The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Cricket, by Marjorie Cooke This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Cricket Author: Marjorie Cooke Illustrator: J. Scott Williams Release Date: April 16, 2008 [EBook #25081] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CRICKET *** Produced by Colin Bell, Andrew Wainwright, Joe Free and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net THE CRICKET Books by the Same Author Bambi Cinderella Jane “Dr. David” The Dual Alliance The Girl Who Lived in the Woods The Threshold Frontispiece “What do you mean by acting like this when I give you a birthday party? . . . All the children in the colony are asked to come and play with you, and you make a monkey of yourself” THE CRICKET BY MARJORIE BENTON COOKE CHAPTER ONE 3 CHAPTER TWO 12 CHAPTER THREE 23 CHAPTER FOUR 34 CHAPTER FIVE 44 CHAPTER SIX 51 CHAPTER SEVEN 59 CHAPTER EIGHT 66 CHAPTER NINE 77 CHAPTER TEN 85 CHAPTER ELEVEN 94 CHAPTER TWELVE 105 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 115 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 124 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 133 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 142 ILLUSTRATED BY J. SCOTT WILLIAMS Garden City New York DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1919 Copyright, 1919, by Doubleday, Page & Company All rights reserved, including that of translations into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian Copyright, 1918, 1919, by The International Magazine Company (Harper’s Bazar) CONTENTS CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 151 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 159 CHAPTER NINETEEN 167 CHAPTER TWENTY 175 CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 184 CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 193 CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 202 CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 211 CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 219 CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 226 CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 235 CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 243 CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 253 CHAPTER THIRTY 261 CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 269 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS “What do you mean by acting like this when I give you a birthday party?” Frontispiece (See page 6) FACING PAGE She watched Jerry and Althea pacing the deck together 162 “You’ve made my summer for me, little witch,” Cartel said 182 “Ye’re a comfortable cricket, when ye want to be. I’d like to capture ye, to sing on my hearth!” 240 THE CRICKET [Pg 1] CHAPTER ONE “I won’t have it! I won’t have it! If they come, I’ll run away and hide!” shouted the child, wildly. “That will be very rude. No one acts like that—no one except a barbarian,” said Miss Wilder, calmly. “I want to be a bar——one of those things you said.” “You act like one most of the time.” The child brain caught at a new idea. “What is that—that what you said?” “Barbarian? B-a-r-b-a-r-i-a-n,” she spelled slowly. “It is a savage creature with no manners, no morals, no clothes even. It lives in a hut or a tree, and eats roots and nuts, and nearly raw meat,” Miss Wilder remarked, none too accurately, but slowly, in order to distract Isabelle’s attention from the late subject of unpleasantness. The little girl considered her words thoughtfully. “Do they have children?” “Yes.” “Where do they live?” “Oh, strange places; Fiji Islands, for one.” “Are there any near here?” “Not that I know of.” “I want to go live with the bar-barbarians.” Miss Wilder’s stern face underwent no change. She answered seriously: “You would not like it; you would be very uncomfortable. The children have no pretty clothes, no nice homes with gardens to play in, no kind parents or patient teachers.” “Do they have horses?” “I suppose so.” “Do they swim?” “Probably. They have rude boats called dug-outs,” continued Miss Wilder, glad of an absorbing subject. “Do the children go in the boats?” “No doubt.” “They can’t get their clothes spoiled if they don’t wear any.” “Obviously. Come, now, Isabelle, put on your dress like a nice girl. The children will be coming to the party, and you won’t be dressed.” “I won’t put on that dress, and I’m not going to the party, I tell you; I hate them.” Miss Wilder tried force, but in vain. She tried strategy, with no results. Isabelle wriggled out of her grasp and darted out of the room. Miss Wilder called; no reply. She commanded; no answer. Then she closed her lips more firmly and betook herself to the door of Mrs. Bryce’s room. “What is it? I told you not to bother me,” an irritated voice called, at her knock. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bryce, but Isabelle refuses to be dressed for the party. She says she won’t go.” “Come in,” called the voice. The governess opened the door and entered. It was a hot day, and Mrs. Bryce, in a cool négligé, lay stretched out on a chaise longue, with a pitcher of something iced beside her, a book open on her lap. She was the picture of luxurious comfort, except for the frown upon her pretty brow. “Why don’t you make her behave, Miss Wilder?” “I do my best, Mrs. Bryce, but she is very difficult,” the older woman sighed. “Of course she’s difficult—she’s a brat! But that is what I have you for, to teach her some manners, and make her act like a civilized being. Where is she?” “She ran away when I tried to put her dress on her.” “What do you expect me to do about it?” “I thought you might order her to get dressed.” “Much good it would do! I don’t see why I have to be bothered with it. I didn’t want the party; it’s a perfect nuisance, cluttering up the place with noisy kids; but she owes it to them, and she has to have them here once a season.” [Pg 3] [Pg 4] [Pg 5] A small, determined figure appeared at the door, in a brief petticoat and socks. “I won’t go to that party,” she announced. “Come here to me this instant,” exploded her mother at sight of her. The child walked slowly to her mother’s side, with disconcerting dignity, all out of proportion to her four brief years. “What do you mean by acting like this when I give you a birthday party? There is everything on earth ordered to eat, and all the children in the colony are asked to come and play with you, and you make a monkey of yourself.” “I won’t go.” “Why won’t you go?” “You didn’t ask Patsy.” “You can’t ask that common little Irishman to a party,” objected her parent. “I won’t go. He’s my friend. I like him best, an’ if he don’t come, I won’t go.” “But it’s your party——” “I hate ’em.” “You ought to whip her!” Mrs. Bryce said to the governess. A maid appeared at the door to announce the first arrivals. “Now, you see, your guests are coming, and you aren’t even dressed.” “I won’t go,” reiterated the child, sullenly. “If we ask Patsy, will you go?” asked Mrs. Bryce desperately. “No—o; yes.” “Put on her clothes, Miss Wilder, and telephone the Lodge that Isabelle wants Patsy for her party.” “But, Mrs. Bryce, do you think we ought to humour her? Will not the children’s mothers object to Patsy?” “Well, if you want her to go to this party, you’d better make a bargain with her. I know her.” “Come on. Hurry up, Miss Wilder; I want to go after Patsy myself,” cried the tyrant, racing down the hall. Miss Wilder followed, and Mrs. Bryce turned to her book, with a sense of irritated futility which her only child always aroused in her. But the party soon faded from her mind, save when shrill shouts from the lawn below caught her attention. Eventually Mr. Walter Bryce, familiarly known as Wally, appeared at his wife’s door. He was an undersized, dapper little man, with almost no chin. His sole claim to attention lay in the millions accumulated by his father. “Nice row you’ve got on down stairs,” he remarked. “Isabelle’s birthday party,” yawned his wife. “Looks to me like poor old Wilder’s birthday party. Just as I came along, a line of kids was marching up to give their hostess their presents. Old Wilder was hanging on to Isabelle so she wouldn’t bolt, and the little beast wouldn’t take one of the packages. Said she didn’t want their presents. The poor Wilder appealed to me, and I told Isabelle to act like a lady, and whadye think she said to me—right there before all those smart-aleck kids?—‘Get out, Wally, this is my party’!” Mrs. Bryce laughed. “You ought to know better than to give her a chance like that.” “Look here now, Max, she’s got to be attended to. She’s the limit. She’s got no more manners than an alley cat.” “That’s no news to me, Wally.” “Why don’t you do something about it?” “Do something? Don’t I get her a new governess every month? Nobody can do anything with her.” “I don’t see where she gets it,” said Wally. “She gets it from you, and she gets it from me. She’s the worst of both of us personified.” “Poor kid, that’s tough luck for her”—seriously. “A little late for vain regrets”—sarcastically. He went over to the window and looked down at the party scattered about below. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea to keep her with you awhile every day, Max?” “Not much! I come down here to rest, not to play nursemaid. You might take her round with you, if you feel that she needs uplifting.” “She’s beyond me. I don’t understand her; and, on the whole, I don’t like her.” “Nobody likes her; she’s queer. And plain; my word, why do you suppose I had to have a child that looks like that? She hasn’t [Pg 6] [Pg 7] [Pg 8] one good point.” “Um—she’s got eyes.” “Great big goopy eyes too big for her head! This parent business is too much of a gamble. If you could go pick out a nice blue- eyed, pink-and-white, ready-made infant——” “I suppose you should have picked out a pink-and-white ready-made husband, if you wanted that kind,” Wally interposed. “Well, I never would have picked out Isabelle.” “After all, you’re her mother, Max,” he began. “Look here, Wally, don’t begin on that mother stuff. I didn’t want her any more than you did, and we were fools to have her. That may be abnormal, unnatural, and all the rest of it, but it’s the truth, and there are lots of other women just like me. You can’t lump us, any more than you can lump men. We don’t all of us have the maternal instinct, not by a long shot.” “Don’t talk like that, Max; it’s not nice.” “There you go. It’s all right for you not to want a child, but it’s indecent in me. That’s a man-made idea, and it won’t work any more. Lots of us don’t find motherhood either satisfying or interesting, and we’re getting courage enough to say so.” “The less you say about it, the better,” counselled Wally. “To get back to Isabelle, she’s here, and she’s just as much your responsibility as she is mine.” “Being here isn’t her fault, poor kid. Seems as if somebody ought to—well—love her,” he finished in embarrassment. “Go ahead. I’ve no objection.” Mrs. Bryce returned to her book. “By Jove, Max, you’re hard as rocks.” “Oh, get out, Wally. I’m not interested in your conversation. Go liven up the party.” “Why don’t you try a younger governess, for a change?” he went on, undeterred. “Wilder is so old and sort of set.” Mrs. Bryce closed her book with irritated finality. “Wally, I will give you a chance at running our darling child for the rest of this summer. I declare a strike! You get her governesses, you donate your society to her. You’ve got nothing to do. She may keep you out of mischief.” “Oh, I say, I don’t want to butt in, I only thought——” “She’s yours. I’m through until September first.” There was an uproar from below, louder than before. Wally looked out. “I wonder what they’re up to,” he said. A maid, red and flustered, appeared at the door. “Oh, Mrs. Bryce, please come down to the party. Isabelle ran away with Patsy and we’ve just found her.” Mrs. Bryce, oblivious of her costume, followed Mr. Bryce and the maid down the stairs, as fast as possible. Evidently a crisis had occurred below. All the girls in their white dresses and pink or blue sashes, all the boys in their white collars of ceremony, were grouped about on the lawn, around the base of a big shade tree. Pink hair bows were a-flutter with excitement. The patent leather pumps of the boys trod upon the white slippers of the little girls in their efforts to see what was happening. At the foot of the tree stood Miss Wilder red and tired, speaking sternly to some one overhead. Mr. and Mrs. Bryce rushed to join her, brushing children aside. “What is the matter, Miss Wilder?” demanded Mrs. Bryce. “Oh, Mrs. Bryce, she’s—she’s——” “Isabelle Bryce, come down here this moment,” commanded her mother, loudly. There was a whispered colloquy overhead, among the branches. “That wretched Patsy is with her,” wailed Miss Wilder. “They ran away, and hid for hours, and then we found them up here.” “Isabelle!” shouted her father. “All right. We’re going to drop,” said a voice from above. Suddenly two white and shining little bodies hung side by side from a limb, then two naked youngsters dropped into the midst of the astounded party. “Isabelle Bryce!” gasped her mother. “We’re playing barbarian,” said Isabelle, coolly; “Miss Wilder told me about them.” “Miss Wilder!” protested Wally. [Pg 9] [Pg 10] [Pg 11] “But I didn’t—I mean—I——” “You said they lived in trees and never wore clothes.” The children began to titter. “This is your affair, I believe, Wally,” remarked Mrs. Bryce, and she walked in a leisurely way into the house. “Oh, I say,” he called after her; then: “Get her indoors, will you? Who’s the boy?” “The gardener’s child, Patsy.” “Where are your clothes?” he demanded. “Up in the tree, sorr,” said the boy. “Get them, and cut home,” said Wally, severely. Patsy obeyed, but Isabelle resisted force. “I won’t hurry and I won’t be carried, I’ll walk,” said she, and—properly clad in her “birthday clothes”—Isabelle Bryce disposed of her first party! Table of Contents CHAPTER TWO Following upon the exit of his daughter came the realization to Wally that something must be done about the “party.” He turned to the group of children, huddled together in horror, like butterflies in a rain storm. Serious and large-eyed, they focussed their attention upon him, in the apparent belief that, being a parent, he would be able to handle this unprecedented situation. They ranged in age from three to six; they were the children of his neighbours and life-long associates; and yet Wally had the feeling that he was hemmed in by a pack of alert, curious little animals. “Well, children,” he managed to say, “I’m sorry that Isabelle was such a naughty girl at her own party, but she is only four years old, we must remember, and I suppose she did not know any better.” “I’m free an’ a half, an’ I don’t take off my cloves at a party,” bragged one of the female infants. “No, I’m sure you don’t. It isn’t done,” said Wally, helplessly. “She always spoils parties. I wanted not to have her at mine, but mother made me,” remarked Tommy Page. “Hard luck, old man,” said Wally. “She always wants to boss everything,” Margie Hunter complained. “Are you going to whip her?” demanded another child. “She will be punished, believe me,” replied Wally, firmly. “But I think we’d better call the party over.” “We can’t go yet, the nurses and chauffeurs haven’t come,” Tommy protested. “I’d like to hear her yell when she’s licked.” “Our man will take you all home in the big station wagon, so get on your hats,” Wally ordered. Fifteen minutes later the smallest child was packed in, with one of the maids in command, and the motor slid off down the drive, leaving Wally on the door step. “Little beasts!” he remarked, feelingly. In the hall he met Miss Wilder, still bearing marks of the late excitement. “I have put Isabelle to bed, Mr. Bryce. Mrs. Bryce says that you are to prescribe her punishment.” Wally looked his misery. “I don’t want to punish her. Can’t you manage it alone?” he said. “No, I cannot. Isabelle needs the authority of her parents now and then to back me up,” said Miss Wilder, severely. “Well, I’ll have a talk with her.” “I think a severe spanking is what she needs.” “What do ye suppose ever put such an idea in her head?” “You never know what she is going to do. She asked me about barbarians when I was trying to induce her to get dressed for the party. I told her some facts, just to occupy her mind.” “It occupied her mind all right,” laughed Wally, who left Miss Wilder with the idea that he thought the joke was at her expense. She determined to give notice at once, and leave at the end of her month. Wally went upstairs and turned his unaccustomed feet into the nursery. He hesitated before he opened the door, but no sounds of repentant sobs met his ear, so he went in. Isabelle, the picture of alert interest, sat up in bed and eyed him. “Have you come to punish me?” she asked. [Pg 12] [Pg 13] [Pg 14] “Something like that.” “Go ahead,” said she. He sat down on the edge of her bed and looked at her. Max was right; she was no prize beauty, with her baby face like an old woman’s, with her nondescript features, her short brown hair. But her eyes were disturbing—big dusky, wise eyes, with no effect of childishness. “Look here, Isabelle, why do you act like this?” That was regular parent-talk, so she made no answer. “Here you are, four years old, and you can’t behave at your own party,” he continued. “I hate parties.” “Well, but you have to have parties.” “Why?” “Oh, all children do.” “Nasty things! I hate ’em all, except Patsy.” “Hate those nice little girls?” “Yes!”—hotly. “And those handsome boys?” “Yes. They’re ugly. Patsy is handsome.” “Why are you so crazy about this Patsy?” “Because he always does what I say.” Wally stifled a smile. “But don’t you know you mustn’t take off your clothes before mixed company?” “But we were playing barbarian.” “Well, you shouldn’t play that kind of game.” “Why not?” “Because——” He floundered. “Now, look here, you must never take off your clothes again.” “Not when I go to bed?”—with interest. “I mean before people.” “Not before Miss Wilder, or Mary?” “Don’t be stupid,” he exploded. “You know what I mean—before boys and girls.” “Why not?” “Because it isn’t nice. Don’t you know what modesty is?” “No; what is it?” “It’s—it’s—well, it’s just that you mustn’t show your body to people.” “Isn’t my face my body?” “That’s different. Everybody shows his face.” She considered that. “If everybody showed their bodies it would be nice, wouldn’t it?” “No,” Wally said, harshly, because he felt she was making a fool of him. “But the barbarians never wore any clothes, and they were nice.” “That’s different. They didn’t know any better.” “Didn’t they? Why didn’t God tell them any better?” “I don’t know.” “Did Jesus wear clothes?” she inquired. “Who?” he demanded, caught unawares. “Jesus. You know, God’s boy,” she replied, earnestly. “Of course he wore clothes,” Wally protested. “Why didn’t he tell the barbarians?” “O Lord, I don’t know. This has got nothing to do with your performance this afternoon,” Wally urged, trying to get back to the subject and on to solid ground. “What kind of punishing are you going to do?” she inquired. [Pg 15] [Pg 16] “I don’t know,” he admitted. “What do you think I ought to do?” She thought about that with awakened interest. “There’s whipping, but I don’t mind that.” “You don’t?” “No. There’s shutting up, but that’s fun. I play I’m a prisoner then.” “Are there any punishments you don’t like?” “Yes. Parties are punishment, and kindiegarden in winter is punishment.” “You think the party this afternoon was punishment, do you?” “Yes.” “Who punished you?” “Max.” “I wish you wouldn’t call your mother ‘Max.’” “Why not?” “Why do you call her that?” “Because you do.” “I don’t have to be respectful to her—I mean——” “If you call her that, I’m going to,” she said, dismissing that subject. “You’re being punished now, you know, being sent off to bed in broad daylight.” “But I like it, when you talk to me.” He rose promptly. “I’m not going to talk to you. Your punishment is that nobody will talk to you for the rest of the day.” “All right”—cheerfully. “You’ll just lie here, all alone.” “Oh, no,” she corrected him, “my playmates will be here, and God’s always around.” “No playmates shall come in here,” he reiterated. “But you can’t keep Dorothy and Reginald out, because they’re just pretend,” she defied him. Wally knew he was beaten. He had never felt so futile in his life. She sat there with her straight little back, her wise eyes fixed on him, and he wished he were well out of the room. “I hope you will lie here and think of what I have said to you,” he remarked sonorously. “I’m surprised at you, Isabelle,” he added sternly. He rose and hurried toward the door. “Good night, Wally,” she said pleasantly, and smiled at him. It is not too much to say that Wally fled. He sought out his wife, who was dressing for dinner. “Well, did you whip her?” she inquired. He evaded that. “I’ve had a good talk with her”—firmly. She turned her face over her shoulder at him, and laughed. “Terrified her, no doubt.” “Where on earth does she get her ideas?” “Not from me,—” indifferently. “She’s—she’s uncanny, that kid.” “Hurry and dress, we’re dining at the club. I wish you the joy of your job,” she added, as he left her. A day or two later, when Wally came out of the bath house on the way to swim, he encountered his daughter on the beach. “I’ll swim with you, Wally,” she said. “No, thanks. I’m going to the raft.” “So am I,” she answered. He looked at her and laughed. She looked like a Kewpie in her abbreviated bathing suit, with water wings fastened to her back. [Pg 17] [Pg 18] She walked rapidly into the sea, and, perforce, he followed. Miss Wilder shouted orders in vain from the shore. The tide was running in, and nearly high, so she was over her depth in a second, but she paddled out toward the distant raft, her head well out of the water, thanks to her wings. Much amused, Wally swam beside her into deep water. “It was a great surprise to me, the day I found I could swim,” she said. “It must have been,” he laughed. “It was a pleasant day,” she added. “It is deep here,” he said, to test her. “I know it. Don’t you put your hands on me, Wally. I don’t want to be touched,” she admonished him. “Aren’t you afraid?” “No.” In due time they reached the raft. The youngster was winded, but undaunted. Bryce watched her with real admiration. Here was a dare-devil courage he vastly respected. He was timid and cautious himself. “Throw me off the raft, Wally; I like to splash,” she ordered. “You’re crazy,” he said. “No. Mr. Page threw me off the club raft, when I asked him to.” “Better not let me catch him at it. You sit still and get your breath and then we’ll start back.” He dived off the raft and instantly she followed him. He caught her by the arm, strangling and coughing. “You little devil,” he said; “you’ll drown.” “No, I won’t. Let go, Wally; I won’t be helped.” He headed her for shore, by pretending to race her, and once on land he urged Miss Wilder to watch her every minute, lest she swim for the raft alone. But this adventure had fixed Isabelle on her father’s mind. He thought about her a good deal, and laughed at the thought. She certainly was a sport, and she was nobody’s fool. He wondered if other children were like her, and began to watch them. He asked their fathers about them, but the fathers never knew. They always said: “I don’t see much of the kids; too busy,” or: “That’s Mabel’s job (or Kate’s or Mary’s).” He could not seem to remember seeing much of his father when he was a boy, save on state occasions when his parent was called upon to administer extra stiff punishment. He wondered if the other mothers knew more about their youngsters than Max did about hers? But when he asked them at the club, or on the golf course, they looked surprised and said: “I don’t know anything about them, Wally; the governess looks after them.” It evidently wasn’t the thing, in their set, to bother about children. So he did not get much help from his friends in the difficult situation in which Max had placed him. She stood by her determination to leave the child to him, with irritating completeness. She even refused to give advice or help. Of course, he could leave well enough alone, let Miss Wilder blunder along with her somehow. That was evidently the way the rest of them did. He had almost decided upon this course, when he met Isabelle, standing on the pony’s bare back, making him run, while poor Miss Wilder panted behind, protesting at every step. It brought him to a resolution. The kid ought to have a younger woman to look after her, one who could swim and ride and take some interest in her sports. If she was going to leap head first into every danger, she needed a girl to stand by, and leap in after her, if necessary. It took him several days to get up his nerve to dismiss Miss Wilder, but in the end, she met him half way. She said she could not stand the strain, that she had aged ten years in the two months she had been in charge of his daughter. “She is a very remarkable child, Mr. Bryce, and she needs very special treatment.” “I suppose that is it. I will give you a month’s extra salary, Miss Wilder, so you may take a rest. I know you need it.” The next morning he bustled into Mrs. Bryce’s room, where she was taking her breakfast in bed. “Mercy, Wally, are you sick?” she inquired; “it’s barely nine o’clock.” “I’ve got to go to town.” “Town, this hot day?” “Yes. I fired old Wilder and I’ve got to get a new victim for our offspring. Where do you get ’em?” “Poor Wally,” laughed his wife. “I advertise, or go to teachers’ agencies, or any old way. Telephone in, and they’ll send you something.” “No; I’m going to get a young one.” “And pretty, I suppose.” “Don’t be an idiot.” [Pg 19] [Pg 20] [Pg 21] He turned as the door opened and Isabelle came in. She was booted and hatted. “Good morning, Max,” she said, sweetly. “Morning. Where are you going?” “To town, with Wally.” “What?” “Well, I thought I’d better take her. She has to live with ’em, you know, and she has ideas on the subject.” Mrs. Bryce laughed aloud. “You two!” she exclaimed. “Come on, Wally,” urged Isabelle, taking her father by the hand. “Which car are you using?” inquired Max. “She prefers the train,” he explained. This brought another outburst of mirth. “My word, Wally! You’re becoming a wonderful parent!” exclaimed Mrs. Bryce; and they fled before her laughter. Table of Contents CHAPTER THREE Wally was surprised to find the trip to town shorter than usual. His daughter conducted herself with great dignity, and never missed a thing. An unbroken stream of conversation flowed from her lips, to the amusement of the people in the seats near by. There was one difficult moment, when in hurrying for their seats, Mrs. Page spied them out. “For goodness sake, Wally, where are you going?” “Taking Isabelle to town.” “Without a nurse?” “I have a governess, not a nurse,” protested Isabelle, indignantly. “Oh, excuse me,” laughed Mrs. Page. “Where’s Max?” “Home in bed,” replied Isabelle, before Wally had formed an excuse. “I hear your infant introduced an Adam-and-Eve scene into her party,” Mrs. Page continued. Wally glanced anxiously at Isabelle. “This is Tommy Page’s mother,” he explained. “I know. He’s a horrid boy,” she answered, feelingly. Mrs. Page retired after this, and Wally undertook to argue with his daughter about unbecoming frankness. “It’s true,” she protested. “You don’t have to tell everything you know.” “Don’t you have to tell the truth?” “Not when it hurts people’s feelings.” She thought that over, and he wondered what she would make of it. The little monkey seemed to remember every word that was said to her. “Let’s have a punkin coach taxi,” she said when they arrived in town. “What kind is that?” “All yellow, like the Cinderella one.” “They don’t have them at this station.” “Make them get us one,” urged the young arrogant. He laughed and they went out into the street and waited until a yellow taxi came. As they took their seats in the coach, Isabelle gazed at her father speculatively. “I am Cinderella, an’ you’ve got to be the Fairy God-mother, I s’pose, but you don’t look like her.” “Couldn’t I be the Prince?” inquired Wally. “No. Besides, he didn’t ride in the coach,” she corrected him, scornfully. [Pg 22] [Pg 23] [Pg 24] They stopped at a drug shop to get a list of agencies, picked at random from the telephone book. The first one was very depressing. There were several governesses, but Isabelle would have none of them, and Wally did not blame her. The second agency offered to summon a dozen candidates if he would come back in two hours. He agreed to that, and made the same arrangement with the third place. “Now, we’ve got two hours to kill. What do you want to do?” he inquired. “I want to go on top the ’bus.” “It’s too hot.” “Well, that’s what I want to do.” Wally sighed. “All right, come along,” he said, aware of what her determination usually accomplished. He thought of Max, and felt himself absolutely martyred. This was her job. She was a slacker to put it off on him. In his irritation he glanced down at the cause of it, and found her looking at him. “Wally, does the hot make you sick?” “Why?” “We could go to the Zoo in a taxi.” “Thank you, I should prefer that.” “All right”—cheerfully. “You’re a good old thing!” he remarked, as he called a second coach. They inspected the animals, and endured the awful smells thereof, with great satisfaction on the part of Isabelle and much self- restraint on the part of her parent. “Couldn’t we have a gorilla out at The Beeches, Wally?” she inquired. “Lord, no! What do you want of a beast like that?” “I like them. They’re so . . . different!” she said, hesitating over the adjective. Wally burst out laughing. “Don’t you think they are?” she inquired politely. “Yes, all of that.” On the way back to the agency, he counselled her on her behaviour. “Now, don’t be fresh, Isabelle, and say, ‘I don’t like the wart on your nose,’ or that kind of thing.” “Do I have to get one with a wart on her nose?” she asked seriously. “No, no. I mean—don’t say the wrong thing all the time.” “But I don’t know what is the wrong thing, Wally,” she assured him. “I should say you didn’t! You just let me do the talking. If you like the one I’m interviewing, just nod; if you don’t, why shake your head. Get me?” “Like this?”—with neck-breaking violence of the head. “No—no. Gently, like this.” They seated themselves in the agency room, and the governesses were presented. The usual drab, rather faded women, used to living in the background. Some of them resented Isabelle’s presence, some of them spoke to her as to a baby. After about three sentences had been spoken, her head would move violently, and Wally got rid of the candidate. “Lord! they’re a sad lot,” he exclaimed. “What makes them sad?” she inquired. “Kids like you.” They finished the first consignment without any luck, and went to the second place. It was simply a repetition. Isabelle seemed to sense their adhesion to type, for she finally burst out with: “Wally, I’d like one with a wart on the nose.” He finally approached the woman in charge. “Look here,” he said, “we want a young one, with some pep.” The woman stared in amazement. “Isn’t there some place where the new ones go to register?” he continued. [Pg 25] [Pg 26] [Pg 27] “You might try the college agencies. Their graduates sometimes try governessing.” She gave him some addresses. “Thanks. I think we’ll try them. My daughter, here, is rather exacting.” The manager peered over her desk at the child, hostilely. “I don’t like you, either,” said Isabelle, promptly. Wally hurried her out. He was about worn out with this unaccustomed and exhausting strain. It had been years since Wally spent a whole day boring himself. His rage at Max grew, and he vented it on Isabelle. “For God’s sake, don’t sass the managers! We may have to go back there.” “Does God care?” “What?” “You said, ‘for God’s sake.’” “Did I? Excuse me. Now go easy this time. We’ve got to get somebody, and we won’t find an archangel, either.” “I’d like an archangel,” she remarked earnestly, her flagging interest reviving. “But she couldn’t swim with wings, could she?” Wally groaned, but made no reply. At the college agency, they telephoned for two applicants, and after what seemed to Wally a week of tedium, they arrived. The first one was pretty and she knew it. She talked a great deal, and was saccharine to the little girl. Isabelle shook her head twice, but Wally seemed hypnotized by the woman’s eloquence. “Don’t let her talk, Wally; I won’t have her,” announced Isabelle. It took considerable finesse on Wally’s part to get this explained and to get the young woman out of the room. “One more remark from you, like that last one, and I will engage the next hatchet-face that appears,” he thundered. “What is a hatchet-face?” she asked, with interest. The other girl was tall, and undeniably plain. She was deeply tanned by the sun. She looked athletic, boyish in fact. She had a nice voice, and clear grey eyes. She met Isabelle’s inspection with a grin. The child slid off her chair and went over to her. “What’s your name?” she asked. “Ann. Ann Barnes.” “Can you swim?” “Yes,” smiled the girl. Isabelle took her hand. “I’ll take you,” she said. The girl stared at Wally, who, so far, had made no explanation. “Is she your child?” she inquired. “Yes.” “Is her mother dead?” “No, Max is my mother,” explained the youngster. “You see,” said Wally, “Isabelle is a little devil. You might as well know the worst at once. She’s got no manners at all, and she’s spoiled to death.” “Wally, you don’t have to tell everything you know,” quoted Isabelle, sharply. “Upon my word!” said Miss Barnes. “How old is she?” “She’s just had her fourth birthday.” “But she needs a nurse, not a governess.” “I won’t have a nurse. I want you.” “She’s had a lot of women, mostly old ones. I told Mrs. Bryce I thought she ought to have a young woman with her, and she told me that if I knew so much about it, I could get her a governess myself.” “I see,” said Miss Barnes; “and just what do you want her governess to do?” “Ride and swim with her, and keep her out of mischief. I suppose you would teach her something—letters and counting, and all that?” “A governess usually does,” she smiled. “You would have full charge of her. We live in the country from April till Thanksgiving, and in town the rest of the time.” “Come on, Ann, let’s go; I’m tired,” interrupted Isabelle. “But you aren’t letting this baby decide who is to take care of her?” she protested. [Pg 28] [Pg 29] “I thought it was better. She gets rid of one a month, so in the end she does decide.” “But it’s so absurd.” “We’re—we’re an absurd family,” he admitted, gravely. “Don’t talk, Wally; come on.” “What does she call you?” Miss Barnes inquired. “Wally. My name is Walter, but every one calls me Wally. She calls her mother Max. We try to break her of it, but we can’t.” Miss Barnes shook her head. “I want to be a governess, you know, not a nurse.” Isabelle realized that a crisis was at hand. “Sometimes I’m nice, aren’t I, Wally?” she appealed. Miss Barnes could not have told why, but for the first time this abnormal, prissy child, with her self-assurance, and her impertinence, caught at her sympathies. Wally saw that she wavered. “Suppose that we call it an experiment for a month. I’ll pay a hundred dollars a month. Come out with us this afternoon and try it. She’s the limit of a kid, but she’s got a lot of sense for her age, and maybe she’d be all right if somebody just gave her mind to her.” “I’m willing to try it for a month, if I may have full charge of her. Would her mother agree to that?” “Oh, Max is never home; besides, she never sees me,” spoke up the child. “She does see you,” protested Wally. Isabelle made no reply, but somehow Miss Barnes caught the situation—the sense of neglect, of the child’s loneliness. “I’ll come for a month at the salary you mentioned.” “Good. Can you pack a bag and go out on the 4:10 with us? We’ll send you home in a taxi and send for you.” She considered a moment. “All right.” She rose, explained to the head of the bureau, and later they went out together. “Wally, when’s lunch?” demanded Isabelle. “Now. We’ll send Miss Barnes off in our cab, and pick up another. A cab will come for you at three thirty, Miss Barnes, and we’ll meet you at the Information booth.” “I’ll be there. Good-bye, Isabelle.” “Good-bye, Ann.” Wally and Isabelle made their way to his club, where she insisted upon all the verboten things for lunch. “Are you allowed to eat that?” he demanded. “Oh, yes, at parties.” “Don’t it make you sick?” “Yes. You’re always sick after parties,” she replied. A man stopped at the table to address a few jocose remarks to Wally, and he turned his glance upon the small girl. “Who is your beautiful companion, Wally?” he inquired. “My daughter, Isabelle. This is Duncan, the Club cut-up,” he added to his guest. She inspected the man closely. “Who cuts you up?” she inquired. “The other club members,” he retorted, followed by laughter and applause from the surrounding tables. Isabelle beamed in the spotlight. “I like this better than Max’s club,” she said, to the amusement of the next table. “Take us on, Wally, will you?” called one of them, and at his invitation they all moved over. “She doesn’t look like her pretty mother, Wally,” said one of them after they were presented. “No, poor kid, she looks like me,” laughed Wally. “I look like Wally, but I’m smart!” she said, and beamed again at their uproar of mirth. She left, later, amidst reiterated invitations to come again. One man tried to kiss her, but she promptly blocked that. “I don’t like kissing,” she said. [Pg 30] [Pg 31] [Pg 32] Wally inspected her on the way to the station. Her eyes were bright, her colour was high. She certainly had been a success at the club. There was something about the little beggar—— “I liked those men,” she remarked. “You were too fresh,” he said, anxious to prick the bubble of her egotism. She made no answer, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew he had been proud of her. “If you like this new girl, and want her to stay, you’ve got to turn over a new leaf,” he warned her. “I haven’t any new leaf,” she said. “To turn over a new leaf means to make a new beginning, to be good, to act like a lady,” he explained. They found Miss Barnes waiting for them. As soon as they were in their seats, aboard the train, Isabelle went to sleep, leaning against her new friend. Miss Barnes smiled, made the child comfortable, and opened a magazine, thus relieving Wally of any necessity of conversation. As they drove up to the house, they saw Mrs. Bryce come out on the terrace, where the butler was arranging the tea-table and chairs. She wore a soft pink gown, and a broad, rose-laden hat. She looked very young and lovely. She sauntered to meet them with her slightly disdainful smile. “Well?” she said. Wally turned to present Miss Barnes, but Isabelle was before him. “Max, this is Ann Barnes,” she explained. Mrs. Bryce nodded at the newcomer. “What did you do in town?” she inquired of the child. “The Zoo, and Wally’s club.” “I hope you don’t confuse them,” laughed her mother. “I don’t envy you your job,” she added, over her shoulder to Miss Barnes. “What room is Miss Barnes to have, Max?” Wally called. “You’ll have to attend to that,” she replied, with a sort of arrogant disregard of Wally’s protégée. “I’ll show you, Ann,” said Isabelle, adding: “nasty old Max!” “Isabelle! your own mother!” protested Miss Barnes. The child took her by the hand and led her into the house, with a dignity which would have been admirable, had it not been so pathetic. Miss Barnes felt that she was stepping off terra firma, and lighting on Mars, so strange and muddled was this new world she had entered upon. Table of Contents CHAPTER FOUR It was a strange throw of Chance that tossed Ann Barnes into the heart of the Bryce family—or rather into its midst, for it seemed to Ann that there wasn’t any heart to the family. The first weeks she spent at The Beeches were positively bewildering. She was the eldest daughter of a small-town lawyer, in Vermont. There were five younger children, and after Ann’s graduation at the State University, she set forth to make fame and fortune, with the ultimate object of rescuing her father and mother from the financial anxieties which had always beset them. She was just an average healthy, fine American girl brought up in a normal, small-town American family. As the eldest, she had been her mother’s assistant. She had served her apprenticeship in cooking, nursing babies, patching small clothes, turning old things around and upside down, in order to make them over. She could market wisely, she could “manage” on little. So much for her practical training. She knew all the inconveniences and anxieties of an insufficient and variable income. But she also knew the unselfishness, the affectionate give-and-take of a big family. She knew what miracles the loving patience of her mother daily performed. She knew the selflessness of her father, which kept him at the treadmill of his profession that his children might have an education, might have their chance. Hospitality, kindness, love; these were of the very fibre of Ann’s being. It was part of the trick Fate played on her that Wally’s offer had come to her the first week she was in New York, when the terror of the Big Town had just laid hold of her. New York, contemplated from Vermont, was the city of all opportunity; but New York, face to face, with a financial reserve of fifty dollars, was a very different matter. Isabelle had amazed and interested her, and Wally had offered her what seemed a fabulous salary. No wonder she had seized the opportunity, with happy plans of sending the first check home, intact. But daily for the first week, amidst the undreamed-of luxuries of The Beeches she felt that she must run away, back to the things she knew and understood. And yet every day brought her evidences of Isabelle’s need of her, and Ann’s intrinsic sense of fairness made her feel that somebody ought to stand by the child. [Pg 33] [Pg 34] [Pg 35] Her first interview with Mrs. Bryce did not occur until the second day after her arrival. She waited to be summoned all of the first day, but heard nothing, saw nothing of her new employer. The second day she sent word asking for a conference. She was given an audience while Mrs. Bryce’s maid was dressing her to go out to lunch. She nodded casually to Ann. “You wanted to see me?” “Yes; I—I thought we would better talk over your plans for Isabelle.” “I haven’t any plans for her. My only desire is to keep her out of the way.” “But I don’t know what she is permitted to do,” Ann began. “She is permitted to do anything she wants to,” laughed Mrs. Bryce. “But that isn’t good for her”—earnestly. Mrs. Bryce’s glance at the girl was full of scornful amusement. “No, but it’s good for the rest of us. We can’t live in the house with her otherwise.” Ann stared. She did not know how to cope with this kind of woman. Mrs. Bryce made her feel a clumsy fool, a sort of country bumpkin. “This isn’t my job anyway, it’s Wally’s. He is guiding Isabelle’s destiny this summer. Didn’t he tell you?” “Yes, but I thought the child’s mother would naturally want to say——” blundered Ann. “Well, her mother doesn’t. Do anything you can to make her less of a nuisance, that’s my only advice.” It was clear that the interview was ended, so Ann rose. With glowing appeal Mrs. Bryce turned her pretty face, with its sudden smile, upon the girl. “Nice, kind Miss Barnes, don’t bother me about Isabelle, will you? She bores me to death.” Ann got out of the room somehow. She felt cold shivers down her spine, as if she had touched something revolting. She thought of her mother, and Jinny, the little sister nearest Isabelle’s age. She was so homesick for them, she just thought she would die. She went to the nursery where she had left Isabelle, and, as she entered, the child was shaking hands with an imaginary guest, saying in perfect imitation of her mother’s manner: “Oh, howdye do, Mrs. Page?” “Dorothy and Reginald and I are having a bridge party,” she explained. But Ann didn’t listen. She just picked Isabelle up in her arms, and hugged her tight, kissing her over and over again. “You poor baby—you poor little mite!” she said over and over. But after the first shock of surprise, Isabelle rebelled. “Don’t! Put me down! I don’t like to be kissed!” she cried. Ann set her down and knelt before her. “Why don’t you like to be kissed?” she demanded. “Because”—defiantly. “Isabelle, have you ever been rocked and sung to and tucked into bed at night?” Isabelle shook her head, her big eyes fixed on Ann’s face, so full of emotion. “Did you ever have anybody tickle you awake, in the morning, and kiss you until you laughed?” The child shook her head again. “It’s a shame!” cried Ann. “Why Jinny gets kissed a hundred times a day by everybody.” “Who’s Jinny?” “My little sister, who is your age.” “Where is she?” “In my home, up in Vermont.” “What does she do?” “Sit down, and I’ll tell you about her.” Isabelle promptly sat down on the floor beside Ann. “In the morning, after breakfast, she picks up the papers and school books and toys and things the children leave around——” “What children?” “My other brothers and sisters. There’s Walter and Helen and Tommy and Barbara, but Jinny is our baby. When she gets things picked up she dusts the bottoms of the chairs and the legs of the tables. Then she helps mother make the beds. She can beat up the pillows and tuck the sheets neatly.” “Isn’t there any chambermaid?” [Pg 36] [Pg 37] [Pg 38]