Six Girls Part 29

Bea did so, with a shy blush, and stood up; then after a moment, took a few steps, with the color coming and going in her cheeks, for more reasons than one; and, though it was very pleasant to feel her clinging to his arm in that helpless way, Dr. Barnett made her sit down; but pa.s.sed his opinion that she could go to the picnic.

"Do you really think so?" said Bea, with delighted eagerness.

"I do, if you will be content to sit in the carriage all day," he answered, looking down at her, as though he thought a much swollen nose and highly colored eyes were the most adorable sights; and Bea looked up at him, then blushed, without any reason whatever, whereupon Mrs.

Dering made some hasty remark about the desirable weather for picnics, and the doctor decided, all of a sudden, that he must go, which he accordingly did.

What a glorious hub-bub a picnic morning is, especially when there are several in one home interested in its perfect success. Neither of the girls slept much. Bea couldn't have told what kept her awake, but somehow, her eyes would remain open, and she was dimly conscious, of smiling several times in the dark, and feeling very happy. Once she came very near humming out a little air, that seemed to be singing itself over and over in her heart, but she suppressed the desire, out of consideration for others, who were less blissfully affected. Kittie declared that there was no use trying to sleep, because Kat kept getting up every few minutes, to look out and see if it was going to rain; and Kat, in turn, said that Kittie had sat up all night, because her crimping papers hurt her so she couldn't lie down. At just four o'clock everybody was fully awakened, by the twins clattering down stairs with a great racket, and getting breakfast under headway, and Mrs. Dering, awakened from her morning nap, consoled herself with a fervent--"Bless the children, I'm glad this doesn't happen often."

"It's going to rain," cried Kat, with a despairing wail. "See that cloud?"

"Stuff!" echoed Kittie. "It isn't as big as a door-k.n.o.b." But nevertheless, they both let breakfast burn, while running every few moments to see if it was swelling any bigger, and were fully rewarded by seeing it dwindle and sail away over the barn before six o'clock.

No, it didn't rain, and before the sun was through his earliest infancy, they were all ready, and Dr. Barnett's phaeton stood at the gate, with Miss Lottie in a pretty picnic suit; and her brother deeply absorbed in the pleasing task of getting Bea down to the gate without hurting her ankle. Ralph officiated on one side of the interesting cripple, and took a wicked satisfaction in doing the greatest share of the supporting; but then the doctor was reasonable, and was as happy as possible with what fell to his share; and Bea,--well, Bea was perfectly content.

They drove off with an accompanying shout from those left behind, and a few moments later, Ralph and the twins departed on foot to meet the carriages that were all to a.s.semble at a certain place.

Quite a little flutter of admiration went round as this trio came up, for Ralph was a very handsome centre piece, and the twins in their very becoming costumes and wide-awake hats, c.o.c.ked up at one side after the prevailing fashion, made pictures of great attractiveness on each side.

Everybody was there, and everybody was laughing and talking merrily, and everybody had a word of greeting for the new arrivals. Of all the old school-girls from Miss Howard's, Kittie and Kat were the only two who did not make pretensions towards young ladyhood; and just now, there was something so girlish and sweet about them, in their fresh calico suits, and bright young faces under the big hats, that one or two strangers asked who they were, all the elder people smiled approval, while the young ones, with an eye on the handsome cousin, nodded sweetly, and were quite attentive.

"Look at Susie Darrow," whispered Kat, under cover of her lowered hat.

"All tricked out in silk, and a little gipsy bonnet, with a white plume; and she's been smiling at me every minute, and Ralph thinks she's the biggest goose out. I'll tell her so."

"No, goodness no; let her smile if she wants to, she'll soon find out that it's no use," answered Kittie. "There's Sadie Brooks too, she's been in New York, and has got an eye-gla.s.s, dear sakes alive, just watch her use it, will you?"

"Good morning girls, you look a couple of daisies;" said Mrs. Raymond, going by with a nod and a smile. "You and your cousin, are to go in our carriage, the girls want you," and away she went, like a busy happy soul that she was.

"The Raymond girls look sensible," said Kittie, with an air of approval; "see they have on short dresses, and big hats; I think Lou is prettier than Clara, don't you?"

"Rather," answered Kat, too much taken up in watching her former play-mates, to notice others. Susie Darrow had been to boarding-school, Sadie Brooks to New York, and May Moore was going to the sea-side next month; so they were all much uplifted in mind and manner, and took unto themselves the airs of thoroughly initiated society-ladies.

"Girls?" said Miss Brooks, with her little affected drawl, and raising her eye-gla.s.s in her lavender kid-fingers. "Which ones do you mean, I do not quite understand?"

"Those two under the big tree," replied her questioner, a visitor in Canfield. "Twins they are, in the big hats."

"Oh! Yes." Miss Brooks's eye-gla.s.s went slowly to the place indicated, and took a leisure survey. "You mean the little girls in calico dresses; they are the Derings, I believe, but really, being in the city so long, I find I am quite forgetting old faces."

"Indeed," was the reply, with a respectful air, though the desire to laugh was almost irresistible. The little girls in calico dresses were fifteen, and taller than Miss Brooks, who was just sixteen; but then, dear me, she had on a train of party length, bushels of banged hair, a little wisp of a bonnet, and little fine black marks along her lower eyelid, so altogether she looked about twenty, and was perfectly satisfied with herself. She could not look ahead to the dissatisfaction that would be hers when she became twenty, and looked to be twenty-eight.

When they started, ten merry carriage-loads, everybody stood in their doors, and hung over the front gates to see them off, for Canfield was a social little place, and felt a deep interest in anything going on within its limits; so if good wishes could make a successful day, surely they would have it.

Well, they did have it; yes, indeed, they did; and a happier set of young people were never turned wild in green-woods. To be sure, there were some draw-backs; for instance, when a dozen or so went off to swing in a wild-grape vine, Sadie Brooks couldn't go, her dress was too long, and it would tear her gloves. Likewise, when they played "drop the handkerchief," "blind-man," and "down on this carpet," Susie Darrow couldn't join, because her tie-back would hardly admit of sitting down, let alone racing in the woods; besides, the wind blew her white plume all up, and took the crimp out of her hair, and then she lost her lace handkerchief, and didn't receive much attention from handsome Ralph Tremayne; and altogether, she lost her temper, declared picnics a bore, and told May Moore that no one but romps ever came to them anyhow, which, considering that both she and May were in attendance, was a remark which might have been improved on.

Sitting in a carriage all day proved to be no hardship to Bea, for didn't Dr. Barnett spend nearly all his time there? and at Miss Lottie's proposal, didn't several of them trim the phaeton in boughs and vines, and deck her out in flowers until she looked like a forest queen? and aside from being a favorite, didn't she receive so much sympathy that there was a constant court before and around her throne? and above it all, don't you suppose a certain pair of eyes, as they looked at her that day, told her a certain story more plainly than the owner's lips ever could? That she was the fairest and dearest picture to him, there, or elsewhere?

"Who is that young lady--little girl, I am almost disposed to call her, with the fresh young face and lovely eyes? The one who stands on the bank, there, with the wreath of leaves on her hat?"

Mrs. Raymond's brother asked the question, as he sat with his sister on an elevated spot under a big tree, surveying the gay crowds roaming about in all directions.

"That? It is one of the Dering twins," answered Mrs. Raymond, with a smile of interest. "But I don't know which; they are not to be distinguished; they are lovely girls, so fresh and unaffected. I suppose you have noticed them both?"

"Yes, and I disagree with you, for they are to be distinguished; I have been watching them with considerable interest. There; the other one is coming down the hill now; do you mean to tell me that you see no difference?"

"Well, surely not in face or figure," replied Mrs. Raymond, with a puzzled glance. "I see that the new-comer's hat is hanging to her neck, and has no tr.i.m.m.i.n.g, that her gloves are gone, and she has the general appearance of having gone through a wind-mill."

"And you have struck the distinction admirably, my dear," was the smiling answer. "There was something in their faces that interested me this morning, and I have noticed them a great deal. So far as I can see, the one has had just as gay a time as the other, and done very nearly as much romping; and yet you see, she looks as fresh and sweet as when starting out, with the addition of much becoming tr.i.m.m.i.n.g; and where she has gone heartily, yet with a girlish grace, the other has gone pell-mell, as though in defiance of any restriction on feminine gender.

Do you know which is which?"

"Indeed, I do not," said Mrs. Raymond, who was not acquainted with the characteristics of the twins. "All I know is that one is Kittie and the other Kat, and that I never know which is which when I am talking to them, never having had time to study them up."

"Well, I will wager my shoe-buckle, that the one on the bank is Kittie, and the hatless one Kat," was the quiet response. "At least, that is the way it ought to be. Now I should like to meet Miss Kittie, and if you--"

"Is it possible?" cried the lady, throwing up her hands in amaze. "You, who would only consent to come, on condition that you need not be introduced, and play the agreeable to the young ladies; well, well! who would have thought it, Paul?"

"The generality of young ladies are bores," was the reply. "I did not expect to meet such a fresh faced, lovely young girl; for society never allows them to remain so, if it gets hold of them."

"It will never be so with these girls," said Mrs. Raymond. "They have too sensible and lovely a mother, and besides, they are a family much devoted among themselves; there are five sisters, you will remember my telling you about the other one, Ernestine, she sang like an angel; and another one is an artist, the youngest a cripple, and--well they all seem to live solely for each other, so require little from society. I admire them all very much."

"So do I, from what I hear," said the gentleman, getting up from his gra.s.sy seat, and glancing down at the bank. "Shall I a.s.sist you?"

"No, indeed; I'm not old yet, if I am grey," laughed Mrs. Raymond, jumping nimbly up to prove her a.s.sertion. "I don't know what the ladies will say, Paul, to see you finally succ.u.mbing to feminine attractions; they have all eyed you in your seclusion with evident regret. You know there is something singularly attractive about a widower, young or old; though I suppose you have found that out," she added with a sister's fond belief that her brother is irresistible in every way.

"Yes, I dislike conceit; but I have found out a few things in the last four years," he answered, smiling; then uttering a little exclamation of disappointment, as they reached the foot of the hill, and found that Kittie had disappeared from the bank.

"Great oaks from little acorns grow." Sometimes they do in books, sometimes they do out; and this afternoon in the sunshiny woods, two little acorns had been planted. One of them was when Paul Murray had looked with careless eyes into Kittie Dering's face, and found in its bright girlish sweetness, what had been lacking for him, in any woman's face since he lost his wife; namely--interest. He was a grave, thoughtful faced man, with just a dash of grey on his temples, and a listless air of world-weariness, that made him look beyond his years; for he was only twenty-eight; and yet he had had a vigorous cuffing from the reed-shaken hand of Fortune, and had come to regard himself with a sort of pitying disapprobation, such as falls upon us when we know we have a duty to perform, yet think it too great, and hesitate between self-condolence and accusation.

He had seen the day of wild oats, and had sown them, but had drawn back ere they sprung into life and choked out all else. He had had riches and lost them; had married a lovely loving girl, only to have her taken from him in one short year; then to deaden his grief he had gone to work, regained his wealth, after which he left his infant daughter in tender hands, and had gone abroad, only to again lose all he had in an unfortunate speculation, which brought him home, where he had again gone to work, but with a listless, disinterested way,--that had brought him little success.

So, to-day, he was a lawyer, struggling as though he had just entered the bar. So, I say, he felt like a man without an incentive. To be sure, there was his little daughter, but then he had really seen so little of the child, and for a time there had been almost a bitter feeling against her, because, in gaining her life, she had taken her young mother's, and left him desolate; and then if he was to die, she was amply provided for by her grandmother. He had yet to learn, that, though severely dealt with, he had still much to live for.

The other little acorn had fallen in kindred ground, in no less place, than the loving little heart of Pansy Murray.

The brother and sister were strolling rather aimlessly about, with a word here and there to chattering groups, and an occasional glance around to see if Kittie was in sight, when, who should they see, but that young lady coming slowly towards them, with her arms filled with a familiar bundle, that showed signs of life, as they came in sight of each other. It thus remarked with much excitement:

"I was losted, I was, papa, behind a big tree, an' I was a kyin'

dreffully when the lady finded me, I was."

"Lost? Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Raymond, s.n.a.t.c.hing the child in a hurry, and forgetting all introductions. "Why, I told the girls not to lose sight of you, Pansy."

"But they did," said Pansy, with a blissful smile, as though she had done something great. "They bothered me dreadfully, saying: 'Come, Pansy,' 'Don't go there, Pansy,' till I went right off for sure 'thout telling one body, and then I got losted mos' right away, and I wished I could hear somebody say 'Come, Pansy,' but n.o.body did, so I jes' began to commence to holler, 'th all my might, and the lady camed right off; I think 'twas drefful good for her to."

"Kat lost her breastpin, and I was helping look for it," said Kittie, with a modest blush, being quite overcome with the grat.i.tude visible in both faces before her. "She wasn't very far away."

"I was far away," corrected Pansy with decision. "I was more'n 'leventeen miles, and I expected to see a big bear mos' every minute, I did, and I know one would have camed if the lady hadn't; and I jes' love her very much, I do."

"Oh, yes; excuse me," said Mrs. Raymond, hastily. "Paul, this is Miss Dering; my brother, Mr. Murray; and we're so thankful to you, Kittie."

Kittie bowed and blushed still more, as Mr. Murray repeated his grat.i.tude, but as she turned to leave, Pansy cried vehemently:

"You stay with me, 'cause I want you, and you go home with me and my papa in the little buggy; tell her so quick, right off, papa."