CHAPTER X.
ROB AND FRED ENTERTAIN CALLERS.
“I say, cousin Bess,” said Rob, coming into the library one evening, “why weren’t you at church last night?”
“Father and mother went to Boston Saturday afternoon, to stay till Wednesday, and it was going to be rather dismal for Fred to stay alone here, so we spent the evening reading,” answered Bess, moving to let Rob perch himself on the arm of her great easy-chair.
“I tried to make her go, but she just wouldn’t,” remarked Fred, in a remorseful parenthesis.
“Well, you’d better have been there, both of you,” responded Rob, as he slyly drew a long shell pin from his cousin’s hair, and tucked it into his side pocket. “Do you remember that friend of Mr. Washburn that sang here one night in January, that New York tenor? He was here again last night, and sang splendidly. We had the worst time in the recessional. It was ‘How sweet the name,’ and just as we were coming down the steps,—I don’t know what made him do it, but Phil dropped his book right whack down on his own toes. We both got to laughing so we couldn’t sing any coming out. Wasn’t it mean, when we wanted to do our best? And Mr. Washburn was awfully cross about it.”
“I don’t know that I wonder, Rob,” said Bess.
“What did Phil do?” asked Fred. “Did he pick up his hymnal?”
“Course not,” answered Rob, as he secured another hairpin; “he couldn’t stop and stoop down for it. We just had to go ahead and leave the others to hop over it best way they could. Say, cousin Bessie, did you ever notice that old woman in the front seat, the one in the great big black bonnet, with the wreath of purple flowers?”
Bess nodded assent, and then turned her head to watch her little cousin, as he still sat on her chair-arm, steadying himself with a hand on her shoulder, while he talked animatedly, with his dimples coming and going, and his eyes sparkling with fun. At her other side sat Fred, with both elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, as he listened to Rob’s merry chatter, and occasionally threw in a word or two of his own.
“Well,” pursued Rob, with a chuckle, “she hasn’t as much breath as she used to have, but she always will sing in the hymns, and sometimes it’s pretty hard work for her to keep up. Last night she lost her breath more than common; and once, after she had stopped to puff a minute, she struck in again, full tilt, about an octave and a half higher than we were, and it made a most awful noise.”
“Poor old woman!” said Bess, trying to speak soberly, while Fred’s shoulders shook. “You shouldn’t laugh at such old people, Robin. Where’s your chivalry?”
“I can’t help it, cousin Bess. It was too funny to hear her go ‘peep,’ way up high.”
Bess felt her dignity fast collapsing at Rob’s imitation of the high, quavering voice, and, to change the subject, she said,—
“Fred and I went to the shore this afternoon.”
“Did you?” asked Rob. “Why didn’t you wait till after school and let me go, too? I haven’t had a drive with you for ever so long.”
“You couldn’t have had one to-day,” replied Fred. “We walked.”
“Well, you might have waited for me, anyhow.”
“How do you know we wanted you?” asked Fred teasiugly.
Rob frowned for a moment, and then, determined not to be thrown out from his jolly mood, answered with a laugh,—
“What’s the difference, so long as I wanted you?”
“Of course we always do want you, Bob. We will go again next Saturday, that is, if Miss Bess can, and take our time about it,” said Fred, moved to gentleness by his friend’s unexpected meekness.
“Certainly I will go,” said Bess heartily.
“Oh, there’s the bell! Rob, will you go to the door, dear?”
Rob vanished on his errand, and soon reappeared, saying disconsolately,—
“It’s Mr. Washburn and that tenor, to see you. Mean old things! What did they come for?” And both the boys scowled darkly in the direction of the parlor, as Bess rose to leave them, saying laughingly,—
“Take good care of each other, and don’t get into mischief. Rob, you’d better stay with Fred until they go.” And taking a Jacqueminot rose from a vase on the table, she put it in the buttonhole of her new gray gown, and was gone, leaving the boys in solitary possession of the room, except for the great black cat that was slumbering peacefully on one end of the sofa.
“I want you to see Miss Carter, Muir,” Mr. Washburn had said, as they were putting on their hats, preparatory to starting; “she is quite an unusual young woman. She is not only attractive and rather pretty, but she knows a thing or two; and then she has a great gift for managing small boys, and making the best of them. That little dark-eyed fellow that leads the choir is her cousin, and her influence over him and two or three of the others helps out my discipline wonderfully. I don’t know how I should get along without her.”
“Bring on your paragon,” laughed Frank Muir. “It passes my comprehension how any woman can manage to keep small boys in order, but I’ll take your word for it.”
But when he rose to meet Bess as she came into the parlor, he felt at once that she might easily deserve his friend’s praise, and that her pleasant, cordial manner would win the heart of the most cross-grained little urchin in existence. He was rather critical in his judgment of young women, perhaps because they usually courted his attentions in a most unblushing fashion; but this one was quite to his taste, and he settled himself for a long, enjoyable call, exerting himself to be as entertaining as possible, while the rector sat by, reflecting how well they were suited to each other.
But as Bessie sat there, talking so easily of one thing and another, with a frank pleasure in the young man’s society, she gradually became conscious of the fact that her hair was fast slipping from its usual smooth coils on top of her head, and dropping towards her neck. Cautiously putting up her hand to investigate the cause, she discovered that, of the four long pins that usually held it in place, two were missing, and of course they were the more critical ones.
“It is that wretch of a Rob!” she thought. “Well, fortunately, it all grows on. But what can I do?”
Warned by the increasing looseness that any attempt to move from the room would result in a general ruin, she sat as motionless as possible, while she tried to talk away as if nothing were amiss. Her guests were watching the impending catastrophe, the older man, who had a wife and sisters of his own, with sympathy, and the younger one with unmixed amusement.
“How I wish they would go home!” meditated Bess, as she smiled brightly in answer to some sally of Mr. Muir. “Time is precious, for this won’t hold five minutes longer, and the least move I make will bring it all down.”
And at the moment, the last pin slipped from its place, and a mass of bright, wavy hair fell on the girl’s shoulders. It was a trying moment, but, determined to make the best of a bad matter, she said,—
“I shall have to be excused for a moment. My mischievous little cousin has been experimenting with my hairpins, without my knowing it. Please excuse me a minute.” And with flaming cheeks she fled to her room.
She was back almost immediately, but not before the gentlemen had enjoyed a hearty though smothered laugh, and Mr. Muir had inquired,—
“Is this a sample of the fine influence she has on small boys?”
The conversation was once more running smoothly, and Bess was just losing the recollection of her mortifying experience, when a little sound caught her ears, a light, stealthy footstep that cautiously advanced to the drawn portière, and then retreated. Five minutes later they all gave a sudden start of surprise, as the vigorous, clattering alarm attached to a noisy little nickel clock gradually unwound the entire length of its spring. It was difficult to talk away composedly, but Bess managed to do it; and while her guests were inwardly shaking over the too palpable hint, she was longing to give the boys an outward shaking for their annoying pranks.
Another half-hour passed by, a long one to Bess, who momentarily feared a fresh outbreak. But quiet seemed to be restored, and she was just beginning to breathe freely again, when once more she heard the quiet footfall. Turning, she gazed towards the doorway in an agony of apprehension. What now? The portière trembled, slightly parted, and through the opening was pushed the old house cat, a great black animal of staid demeanor and unimpeachable dignity. But at this moment the unfortunate creature’s dignity was not so manifest as it might have been. Each one of her four paws was wrapped in a neat casing of heavy paper, while securely lashed to her glossy tail was the mate to the rose that Bess was wearing.
As if overpowered by her unwonted decorations, the poor animal stood motionless for a moment, and then attempted to walk across the room. However, this usually simple operation was attended with unforeseen difficulties. Pussy’s toes, in their smooth envelopes, slipped this way and that as her weight was thrown first on one foot, then on the other; and as she lifted each foot, she gave it a hasty but energetic shake to free it, before she put it down on the carpet again; and in the meantime she was angrily snapping her insulted tail from side to side. It was too much to be passed over in silence, and, to Bessie’s great relief, Frank Muir burst into a hearty laugh, as he rose to rescue the unoffending cat, who, at sight of the stranger, fled under the sofa, and was only dragged out with some difficulty. Bess and the rector joined in the laugh, and for a few moments no one of the three could speak. When she could control her voice:
“I am sorry, Mr. Muir,” Bess said, “to be forced to apologize for such mischief. The truth of the matter is, that I left two small boys alone in the library, with nothing to do. This is only one more proof that ‘Satan finds some mischief still.’”
“Who are they?” asked Mr. Washburn, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes, while Mr. Muir put the cat, now barefooted again, down on the floor, and fastened the rose into his own buttonhole.
“Rob and Fred,” answered Bess. “I am sorry to confess that my small cousin is such an imp.”
“Frank Muir burst into a hearty laugh, as he rose to rescue the unoffending cat.”—Page 190.
“He usually is, but Rob is in one of his wild moods to-night, and I suspect they set each other on, for it isn’t like either one of them, alone. Please excuse them, for I know it was simple thoughtlessness, and they had no idea of being rude.”
Bess spoke with such a pretty air of earnestness that Mr. Muir would have excused her boys twice over, even if he had been annoyed by their mischief, instead of thoroughly amused.
“Who are these boys?” he asked. “Is one the darker of the choir-leaders, the one with the high soprano voice? I think Mr. Washburn said he was your cousin. And who is the other? I think you ought to make them appear now.”
Bess hesitated for a moment.
“If Mr. Washburn will tell you about Fred while I am gone, I will go to call them,” she said.
Rob had prudently gone home, and Fred was on the sofa, apparently asleep, but Bess knew better than that.
“Come, Fred,” she said seriously, as she bent over him, “I want you to come into the parlor now. Mr. Washburn and Mr. Muir have asked to see you. I am sorry my boy should have forgotten himself and been so rude to guests.”
“Oh, Miss Bessie,” said Fred penitently, for he read from Bessie’s tone that she was really displeased, “we truly didn’t mean any harm, only they stayed so long that we thought perhaps they’d forgotten the time, and would hurry a little if they knew it, so as to give us a chance to have some fun. I’m so sorry!”
“I don’t think you did mean to be quite so ungentlemanly,” answered Bess quietly. “But we will talk it over by and by. Now come with me.”
“Oh, no! Must I?” And the child drew back.
“Yes, Fred.”
Frank Muir glanced up as they entered the parlor. He had been interested in his friend’s account of the child, and was curious to see the imp who had caused so much embarrassment and amusement for them all. But when he caught sight of the strong, finely formed little figure, the head set so proudly on his shoulders, the refined, sensitive face that showed so plainly every thought and feeling, and the great, pleading brown eyes, as the boy came shyly into the room, his own eyes grew strangely misty, and his face was very tender and pitiful as he went forward, saying heartily,—
“So this is the small friend that has been giving us a good laugh.” And, drawing the child to the sofa, he sat down by his side.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” said Fred slowly. “It sounded like such fun. Please excuse us.”
“Excuse you,” said Mr. Muir, laughing, though he watched the boy closely, attracted by his grace of manner and gentle face; “it doesn’t need to be excused, for we enjoyed it as much as you did; and then I have a vivid recollection of some of my own performances in that line, that makes me appreciate yours all the more. And so your friend went home, did he? I should have liked to see him, for I enjoyed his singing last night.”
“Rob told me about your being there,” said Fred, completely won from his shyness by the kind, genial manner of his new friend. “I wish I’d gone, for I heard you sing last January, and I don’t believe I shall ever forget that.”
Frank Muir had received many a compliment for his singing, but never had one pleased him more than this, so innocently given.
“Do you like music?” he asked pleasantly.
“Yes, ever so much,” Fred answered. “I was going into the choir, if I hadn’t been—sick; and that night you sang, it was the first time I had heard any music for ’most a year. Some people put too much flourish into their singing. I don’t know whether you’ll know what I mean, but, anyway, you sang just as if you meant it.”
Bess, in the midst of her chat with the rector, wondered to see the boy talking so freely with a stranger. She wondered yet more when to Mr. Muir’s frank, sympathizing question,—
“Have you been—sick long?”
Fred answered bravely, with no trace of his usual sensitiveness,—
“More than a year. I studied too much, and was sick ever so long. Then I went to Boston, and there I grew blind, about six months ago.”
“Poor Fred!” said Mr. Muir, gently stroking the firm little hand that lay by his side.
“Yes, it was pretty bad at first, but since I came here,” and Fred lowered his voice to a confidential murmur, “I’ve had such good times. You see, Miss Bess is no end good to me, and she’s more fun than half the boys. She reads to me and plays games with me, and we go to walk together, and, really, we do have lots of fun.”
“You are a real hero, my boy,” said Mr. Muir warmly. “A brave boy who will make a brave man.”
“Yes,” said Fred, nodding soberly; “that’s what Miss Bess said she wanted me to be. But it’s kind of hard work sometimes, for I do get awfully mad at the boys when they do things I can’t.”
Frank Muir smiled to himself at the confession so artlessly made. The boy interested him greatly, for he seemed so shy, yet had responded so quickly to his attentions. And what a picture he made there, sitting on one foot on the sofa, with the other foot in its dainty slipper dangling towards the floor, while, in his earnest talking, his color came and went, and his smile and frown succeeded each other by turns.
“As long as you were not at church last night,” the young man proposed, “suppose I sing something to you now. That is, of course, if Miss Carter will excuse us.” And he looked to her for her consent.
“That isn’t much like Muir,” said Mr. Washburn in a low tone, as his friend seated himself at the piano. “He isn’t given to singing, except when he has to. He seems to have taken a fancy to your charge there.”
“Fred surely returns the compliment,” said Bess, as the boy followed to the piano. “I don’t see what has come over him to talk so much to a stranger, for he is usually so shy.”
“Muir is irresistible to nearly everybody, I find,” replied the rector quietly.
Then they were silent, as Mr. Muir played a little prelude, light, rocking, swinging, with an occasional dash like the breaking of a tiny wave on a pebbly shore. Then, in the same clear, sweet tenor that had fascinated the child before, he began to sing the quaint little lullaby,—
“Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe—
Sailed on a river of misty light,
Into a sea of dew.
‘Where are you going, and what do you wish?’
The old moon asked the three.
‘We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,’
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.”
When he had finished, he turned away from the piano with a laugh.
“There!” he said, as he rested his hand on Fred’s shoulder. “I know boys like nonsense songs, and what could be more appropriate than this charming little Dutch one, after the hint you gave us with that alarm clock? Washburn, we’ve made a disgracefully long call, and we ought to have left Miss Carter in peace long ago.”
“Oh, Mr. Muir, don’t stop!” urged Bess. “Please sing something more, just one.” And she motioned him back to the piano.
The young man demurred a little, but, as she insisted,—
“Well,” said he, “I sang to Fred before, now I will sing to you.”
And, after a few random chords, he gradually drifted into the prelude to Schubert’s “Serenade,” a song that had always won the enthusiastic applause of the impressionable young ladies whom he met in society. With all its intense sentimentality, it had never been a favorite with practical Bess; but there was no resisting the influence of such a voice, and before he had finished a dozen notes, Bess was held by the same charm which she had felt that other evening in the church. She was fast losing all consciousness of everything but the passionate beauty of the music, when a long, gusty howl brought her back to herself, and made them all turn their heads to see whence the sound proceeded. There on the floor sat Fuzz, erect on his haunches, his paws in the air and his curls dejectedly flattened over one eye, while, with his nose pointed skyward, he was giving expres
“There was nO resisting the influence of such a voice”—Page 198.
“This is too much, Mr. Muir! What must you think of such a household? Between the boys and the dog, your evening has been a remarkable one.”
And not even the young man’s laughing assurance of his enjoyment of it all, could entirely restore her ease of manner while the good-nights were being said.
After Mr. Muir was at the door, he came back to shake hands once more with Fred, and say,—
“Good-night, my brave boy. I am glad I have seen you, and I hope we shall meet again some day.”
“I say,” he remarked to his friend, as they walked away from the house, “I think your paragon is an uncommonly attractive girl, but if this is a specimen of her wonderful influence over boys, I shudder to think what your discipline would be without her help.” Then, as he pulled up the lapel of his coat to sniff at the rose, he added, “That boy is a wonderfully lovable child. Some one is giving him splendid training, and, from what you tell of his parents, I dimly suspect that Miss Carter is the one. And, Washburn, that dog would be an invaluable addition to your choir.”