Six Girls Part 5

"Pretty high; you'd better not;" replied Kittie, measuring the proposed walk with a careful eye. "How will you get up?"

"Climb; it's only a step or two higher than this."

Kittie leisurely followed the more adventuresome twin, and called out suddenly: "Kat, there's an immense mud-hole at one side; looks as if it might be deep too; better hold on."

"Hurrah!" shouted Kat, in answer, as she balanced herself on the top of the narrow wall. "Here I go!" And there she did go, sure enough, for turning to nod triumphantly at Kittie, away went her balance, and after two or three of the wildest, most fearful struggles, down came Kat, head and heels right into the mud-hole.

"Oh, my goodness,--ha, ha,--my gracious; Oh-h! Kat Dering!" shrieked Kittie, dancing wildly up and down. "Oh, Kat; if I ever--what a--a sight! Oh--my!" and away went Kittie in another shriek, that pretty nearly knocked her off the wall, and even made Kat smile while the tears trickled down her muddy cheeks.

"I'm sunk clear to my knees," she cried despondently. "And my wrist feels so funny; Kittie, come, help me."

Kittie jumped down in a hurry; examined the limp and already swelling wrist with anxious gravity, and then nearly strangled with laughter when, after several vigorous tugs and struggles, Kat came out of the mud, leaving both her slippers hopelessly buried, and her clothes so heavy she could hardly walk.

[Ill.u.s.tration: KAT AND KIT.]

"Oh, Kittie! what shall I do," she cried, giving up entirely, between the sharp pain in her wrist, and the speedy arrival of this second disgrace. "It's only yesterday, that I crawled into the house in this fix; I can't go again."

"Never mind; I'll go," said Kittie, lost in sympathy. "Everybody is in the front part of the house, and I'll slip in the back way, go in over the roof, and bring you some clothes. Just sit down here and wait; I'll hurry, and it'll be all right."

So Kat sat down, quite pale with the painful wrist, and meditated, in a desperate fashion, on her inability to keep out of trouble and mischief; But Kittie was back in an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time, all flushed and panting, and with a little bundle of clothes tucked under her arm.

"Here Kat is a skirt, and dress, and stockings, and my slippers," she cried, running inside the wall where Kat sat forlornly.

"No one saw me; here hurry. How's your wrist?"

"Hurts," said Kat briefly, finding tears inclined to obstruct her utterance; and then they were silent, while the muddy garments were hastily laid aside and the dry ones slipped on; and the two started round-a-bouts for home.

A little while later, Kittie appeared at the sitting-room door, where the girls were sewing with mother, while Ernestine trilled and warbled at the piano. Mrs. Dering came out to the hall in answer to Kittie's beckon, and received this somewhat incoherent report:

"Kat's upstairs; we walked the foundation, and she fell off the high part; I took her some clothes, but I don't know what she's done to her wrist;" and Mrs. Dering did not waste any time trying to get a straighter report, but hurried up stairs, where Kat was lying on the bed, moaning and trying not to cry, with the painfully swollen wrist, laid out on a pillow. Twenty minutes' later the doctor was there with splints and bandages, and Kat, looking into his eyes with a vague alarm, asked, after he had examined it: "How long before I can use it?"

"Many weeks, Kathleen."

"Why, is it badly sprained?"

"Worse, I think, my dear little girl, for it is pretty badly broken."

CHAPTER IV.

IN CONFIDENCE.

Olive's door was locked.

Jean saw her go in, and heard the bolt slide swiftly across after the door shut, and just the glimpse that the little girl had of her sister's face, showed tears on the sallow cheeks, and hanging to the lashes.

Olive was bitterly opposed to having any one know that she cried, and above all things to have any one see her employed in that manner; she herself, could not have told why perhaps, except that she did not want it. All of her feelings were so carefully hidden, and herself so wrapped in a cloak of reserve, that the surface was as delicately sensitive, as gossamer, and at every touch that left its impress, she retired farther within herself, and left less room for touch of any kind. Now, when she caught a glimpse of Jean's face, she shut the door sharper than was necessary, and going over to the window, sat down and stared moodily off into the yard, where the scarlet tops of the maples nodded to a golden, glowing sky. Surprised and curious, Jean lingered a moment, with her hand on the bannister, surveying the door thoughtfully, then limped carefully across, and knocked softly.

"Who is it?" came tartly from within.

"Me, Olive. Are you sick?"

"No."

Jean turned away a little hurt. "Why need Olive speak so shortly?" she wondered, with the usual after-thought "Bea, never does, or the others."

Olive listened to the little crutch going slowly down stairs, and waited until everything was quiet, then she went over to a small trunk and sat down before it, lifted the lid, and supporting her chin in her hand, looked steadily into it, all the moody bitterness in her eyes changing slowly to a sadness that was almost despair.

"Oh, I don't see why it is!" she cried suddenly, laying her head down on the trunk's sharp edge, and breaking into a pa.s.sionate sobbing, all the stronger for having been long denied. "I surely try, but, they are unkind; they are, I know." And then the thick sobs broke vehemently forth, and echoed out into the quiet hall; but Olive was alone upstairs, and she knew it; besides, I doubt if she could have controlled herself now, even had the whole of the amazed family confronted her. Poor, sensitive, unfortunate Olive; was it her fault wholly, that her sisters seemed able to be happy, quite regardless of her, and that she seemed to fill no place in home except as "that queer, homely Olive," as she had once heard herself called? This afternoon, the girls had all dressed gayly, and gone for a ride behind "Prince" with Mr. Phillips. He had said, "all the girls," when asking for them, but Olive so seldom joined in any of their little gayeties outside of home, that it really seemed strange and out of place for her to go with them; so she waited, when the time came to dress, wondering, and half hoping that one of them would express a little desire that she should go. Such a thought, however, occurred to no one; for so many times had she flatly refused to go, that they had all gradually ceased asking, supposing that she would do as she pleased. Once, to be sure, Bea did run up to the arbor, seeing her there, with the question on her lips, but Olive saw her coming, and fearing that the new desire and expectation would show in her face, bent her eyes to her book, quite unconscious of the heavy scowl on her brow; so, after one glance, Bea withdrew in a hurry, remembering frequent complaints for disturbance. At the hasty disappearance, Olive looked up with a bitter little smile, that would have instantly disclosed to an observer, how she was construing the act, and how she was hurt in spite of herself.

"There! she was afraid she'd have to ask me something about it, if she came in, so she got out in a hurry. But they needn't worry; I'll not force myself in; I'm queer, and ugly, and had better stay by myself;"

and with that, Olive shut her lips fiercely tight, and did not once lift her eyes, when, a little while later, they all went laughing down the walk, never heeding her or once regretting her absence. It often happened so now, and Olive missed the coaxings with which they had once tried to draw her out, never once dreaming that she had done away with them herself, by shortly, tersely, and repeatedly asking, to "be let alone."

No, this never occurred to her, as she sat there crying bitterly, but her broken words revealed the track of her thoughts.

"They never let Ernestine stay home! Indeed not, and there's the greatest commotion raised if she speaks of such a thing. She's pretty and graceful, and loves to dress up like a doll, while I'm ugly, and awkward, and always do things wrong, and disgrace them, I suppose. I don't see what I'm crying for, I'm sure. I can be happy without them as well as they without me!" and Olive raised her head defiantly, and flung the tears from her lashes, for having cried; the burden seemed lighter, and the little hurt and loneliness less hard. "I've plenty to think of besides them, and I might as well go to work." So out of the trunk came a box, and Olive's tears were as quickly gone as they had come. This box held a collection of sketches, many of them originals, some of them copies, but all bearing marks of a strong talent, rude and somewhat hasty as yet, but capable of much, when the young artist should have studied, and brought a few happy ideas to color the faces and scenes that grew from under her fingers. Now they clearly betrayed the unhappy spirit that prompted them, for there was not one glad sunshiny picture among them; instead, there were several faces of women, in various att.i.tudes of defiance or despair, with a stern relentless sorrow darkening their eyes, and hardening their lips; then there was an old boat over-turned in the shadow of a half-broken tree, and various sketches of home scenery from the different windows of the house. Olive had selected one, somewhat larger than the rest, and had gone to work rapidly, pressing her lips tightly in the earnestness of her work and thoughts, and the room was perfectly silent for a long time. Presently she stopped abruptly, and balancing her pencil on her finger, looked out of the window with a troubled longing in her eyes.

"I wonder if I ever can," she murmured slowly. "How hard it is to be patient, and wait, it's three months yet until I am sixteen, and they never will let me I know, because it's too dangerous for a girl. I'm sorry I am one anyhow; it makes everything go wrong. Now, there's my money, I'm glad I've got it to give to papa. Dear papa, I don't believe he or mama cares because I'm so ugly; I'll give it to him to-night, and then while I'm waiting, I'll work and earn some more, so as to have enough;" and, after ending this slightly enigmatical speech with an abrupt nod, Olive looked a little brighter and fell to work so rapidly, that she shaded a dimple until it looked like a bullet-hole in the cheek of her fair subject.

Nothing further was heard for over an hour, then there came chattering voices, the slam of the gate, much laughter, and much spattering and crunching of gravel, that announced a race up the walk, between the festive twins, for though Kat's disabled arm swung gracefully in a sling, she had, after the first day or two, returned to all her romping with undiminished ardor, thereby keeping the family in constant terror, lest the necessary appendage be forever disabled. Jean had reported to Bea, the fact that Olive had locked her door and was crying, and with her conscience reproving her, Bea ran hastily up stairs, and knocked at the door. "Olive, may I come in?"

"What for?"

"Well, just to talk a little," Bea replied, knowing better than to give Jean's report.

Olive unlocked the door, after having first surveyed her face to see that no tears were visible.

"Come in, if you want to; I'm drawing," and Bea accepted the ungracious invitation, thinking to herself, as Olive straightway took her seat and pencil, and returned to work--

"Now Olive's in one of her moods, I wonder if I can say anything," for though not yet seventeen, Bea was womanly and thoughtful, and Mrs.

Dering had sometimes talked with her, about the unfortunate peculiarities of this sister's disposition, and asked her help in being patient, and trying to overcome it.

"We had a delightful time," began Bea, anxious to work aright. "'Prince'

was such a dear old fellow and Mr. Phillips so kind. I'm so sorry you didn't go, Olive."

Nothing but pride kept Olive's face from brightening a little at this; she turned away, made a fierce dab at her subject's nose, and thought grimly:--"It's all very well to be sorry now, when the thing's all over; I wonder if she thinks that I believe she's sorry, anyhow."

"We went around by the river, and way up on the hill," continued Bea, after waiting a reasonable length of time for an answer. "Mr. Phillips says we may ride often."

"Did he?"

"Yes, wasn't it kind? you know Mrs. Phillips and the girls are going away and 'Prince' will need exercising."

"Of course."

"Hasn't mama come home yet?"