Morning and sunshine, and cold gushing water after steaming hot, always acted like magic on Sheilah's fears. As she stood bare-armed before her mirror the next morning pinning up her hair, she wondered why people talked about feeling out of sorts before breakfast. She thought it was the best time of the whole day. She had forgotten all about her dream. By the time she was seated before the piano in the living-room for her usual half-hour of practicing before breakfast, the fresh morning courage in her heart was circulating through her whole being.
It was a glorious, sparkling morning. Frost on the window-panes, twinkling in the sunshine like sea-sand with lots of mica-like bits in it. Blindingly white outdoors, and cold and brittle; but in here rosy-colored, and warm, and soft. And so goodsmelling! Coffee and bacon! Oh, how good to be alive, on a cold winter morning, in a warm, rosy-colored room; with a beautiful Prelude, which she had worked weeks to conquer, running off her finger-tips like water! Why, of course she hadn't got to marry Felix Nawn! And she pressed down the loud pedal with all her strength, and struck the last chord confidently.
It was in the same mood an hour later that Sheilah kissed her mother and father good-bye before going to school—her mother tenderly on her cheek, yielding generously to her arms, her father lightly on his forehead, bare within an inch of the top of his head now.
'I am going to measure it with a tape-measure to-night,' gayly Sheilah warned him. 'It isn't disappearing half fast enough to suit me! I adore bald babies, and bald fathers. I always want to kiss their heads,' and she put her cheek down and rubbed it kitten-fashion against Sidney Miller's shining brow.
'Get away. Get away,' he grumbled, and pushed her off.
But he loved her playful caresses, nevertheless, and lately her gay and sprightly moods had the same effect upon his spirits as placing a big order in business. For lately Sheilah seemed troubled a good deal of the time. Dora said it was nothing but a little physical weariness. Dora ought to know. Dora had read up a lot about girls.
Sheilah kissed her mother a second time before she left the room—her mother always liked to be kissed last—and gave her an extra squeeze. Afterwards a look passed between her mother and father which she didn't fail to catch. She often caught it. It was a look of love for her that amounted almost to worship. Oh, dear! That was the trouble about being an only child. It would be dreadful if she ever disappointed them. And she was worse than an only child (there had been a sister and a brother once), she was 'an only-child-left.' Well, she wasn't going to disappoint them!
The proof of it was at that moment inside her leather school-bag between the pages of her Cicero. It was in the form of a note written on a piece of ruled theme paper, folded to about the size of a lady's calling-card. Such was the size and style of all written communications that passed between the pupils of the Wallbridge high-school. On the outside of the note was written in pencil the name of Felix Nawn. Sheilah had written the note just after she had finished her practicing. She would slip it into Felix's desk at the first opportunity.
Last night by the gate in the shadow of the hedge, with Felix's fingers on her wrist, Sheilah had agreed to meet him with her skates next Saturday afternoon at five o'clock on the upper bend of the river, beyond the falls, by the ice-houses. If there was no skating, she had agreed to meet him without her skates. In her note Sheilah told Felix briefly that she had changed her mind about next Saturday, and then had added, with her early-morning courage still brave and bright, 'and please don't meet me after the Guild any more either. Good-bye. Sheilah.'
Why did people talk about blue Mondays? Blue Mondays? Brave Mondays rather! A chance to put resolves to test again. The first day of a brand-new set of days. She would conquer this time!
Several pleasant things happened to Sheilah on her way to school that Monday morning. She hadn't gone two blocks when she met Cicely Morgan. Usually Cicely hardly noticed Sheilah, but this morning she stopped and talked to her.
It was a distinction to be a relative of Cicely Morgan's. (Sidney Miller and Cicely's father were first cousins.) It was a distinction to live in the same city with her and know her. When you said you came from Wallbridge, more likely than not the reply would be, 'Oh, really? Do you know Cicely Morgan?' Even Sheilah, whose experience in meeting strangers away from home was limited, had had the question repeated often enough for her to expect it. And she was aware that her reply, 'Yes. We're cousins,' would immediately quicken the stranger's interest. Usually there would follow a eulogy on her cousin's charms, in which Sheilah always enthusiastically joined. For Cicely had always been the most romantic figure in Sheilah's world.
She was very beautiful! Of course. With those eyes. They were as big as pools. Sheilah hardly dared to look at them for fear Cicely would catch her staring as if they were a birth-mark. They were brown, like the dark rich brown of after-dinner coffee, and liquid like coffee, and full of the same mahogany lights, when the sun shone on them. They were fringed with long lashes that had that queer sooty look as if there was black pollen on them. You wondered why the pollen didn't shake off on the rose-colored petal of Cicely's smooth cheek. Her hair was reddish black like her eyes, and always lay in lovely nestling curves and waves around her neck and forehead. Cicely had grown up with beauty, and with the homage that goes with it. She had the smooth, take-it-for-granted manner of a queen.
She had been 'out' several years now. The fame of the success of that first winter of hers in Boston, in Philadelphia, in New York, in Washington (she had friends everywhere) had been repeated over and over again to Sheilah. Most frequently by Sheilah's mother. So frequently, in fact, and so explicitly, that Sheilah had become aware that her mother desired some such success for her! And actually believed it possible. Ridiculous! Why, she was no more like Cicely than a daisy is like a rose, or a sparrow like a tanager.
'Good-morning, Sheilah,' said Cicely, and stopped in front of Sheilah, blocking the narrow snow-walled way. 'In a hurry?'
'No. Not a bit. Want me to do anything?'
'Oh, no. Off to school?'
Sheilah nodded. 'Yes.' And flushed. Cicely was looking at her so closely.
'Why, you've grown up, Sheilah!' she said finally, and then extending one of her hands, a small, delicate, perfectly gloved hand, and placing it lightly on Sheilah's arm, she added, in a sort of undertone as if it was a confidence, 'And you've grown up pretty!'
'Oh, no!'
'Oh, yes!' And then, tossing her lovely head—small and compact in a close turban, as perfect in outline as that of a small thoroughbred Arabian horse—'And I'm not the only one who thinks so either,' she added. A sudden irresistible desire to refer to Roger—simply to refer to him—possessed Cicely.
'Why, what do you mean?'
'Some one at church yesterday thought you were pretty, too.'
Sheilah flushed in earnest now.
'Why, who?'
'Oh, a friend of mine,' she laughed. (Was he a friend of hers? Still? 'Oh, come back, come back, Roger, and be a friend of mine still. Come back please, and let me say I think she's pretty, too.')
'What friend?'
'I've a good mind to tell you,' said Cicely. And then stopped short.
What madness had got hold of her that made her want to talk about Roger to anybody—to anybody at all, if there existed the least shadow of an excuse? To a child, to a mere slip of a girl. Even, it seemed, if the mere slip of a girl chanced to be the cause of a quarrel with Roger. Even, moreover, if it required being very kind and generous to the mere slip of a girl, sharing with her praise and admiration that she had wanted all for herself. Oh, the irony of fate! That she, Cicely Morgan, who had always had more praise and admiration than she had wanted from men, should, from the only man who had ever touched her heart, want more than was offered!
'Do tell me, Cicely,' Sheilah was still urging.
'All right,' she acquiesced. 'His name,' she announced casually enough, 'is Roger Dallinger.'
'Roger Dallinger? I never heard of him. Is he somebody I should have heard of? Is he somebody wonderful?'
Cicely hesitated a moment and looked away.
'Wonderful,' she said at last, and her eyes
'Why, Cicely, is it somebody you' Sheilah stopped abruptly, confused. 'Oh, Cicely, we've all wondered who it would be finally. There've been so many! Is he—is he.
Cicely looked at Sheilah aghast for a moment, then broke into a laugh.
'Oh, no,' she replied. 'He's not that! Romantic child! Not what you think!' And she laughed harder. 'I should say not! I should hope not! Poor Roger! Poor Roger!' And then suddenly (somehow she must change the subject. She wasn't to be trusted this morning apparently), 'Come and see me sometime,' she said.'
'Really? Do you mean it?' eagerly Sheilah picked it up.
'Why, surely!'
How amusing that Sheilah should be so pleased. She really was a sweet child, after all! Her eyes worshiped and paid homage like a man's.
Sheilah walked on air for the next few blocks. How adorable Cicely was! No wonder every man she met fell in love with her. Sheilah could easily imagine falling in love with her herself. She had always admired Cicely, but until to-day she had been simply part of a familiar scene to Cicely, no more to be noticed or remarked upon than one of the telegraph-poles or bare trees that bordered the sidewalk.
Sheilah was still walking on air when somebody sang out from behind in a loud and cheery voice, 'Hello there, Sheilah Miller! What's the rush?' Sheilah stopped and turned around. It was Nevin Baldwin.
He wore light brown knickerbockers of a rough wiry texture, heavy golf stockings to match, and a thin clinging sweater of the same Irish-terrier tan over a soft white shirt. And no hat. He had run out from his front door quickly, without preparation apparently, when he saw Sheilah pass by the corner of the street. His hands were bare also. But not white, like Felix Nawn's. Red—dark brownish red. The color of rocks at the seashore. And looked as hard and firm.
'What do you want?' asked Sheilah.
'For-the-love-of-Mike, do I have to want something?'
'Oh, not at all. Let's sit down under the apple-blossoms and chat.'
'Come on. I'll walk along with you.'
'That way? Do you know it's only four above?' She glanced at his bare head. His thick, curly, close-cut hair was shining with a recent application of water and brushes. 'It's beautiful, I know,' she tittered, 'but it will freeze out here.'
'I'll risk it. Come on. Give me that bag.'
'Don't you put on airs, Nevin, just because you've gone away to a boarding-school! You know very well you wouldn't have offered to carry any high-school girl's bag for her last year if you were to die for it. Nor walk to school with her either. Go on back into the house. Your teeth are chattering.'
'From sheer nervousness.'
'And I suppose it's from nervousness your hands are turning purple.'
'Well, will you wait till I go back and put something on?'
'Of course I won't. Do you think I want to appear with you traipsing along beside me, carrying my school-bag, as if I had a weak back?'
'But I want to ask you something.'
'Well, ask it. And do hurry.' She glanced at his head. 'It is already coated,' she warned.
'It's an invitation,' he said. He became suddenly serious, and a little self-conscious. 'I've just heard I can ask a girl for next Saturday. Our school Prom, you know. I thought I was out of it because of this darned quarantine business' (Nevin had been at home for over a week because of an exposure to measles), 'but the doctor says I can go back to school to-morrow, and that I'm perfectly all right for the dance Saturday. I want you to be my girl, Sheilah. I mean my girl at the dance,' he flushed, suddenly brownish red like his hands. 'My mother,' he hurried on, 'will chaperon you. She is going to Boston on the early train to-day, but she's going to call your mother up about it when she gets back. That is, if you—if you want to come.'
Want to come? Why, it was his school's biggest dance! Want to come? Nevin knew lots of out-of-town girls, Nevin went to house-parties. But he was asking her! And his mother was asking her too! It had all been talked over and planned between them! Her first dance at a boys' boarding-school! With Nevin Baldwin! Chaperoned by Mrs. Baldwin! How pleased her mother would be!
'Why, Nevin!' Sheilah gasped, and her voice was as gentle as her eyes were starry.
He stared at her. That was the way she was, when she was loveliest. Her voice was like—her eyes were like Well, he didn't know what they were like, but she was simply beautiful!
'Why, Nevin,' she exclaimed again, 'do you really want me!'
He glanced away, as you have to from very bright shining things sometimes. 'Naturally,' he said in a low voice.
Sheilah kept right on shining at him without saying a word.
'Do you want to come?' And he tried looking at her again.
Her eyes had grown soft. She gave a little broken laugh. 'Naturally,' she mocked gently.
And they both laughed then out loud, together.
'Well, then,' Nevin exclaimed, resuming his old manner,'that's all I've got to say to you. Now trot along to school, little girl.'
'Nevin, I think it's awfully nice of you. I'
'Cut it. Toddle along, or you'll get a tardy mark, dearie.'
'But, Nevin'
'Say, do you want me to freeze to death?'
He was running back to his house now. Sheilah turned. Her whole world, inside and out, was shining white.