrina had dropped breathless into a chair and at her feet sat the Hopkins baby sucking its thumb.
"B'lindy—what—what is it? I liked to fall over it!"
"Land a' goshen—a baby! A real live baby!" B'lindy leaned over cautiously. "Crawled in here like a caterpillar! As I live, here's a note, Miss Sabrina!" She unpinned a piece of paper from the baby's dress.
"Ples kep this child there ante enuf food fer so meny Hopkins Liz sez and she sez the Lord never ment any body to go hungry she sez your hous is big enuf fer a dusen and lots of food I gues you don't no thet ther ar so meny Hopkins and you will like to kepe this one I no how it hurts to be hungry so ples don't send this baby bak. Yours truly, Davy."
B'lindy, after reading the note aloud, stared at the baby.
"Sarah Hopkins' young 'un—I swan!" With her apron she wiped a tear from her eye. "No one to do for it now."
Miss Sabrina snorted.
"Of all the nerve—bringing it here—for me to break my neck on!"
From above came Miss Milly's voice plaintively calling.
"Take it away. Milly's calling—she's got to know what the excitement's about. I'll never get over my fright," and Miss Sabrina, still trembling, rose to go to her sister. The baby puckered his face preparatory to a long wail. "Take it out," commanded Miss Sabrina, "it's going to cry—give it something quick."
B'lindy snatched the baby and flew to the kitchen. She could not bear to think that any living thing in Happy House was hungry. However, the threatened squall passed when B'lindy, after carefully shutting her doors, produced a bowl and a shiny spoon.
It had not been alone Miss Sabrina's shriek that had frightened Miss Milly. She had heard a rumble of thunder. She was lying back among her pillows deadly pale. She clutched Miss Sabrina's hand and begged her to stay with her.
"I know I'm foolish," she whispered plaintively, "but it's so oppressive. It's hard—for me—to breathe."
Sabrina sat down grimly beside her—no thunder storm came to North Hero that it did not bring unpleasant memories to them both.
"Is it—going to be—very bad?" Miss Milly asked plaintively. "I wish Nancy—was home."
"Maybe it'll go around," assured her sister with as much tenderness as she was capable of showing.
At that moment the door opened slowly and B'lindy, a strangely softened look on her old face tip-toed in, carrying in her arms the baby, sound asleep.
"I just brought it up for Miss Milly to see, it's that cute!" she explained, in a whisper.
"The poor little thing," Aunt Milly timidly touched the moist chubby hand. B'lindy, with the air of having accomplished some great feat, laid the baby carefully upon the couch.
"Fed its poor little stomick and it dropped right off to sleep—it'll forget things now," she said proudly.
With a different feeling in each of their hearts the three women stared for a moment at the sleeping baby. Miss Sabrina spoke first. Her voice was cold and crisp.
"Take that baby right out of here, B'lindy, and get Jonathan to carry it back where it came from."
A rumble of thunder, closer and louder, startled them. Miss Milly sat bolt upright, white-faced, and reached out a hand.
"Oh—sister! Not in the storm!"
B'lindy rose majestically and towered over her mistress. When, down behind her shut doors, that baby had gone to sleep in B'lindy's arms, something had wakened in her sixty-year old heart; it throbbed in her voice now. She spoke slowly. "I guess the Almighty sent Davy Hopworth here with this poor little young 'un! Like as not it would go hungry more'n once, and if three women here can't take care of a little baby—well, the Lord that suffered little children to come unto Him like's not will hold us to 'count for it! I guess Happy House would be a heap happier if there was less high and mightiness and more of the human milk of kindness in it, and doin' for others like little Miss Anne's always tryin' to do, anyway!" And quite breathless from her outburst B'lindy knelt beside the baby and defiantly folded sheltering arms over it.
For the briefest of moments no one stirred. Then Miss Sabrina rose hurriedly, and, mumbling something incoherent, left the room.
Across the baby B'lindy's eyes, feverishly bright, met Miss Milly's anxious glance.
"Don't know what she said, but, Milly Leavitt, sure's I'm alive I saw a tear in Sabriny Leavitt's eye! I guess we keep this baby."