The Cricket Part 23

Isabelle's life seemed to run in a series of crises. It was always mounting toward or descending from a climax. The present summer of her fourteenth year was no exception.

The historic American scenes were still highly popular, but Isabelle's creative spirit was not yet satisfied. She was preparing the episode of John Smith and Pocahontas, to be played by Herbert Hunter and herself as princ.i.p.als, when it occurred to her that the scene ought to be played, by night, in the woods. She proposed it to Herbert but he scoffed at it.

They never could manage. How could they get away at night? But Isabelle had it all planned.

Her idea was to pick out the spot in the woods, put up the tepees, collect the firewood, lay in supplies, and get everything ready in advance. Sat.u.r.day night would be the best one for the encampment, because their parents always dined and danced at the club that night, so the coast would be clear so far as they were concerned.

"It isn't parents, it's servants that will get in our way," objected Herbert.

"If you _think_ how to get by them, Herbert, you can," urged the temptress.

"How? Just tell me how I can get past old Mademoiselle when she sits in the hall outside my door?"

"Tell her you forgot something downstairs, and then run out."

"Fat chance! She'd give the alarm and they'd all come on the jump."

"Well, if _I_ can get out, I should think _you_ could," she taunted him.

"How'd we get back in? Suppose parents got back before we did."

Her inspiration flared like a torch.

"We'd sleep in the tents all night."

"Gee!" said Herbert. This was sheer daring. It captured his imagination.

He decided to submit it to the others. A council was called. They in turn were struck dumb by the idea that they should spend a night in the woods, untrammelled by authority.

It took an enormous amount of planning and preparation. The problem of the best means of escape for each member was taken up and decided upon.

The hour for meeting, and the place, were named. Governesses as a rule had their dinners early, with the children. Later, each boy was to complain of weariness or headache and go directly to bed. At nine o'clock they would make a getaway and meet at a certain spot, centrally located for them all. All of them had ponies, so they could ride to the trysting place. Blankets must be brought by each camper, and it was agreed that they would sleep in their clothes.

The day came. As the idea was to be kept secret from all girls, Isabelle had some trouble managing not even to see Margie Hunter, with whom she was, ostensibly, to spend the day. She induced Wally to drop her at the Hunters' on the way to the club.

The boys were hard at work. They greeted her casually, as was their habit. It was the way they kept up the bluff to themselves that they had no use for girls. Isabelle was satisfied with their manners. She knew in her own mind that she was the brains of the whole concern, so why cavil at their bluff, male ways?

They worked like beavers all day long. They went without any luncheon.

They lugged out the tents and set them up. They made beds of boughs.

They laid fires ready for the torch. They cached the grub in a hollow tree out of the way of prowling creatures. They carried out pails of drinking water, and borrowed the kitchen utensils from Margie's playhouse. It was late afternoon when they limped wearily back to the Hunters' in search of food.

"Mother was awf'ly mad at you, Isabelle, because you kept luncheon waiting," said Margie, snippily. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, we were playing, and we thought we'd go without any lunch. I hope there's tea, though," she added.

There was; and they put away quant.i.ties of bread and b.u.t.ter, with jam, and lemonade, which infuriated the cook, who had to supply the demand.

They parted, later, with fervent farewells, _sotto-voce_ remarks, and mysterious signs.

At home, Isabelle got ready for her supper without being told, and sat quietly with a book until she was called. A close observer might have noted that she never turned a leaf, that when a motor chugged off bearing her parents, she was seen to smile and sigh.

After supper, she complained of utter weariness and went to bed. Miss Watts looked in at half past eight; Isabelle was breathing evenly. A few moments later, she heard the governess close the door between their two rooms. Immediately she got up, dropped her night gown, worn over her riding clothes, and slipped out. A moment later she was in the stable, getting a saddle on her horse, tying her blanket to the horn. She managed her exit without interference, because Sat.u.r.day night there were "doin's" among the servants.

Once on the road, she let the pony run. She had never been out alone at night before. It was scary, she admitted to herself. Once an automobile, on the way to the club with somebody's parents, caused her to dash off the road into the underbrush. Finally she reached the meeting place, and found two scared boys ahead of her. Shortly, the others arrived. There were no signs of hilarity over this adventure, they were all solemn and glum. Some of them were in Indian garb, with tomahawks; others in boy-scout hats, as pilgrims.

When they were all gathered they moved in a body to the camp. It was darker than pitch in the woods, so they had to lead the ponies, and they stumbled over tree trunks, and logs. Unseen things scuttled away underfoot, and terror began to spread like measles.

"Get the fire lighted, then we can see all right," said Isabelle the dauntless.

They managed that finally and peered about them, as the weird shadows danced and made fantastic shapes.

"Let's get the grub and eat," said Herbert.

"Not yet, not till we do the play," objected Isabelle. "Somebody bind up John Smith and the rest sit round the place where we're going to execution him. The Indians can lurk----"

"Say, I ain't goin' to lurk in the dark, out there," protested a brave, peering into the blackness.

"_I_ am!" said Isabelle, marching upon unseen terrors among the trees.

"If you're going to let a _girl_ dare you!" cried Herbert, secretly glad that his role required no heroic exposure.

The Indians reluctantly followed Isabelle Pocahontas into the shadows, stepping high, and jumping back with exclamations now and then.

The chopping block was brought out where John Smith's head was to rest, then Pocahontas crept through into the firelight and the play was begun, but there was no real spirit in the affair. Isabelle felt this; so, to create a new interest, she urged John Smith to break bread with the Indians after he had been saved by her, and released. They hauled out the food, slightly the worse for squirrels; they cooked the bacon, eating it nearly raw, with hunks of bread. They had a thermos bottle of cold tea which they referred to as "rum." There were plenty of doughnuts and a bakery pie.

The repast roused their spirits considerably. After it was finished, John Smith invited the Indians to spend the night, and everybody agreed to turn in. There was an obvious reluctance on the part of some to enter the dark tents. Things unseen rattled inside.

"Say! why not roll up in our blankets around the fire?" said doughty John Smith, the Pilgrim's pride.

"Good boy--that's the boy," agreed the Indians.

So they curled up in a circle inside their covers, as near the blaze as they could lie, wide-eyed and on the watch. Each one secretly longed for his bed at home, and excoriated Isabelle with her devil's gift of invention. But after a while the hard labour of the day began to tell, and as the fire grew fainter, one by one they dropped asleep, and the shadows closed in upon them completely.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At the club the Sat.u.r.day night hilarity was at its height. The Country-Club set took themselves very seriously--at least as seriously as they took anything. They conceived themselves as a group, somehow set apart. They lived idle, luxurious lives. Like the lily they toiled not, which of itself was an obvious mark of distinction in a work-a-day world.

In the winter they "played together" in town, at Palm Beach, or in California. In the summer they played together on yachts, or at the Country Club of "the colony." They hedged themselves in with a thick wall of prejudice against the newcomer, the outsider. Like the Labour Union, they valiantly fought the "open-shop" idea!

Now, since their superiority--real or imagined--lay in the triumph of artifice over Nature; or, more brutally, since it lay in money rather than in wit; the natural recourse of the elect was to various forms of spirituous a.s.sistance. They never could have endured each other twelve months in the year without it. So, on Sat.u.r.day nights a sufficient number of c.o.c.ktails was served to ensure a certain hilarity, and, in case this should wear off, the bar worked steadily during the evening.

So it was on the Sat.u.r.day night in question, and the party was "going"

very well.

Wally was dancing with Nancy Horton, when Billy, her husband, stopped them.

"Look here, Nance, the butler just telephoned that Teddy isn't in his bed, and they can't find him."

"Rubbish! He's somewhere about. Come on, Wally."