Peggy Stewart at School Part 22

"It was the most solemn thing I ever heard and the most beautiful," said Marjorie softly. "It made me homesick, and yet home doesn't mean anything to me; this is the only one I have known since I was eight years old."

"Eight years in one place and a school at that!" cried Juno. "Why, I should have done something desperate long before four had pa.s.sed. Girls, think of being in a school eight years." Juno's tone implied the horrors of the Bastile.

"If you had no other, what could you do?" Marjorie's question was asked with a smile which was sadder than tears could have been.

Juno shrugged her shoulders, but Polly slipped over to Marjorie's side and with one of Polly's irresistible little mannerisms, laid her arm across her shoulder, as hundreds of times the boys in Bancroft demonstrate their good fellows.h.i.+p for each other. Another girl would probably have kissed her. Polly was not given to kisses. Then she asked:

"Won't your father come East this spring for commencement? You said you hoped he would.

"I've hoped so every spring, but when he writes he says it takes four whole months to reach Was.h.i.+ngton from that awful place in the Klond.y.k.e.

I wish he had never heard of it."

"I'm so glad you went to Severndale with us. We must never let her be lonely or homesick again, Peggy."

"Not while Severndale has a spare hammock," nodded Peggy.

Marjorie was more or less of a mystery to most of the girls, but the greatest of all to Mrs. Vincent to whom she had come the year the school was opened. Mrs. Vincent had more than once said to herself: "Well, I certainly have four oddities to deal with: _Who_ is Marjorie? She is one of the sweetest, most lovable girls I've ever met, but I don't really know a single thing about her. She has come to me from the home of a perfectly reliable Congregational minister, but even he confesses that he knows nothing beyond the fact that she is the daughter of a man lost to civilization in the remotest regions of the Klond.y.k.e. He says he believes her mother is dead. Heigho! And Juno? What is likely to become of _her_, poor child? What does become of all the children of divorced parents in this land of divorces? Oh, why can't the parents think of the children they have brought into the world but who did not ask to come?

"And Rosalie? What is to become of that little pepper pot with all her loving impulses and self-will? I believe her father has visited her for about one hour in each of the four years she has been here, and I also believe his visits do more harm than good, they seem to enrage the child so. Of course, it is all wounded pride and affection, but who is to correct it? And this year comes Stella, the biggest puzzle of all. Her father? Well, I dare say it is all right, but he sometimes acts more like--" but at this point Mrs. Vincent invariably had paused abruptly and turned her attention to other matters.

"Can't the boys ever get leave to visit their friends?" asked Lily Pearl.

"I think it is perfectly outrageous to keep them stived up in that horrid place year in and year out for four years with only four months to call their own in one-thousand-four-hundred-and-sixty days!"

"Lily's been doing the multiplication table," cried Rosalie.

"Well, I counted and I think it's awful--simply awful!" lamented Lily.

"I'd give anything to see Charlie Purdy and have another of those ravis.h.i.+ng dances. I can just feel his arms about me yet, and the way he snuggles your head up against him and nestles his face down in your hair--m--m--m! Why, his clothes smell so deliciously of cigarette smoke!

I can smell it yet!"

A howl of laughter greeted this rhapsody from all but Helen, who bridled and protested:

"Oh, you girls may laugh, but you had to walk a chalk line under the eyes of a half dozen chaperones every minute. Lily and I got acquainted with our friends."

"Well, I hope we did have a chaperone or two," was Polly's retort. She had vivid memories of some of the scenes upon which she and Ralph had inadvertently blundered during the afternoon informals of Christmas week. The auditorium in the academic building where informals are held, has many secluded nooks. Upon one occasion she had run upon Helen and Paul Ring, the former languis.h.i.+ng in the latter's arms. Perhaps mamma would not have been so ready to intrust her dear little daughter to Foxy Grandpa's protection had she dreamed of the existence of Mamma Ring and dear Paul.

At all this sentimental enthusiasm Stella had looked on indulgently and now laughed outright, "What silly kids you two are," she said.

"Well, I don't see that you had such a ravis.h.i.+ng time, anyway," cried Helen.

"Why, I'm sure Mr. Allyn was as attentive as anyone could be. He was on hand every minute to take me wherever I wanted to go." Stella's expression was quizzical and made Helen furious.

"Oh, a paid guide could have done as much I don't doubt."

"Father _is_ a little fussy at times, so perhaps it is just as well. You see I should not have been at Severndale at all if he had not been called to Mexico on business. So I'd better be thankful for what fun I did get. But there goes the first bell. Better get down toward the dining-room, girls," laughed Stella good-naturedly, and set the example.

A moment later the room was deserted by all but Helen who lingered at the mirror. When the others were on their way down stairs she slipped to Nelly's room and took from her desk a sheet of the monogram paper and an envelope, which Mrs. Harold had given her at Christmas. As she pa.s.sed her own room she hid them in her desk for future use. After dinner when the evening mail was delivered, Helen received a letter bearing the Annapolis postmark. Nelly had one from her father. As she read it her face wore a peculiar expression. The letter stated that her father was coming to Was.h.i.+ngton to consult with Shelby concerning a matter of business connected with Severndale's paddock. As Nelly ceased reading she glanced up from her letter to find Peggy watching her narrowly.

Peggy had also received a letter from Dr. Llewellyn in which he mentioned the fact that Bolivar felt it advisable to run down to Was.h.i.+ngton. In an instant the whole situation flashed across Peggy's quick comprehension.

During the girl's visit at Severndale Jim Bolivar had never come to the house. Nelly had many times slipped away for quiet little talks with her father in their own cottage and had asked him more than once why he did not come up to the big house to see her, and his reply had invariably been:

"Honey, I don't belong there. No, 'tain't no use to argue,--I don't.

Your mother would have; she come of quality stock, and what in the Lord's name she ever saw in me I've been, a-guessin' an' a-guessin' for the last eighteen year."

"But Dad, Peggy Stewart has never, never made either you or me feel the least shade of difference in our stations. Neither has Polly Howland.

They couldn't be lovelier to me, though I know you have never been at Severndale as guests have been there. But it has never seemed to strike me until now. And down at the school the girls are awfully nice to me; at least, most of them are. Those who are patronizing are that way because they are so to everybody. But the really nice girls are lovely, and I am sure they'd never think of being rude to you."

"Little girl, listen to your old Dad: There are some things in this world not to be got around. I'm one of 'em. Peggy Stewart and Polly Howland are thoroughbreds an' thoroughbreds ain't capable of no low-down sn.o.bbishness. They know their places in the world and there's nothing open to discussion. An' they're too fine-grained to scratch other folks the wrong way. But, some of them girls up yonder are cross-breeds--oh, yes, I've been a-watchin' 'em an' I know,--tain't no use to argue. They kin prance an' cavort an' their coats are sleek an' s.h.i.+nin', but don't count on 'em too much when it comes right down to disposition an'

endurance, 'cause they'll disappoint you. I ain't never told you honey, that your mother was a Bladen. Well, she was. Some day I'm going to tell you how she fell in love with a good-lookin' young skalawag by the name o' Jim Bolivar. He comes o' pretty decent stock too, only he hadn't sense enough to stay at St. John's where his dad put him, but had to go rampagin' all over the country till he'd clean forgot any bringin'-up he'd ever had, and landed up as a sort o' bailiff, as they call 'em over in the old country, on an estate down on the eastern sh.o.r.e. Then he met Helen Bladen and 's sure's you live she 'changed the name and not the letter and changed for a heap sight worse 'n the better' when she eloped with me. Thank the Lord she didn't live long enough to see the worst, and you hardly remember her at all. But that's my pretty history,--a no-count, ne'er do well, and if it weren't for Peggy Stewart, G.o.d bless her! you'd a been lyin' 'long side o' yo' ma out yonder this minute, for all I'd ever a-done to keep you here, I reckon, much less give you the education you're a-gettin' now. No, honey, I won't go up to the great house. If I'd a-done right when I was a boy I'd be sittin' right up there with the rest o' that bunch o' people this minute. But I was bound to have my fling, and sow my wild oats and now I can have the pleasure of harvestin' my crop. It ought to be thistles, for if ever there was a jacka.s.s that same was Jim Bolivar."

Nelly had listened to the pitiful tale without comment, but when it ended she placed her arms about her father's neck and sobbed softly. She had never mentioned this little talk to anyone, but it was seldom far from her thoughts, and now her father was coming to Was.h.i.+ngton.

Peggy slipped her arm about her and asked:

"What makes you look so sober, Nellibus?"

"Because I'm a silly, over-sensitive goose, I dare say."

Peggy looked puzzled.

Nelly handed her her father's letter. Peggy read it, then turned to look straight into Nelly's eyes, her own growing dark as she raised her head in the proud little poise which made her so like her mother's portrait.

"When he comes I think matters will adjust themselves," was all she said.

The following Friday afternoon Jim Bolivar was ushered into the pretty little reception room by Horatio Hannibal, who went in quest of Nelly.

As she had no idea of the hour her father would arrive, she was preparing to go for a ride with a number of the girls, for the day was a heavenly one; a late March spring day in Was.h.i.+ngton.

"Miss Bol'var, yo' pa in de 'ception room waitin' fo' to see yo', Miss,"

announced Horatio.

"I'll go right down. Sorry I can't go with you, girls."

"May we come and see him just a minute before we start!" asked Peggy quickly, while Polly came eagerly to her side.

"Of course you may. Dad will love to see you," was Nelly's warm response.

"We won't keep you waiting long, girls," said Peggy, "we'll join you at the porte cochere."

Arrayed in their habits, Peggy, Polly and Nelly hurried away.

"Wonder what he looks like," said Juno idly as she drew on her gauntlets.

"Bet he's nice if he's anything like Nelly," said Rosalie.

"Isn't it funny you girls never saw him while you were at Severndale?"

said Lily Pearl.

"Perhaps he's not the kind Nelly Bolivar cares to have seen," was Helen's amiable remark, accompanied by a shrug and a knowing look.

"Why, what do you mean, Helen?" asked Natalie with some spirit.