Читать книгу The Collected Works of Susan Coolidge: 7 Novels, 35+ Short Stories, Essays & Poems (Illustrated) - Susan Coolidge - Страница 29

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“Clover, where’s Clover?” cried Rose Red, popping her head into the schoolroom, where Katy sat writing her composition. “Oh, Katy! there you are. I want you too. Come down to my room right away. I’ve such a thing to tell you!”

“What is it?” Tell me too!” said Bella Arkwright. Bella was a veritable “little pitcher,” of the kind mentioned in the Proverb, and had an insatiable curiosity to know every thing that other people knew.

“Tell you, Miss? I should really like to know why!” replied Rose, who was not at all fond of Bella.

“You’re real mean, and real unkind,” whined Bella. “You think you’re a great grown-up lady, and can have secrets. But you ain’t! You’re a little girl too,—most as little as me. So there!”

Rose made a face at her, and a sort of growling rush, which had the effect of sending Bella screaming down the hall. Then, returning to the school-room,—

“Do come, Katy,” she said: “find Clover, and hurry! Really and truly I want you. I feel as if I should burst if I don’t tell somebody right away what I’ve found out.”

Katy began to be curious. She went in pursuit of Clover, who was practising in one of the recitation-rooms, and the three girls ran together down Quaker Row.

“Now,” said Rose, locking the door, and pushing forward a chair for Katy and another for Clover, “swear that you won’t tell, for this is a real secret,—the greatest secret that ever was, and Mrs. Florence would flay me alive if she knew that I knew!” She paused to enjoy the effect of her words, and suddenly began to snuff the air in a peculiar manner.

“Girls,” she said, solemnly, “that little wretch of a Bella is in this room. I am sure of it.”

“What makes you think so?” cried the others supervised.

“I smell that dreadful pomatum that she puts on her hair! Don’t you notice it? She’s hidden somewhere.” Rose looked sharply about for a minute, then made a pounce, and from under the bed dragged a small kicking heap. It was the guilty Bella.

“What were you doing there, you bad child?” demanded Rose, seizing the kicking feet and holding them fast.

“I don’t care,” blubbered Bella, “you wouldn’t tell me your secret.

You’re a real horrid girl, Rose Red. I don’t love you a bit.”

“Your affection is not a thing which I particularly pine for,” retorted Rose, seating herself, and holding the culprit before her by the ends of her short pig-tails. “I don’t want little girls who peep and hide to love me. I’d rather they wouldn’t. Now listen. Do you know what I shall do if you ever come again into my room without leave. First, I shall cut off your hair, pomatum and all, with my penknife,”—Bella screamed,—“and then I’ll turn myself into a bear—a great brown bear —and eat you up.” Rose pronounced this threat with tremendous energy, and accompanied it with a snarl which showed all her teeth. Bella roared with fright, twitched away her pig-tails, unlocked the door and fled, Rose not pursuing, but sitting comfortably in her chair and growling at intervals, till her victim was out of hearing. Then she rose and bolted the door again.

“How lucky that the imp is so fond of that smelly pomatum!” she remarked: “one always knows where to look for her. It’s as good as a bell round her neck! Now, for the secret. You promise not to tell? Well, then, Mrs. Florence is going away week after next, and, what’s more,—she’s going to be married!”

“Not really!” cried the others.

“Really and truly. She’s going to be married to a clergyman.”

“How did you find out?”

“Why, it’s the most curious thing. You know my blue lawn, which Miss James is making. This morning I went to try it on, Miss Barnes with me of course, and while Miss James was fitting the waist Mrs. Seccomb came in and sat down on the sofa by Miss Barnes. They began to talk, and pretty soon Mrs. Seccomb said, ‘What day does Mrs. Florence go?”

“‘Thursday week,’ said Miss Barnes. She sort of mumbled it, and looked to see if I were listening. I wasn’t; but of course after that I did,—as hard as I could.

“‘And where does the important event take place?’ asked Mrs. Seccomb.

She’s so funny with her little bit of a mouth and her long words.

She always looks as if each of them was a big pill, and she wanted

to swallow it and couldn’t.

“‘In Lewisberg, at her sister’s house,’ said Miss Barnes. She mumbled more than ever, but I heard.

“‘What a deplorable loss she will be to our limited circle!’ said Mrs. Seccomb. I couldn’t imagine what they meant. But don’t you think, when I got home there was this letter from Sylvia, and she says, ‘Your adored Mrs. Florence is going to be married. I’m afraid you’ll all break your hearts about it. Mother met the gentleman at a party the other night. She says he looks clever, but isn’t at all handsome, which is a pity, for Mrs. Florence is a raving beauty in my opinion. He’s an excellent preacher, we hear; and won’t she manage the parish to perfection? How shall you like being left to the tender mercies of Mrs. Nipson?’ Now did you ever hear any thing so droll in your life?” went on Rose, folding up her letter. “Just think of those two things coming together the same day! It’s like a sum in arithmetic, with an answer which ‘proves’ the sum, isn’t it?”

Rose had counted on producing an effect, and she certainly was not disappointed. The girls could think and talk of nothing else for the remainder of that afternoon.

It was a singular fact that before two days were over every scholar in the school knew that Mrs. Florence was going to be married! How the secret got out, nobody could guess. Rose protested that it wasn’t her fault,—she had been a miracle of discretion, a perfect sphinx; but there was a guilty laugh in her eyes, and Katy suspected that the sphinx had unbent a little. Nothing so exciting had ever happened at the Nunnery before. Some of the older scholars were quite inconsolable. They bemoaned themselves, and got together in corners to enjoy the luxury of woe. Nothing comforted them but the project of getting up a “testimonial” for Mrs. Florence.

What this testimonial should be caused great discussion in the school. Everybody had a different idea, and everybody was sure that her idea was better than anybody’s else. All the school contributed. The money collected amounted to nearly forty dollars, and the question was, What should be bought?

Every sort of thing was proposed. Lilly Page insisted that nothing could possibly be so appropriate as a bouquet of wax flowers and a glass shade to put over it. There was a strong party in favor of spoons. Annie Silsbie suggested “a statue;” somebody else a clock. Rose Red was for a cabinet piano, and Katy had some trouble in convincing her that forty dollars would not buy one. Bella demanded that they should get “an organ.”

“You can go along with it as monkey,” said Rose, which remark made

Bella caper with indignation.

At last, after long discussion and some quarelling, a cake-basket was fixed upon. Sylvia Redding happened to be making a visit in Boston, and Rose was commissioned to write and ask her to select the gift and send it up by express. The girls could hardly wait till it came.

“I do hope it will be pretty, don’t you?” they said over and over again. When the box arrived, they all gathered to see it opened. Esther Dearborn took out the nails, half a dozen hands lifted the lid, and Rose unwrapped the tissue paper and displayed the basket up to general view.

“Oh, what a beauty!” cried everybody. It was woven of twisted silver wire. Two figures of children with wings and garlands supported the handle on either side. In the middle of the handle were a pair of silver doves, billing and cooing in the most affectionate way, over a tiny shield, on which were engraved Mrs. Florence’s initials.

“I never saw one like it!” “Doesn’t it look heavy?” cried a chorus of voices, as Rose, highly gratified, held up the basket.

“Who shall present it?” asked Louisa Agnew.

“Rose Red,” said some of the girls.

“No, indeed, I’m not tall enough,” protested Rose, “it must be somebody who’d kind of sweep into the room and be impressive. I vote for Katy.”

“Oh, no!” said Katy, shrinking back, “I shouldn’t do it well at all.

Suppose we put it to a vote.”

Ellen Gray cut some slips of paper, and each girl wrote a name and dropped it into the box. When the votes were counted, Katy’s name appeared on all but three.

“I propose that we make this vote unanimous,” said Rose, highly delighted. The girls agreed; and Rose, jumping on a chair, exclaimed, “Three cheers for Katy Carr! keep time, girls,—one, two, hip, hip, hurrah!”

The hurrahs were given with enthusiasm, for Katy, almost without knowing it, had become popular. She was too much touched and pleased to speak at first. When she did, it was to protest against her election.

“Esther would do it beautifully,” she said, “and I think Mrs. Florence would like the basket better if she gave it. You know ever since”— she stopped. Even now she could not refer with composure to the affair of the note.

“Oh!” cried Louisa, “she’s thinking of that ridiculous note Mrs. Florence made such a fuss about. As if anybody supposed you wrote it, Katy! I don’t believe even Miss Jane is such a goose as that. Any way, if she is, that’s one reason more why you should present the basket, to show that we don’t think so.” She gave Katy a kiss by way of period.

“Yes, indeed, you’re chosen, and you must give it,” cried the others.

“Very well,” said Katy, extremely gratified, “what am I to say?”

“We’ll compose a speech for you,” replied Rose, “sugar your voice, Katy, and, whatever you do, stand up straight. Don’t crook over, as if you thought you were tall. It’s a bad trick you have, child, and I’m always sorry to see it,” concluded Rose, with the air of a wise mamma giving a lecture.

It is droll how much can go on in a school unseen and unsuspected by its teachers. Mrs. Florence never dreamed that the girls had guessed her secret. Her plan was to go away as if for a visit, and leave Mrs. Nipson to explain at her leisure. She was therefore quite unprepared for the appearance of Katy, holding the beautiful basket, which was full of fresh roses, crimson, white, and pink. I am afraid the rules of the S. S. U. C. had been slightly relaxed to allow of Rose Red’s getting these flowers; certainly they grew nowhere in Hillsover except in Professor Seccomb’s garden!

“The girls wanted me to give you this, with a great deal of love from us all,” said Katy, feeling strangely embarrassed, and hardly venturing to raise her eyes. She set the basket on the table. “We hope that you will be happy,” she added in a low voice, and moved toward the door. Mrs. Florence had been to much surprised to speak, but now she called, “Wait! Come back a moment.”

Katy came back. Mrs. Florence’s cheeks were flushed. She looked very handsome. Katy almost thought there were tears in her eyes.

“Tell the girls that I thank them very much. Their present is

beautiful. I shall always value it.” She blushed as she spoke, and

Katy blushed too. It made her shy to see the usually composed Mrs.

Florence so confused.

“What did she say? What did she say?” demanded the others, who were collected in groups round the school-room door to hear a report of the interview.

Katy repeated her message. Some of the girls were disappointed.

“Is that all?” they said. “We thought she would stand up and make a speech.”

“Or a short poem,” put in Rose Red,—“a few stanzas thrown off on the spur of the moment; like this, for instance:—

“Thank you, kindly, for your basket,

Which I didn’t mean to ask it;

But I’ll very gladly take it,

And when ‘tis full of cake, it

Will frequently remind me

Of the girls I left behind me!

There was a universal giggle, which brought Miss Jane out of the school-room.

“Order!” she said, ringing the bell. “Young ladies, what are you about? Study hour has begun.”

“We’re so sorry Mrs. Florence is going away,” said some of the girls.

“How did you know that she is going?” demanded Miss Jane, sharply.

Nobody answered.

Next day Mrs. Florence left. Katy saw her go with a secret regret.

“If only she would have said that she didn’t believe I wrote that note!” she told Clover.

“I don’t care what she believes! She’s a stupid, unjust woman!” replied independent little Clover.

Mrs. Nipson was now in sole charge of the establishment. She had never tried school-keeping before, and had various pet plans and theories of her own, which she had only been waiting for Mrs. Florence’s departure to put into practice.

One of these was that the school was to dine three times a week on pudding and bread and butter. Mrs. Nipson had a theory,—very convenient and economical for herself, but highly distasteful to her scholars,—that it was injurious for young people to eat meat every day in hot weather.

The puddings were made of batter, with a sprinkling of blackberries or raisins. Now, rising at six, and studying four hours and a half on a light breakfast, has wonderful effect on the appetite, as all who have tried it will testify. The poor girls would go down to dinner as hungry as wolves, and eye the large, pale slices on their plates with a wrath and dismay which I cannot describe. Very thick the slices were, and there was plenty of thin, sugared sauce to eat with them, and plenty of bread and butter; but, somehow, the whole was unsatisfying, and the hungry girls would go upstairs almost as ravenous as when they came down. The second-table-ites were always hanging over the balusters to receive them, and when to the demand, “What did you have for dinner?” “Pudding!” was answered, a low groan would run from one to another, and a general gloom seemed to drop down and envelop the party.

It may have been in consequence of this experience of starvation that the orders for fourth of July were that year so unusually large. It was an old custom in the school that the girls should celebrate the National Independence by buying as many goodies as they liked. There was no candy-shop in Hillsover, so Mrs. Nipson took the orders, and sent to Boston for the things, which were charged on the bills with other extras. Under these blissful circumstances, the girls felt that they could afford to be extravagant, and made out their lists regardless of expense. Rose Red’s, for this Fourth, ran thus:—

“Two pounds of Chocolate Caramels.

Two pounds of Sugar almonds.

Two pounds of Lemon Drops.

Two pounds of Mixed Candy.

Two pounds of Maccaroons.

A dozen Oranges.

A dozen Lemons.

A drum of Figs.

A box of French Plums.

A loaf of Almond Cake.”

The result of this liberal order was that, after the great wash-basket of parcels had been distributed, and the school had rioted for twenty- four hours upon these unaccustomed luxuries, Rose was found lying on her bed, ghastly and pallid.

“Never speak to me of any thing sweet again so long as I live!” she gasped. “Talk of vinegar, or pickles, or sour apples, but don’t allude to sugar in any form, if you love me! Oh, why, why did I send for those fatal things?”

In time all the candy was eaten up, and the school went back to its normal condition. Three weeks later came College commencement.

“Are you and Clover Craters or Symposiums?” demanded Lilly Page, meeting Katy in the hall, a few days before this important event.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, has nobody told you about them? They are the two great College Societies. All the girls belong to one or the other, and make the wreaths to dress their halls. We work up in the Gymnasium; the Crater girls take the east side, and the Symposium girls the west, and when the wreaths grow too long we hang them out of the windows. It’s the greatest fun in the world! Be a Symposium, do! I’m one!”

“I shall have to think about it before deciding,” said Katy, privately resolving to join Rose Red’s Society, whichever it was. The Crater it proved to be, so Katy and Clover enrolled themselves with the Craters. Three days before Commencement wreath-making began. The afternoons were wholly given up to the work, and, instead of walking or piano practice, the girls sat plaiting oak-leaves into garlands many yards long. Baskets of fresh leaves were constantly brought in, and there was a strife between the rival Societies as to which should accomplish most.

It was great fun, as Lilly had said, to sit there amid the green boughs, and pleasant leafy smells, a buzz of gay voices in the air, and a general sense of holiday. The Gymnasium would have furnished many a pretty picture for an artist during those three afternoons, only, unfortunately, no artist was let in to see it.

One day, Rose Red, emptying a basket, lighted upon a white parcel, hidden beneath the leaves.

“Lemon drops!” she exclaimed, applying finger and thumb with all the dexterity of Jack Horner. “Here, Crater girls, here’s something for you! Don’t you pity the Symposiums?”

But next day a big package of peppermints appeared in the Symposium basket, so neither Society could boast advantage over the other. They were pretty nearly equal, too, in the quantity of wreath made,—the Craters measuring nine hundred yards, and the Symposiums nine hundred and two. As for the Halls, which they were taken over to see the evening before Commencement, it was impossible to say which was most beautifully trimmed. Each faction preferred its own, and President Searles said that both did the young ladies credit.

They all sat in the gallery of the church on Commencement Day, and heard the speeches. It was very hot, and the speeches were not exactly interesting, being on such subjects as “The Influence of a Republic on Men of Letters,” and “The Abstract Law of Justice, as applied to Human Affairs;” but the music, and the crowd, and the spectacle of six hundred ladies all fanning themselves at once, were entertaining, and the girls would not have missed them for the world. Later in the day another diversion was afforded them by the throngs of pink and blue ladies and white-gloved gentlemen who passed the house, on their way to the President’s Levee; but they were not allowed to enjoy this amusement long, for Miss Jane, suspecting what was going on, went from room to room, and ordered everybody summarily off to bed.

With the close of Commencement Day, a deep sleep seemed to settle over Hillsover. Most of the Professors’ families went off to enjoy themselves at the mountains or the sea-side, leaving their houses shut up. This gave the village a drowsy and deserted air. There were no boys playing balls on the Common, or swinging on the College fence; no look of life in the streets. The weather continued warm, the routine of study and excercise grew dull, and teachers and scholars alike were glad when the middle of September arrived, and with it the opening of the autumn vacation.