Halfway up the shining surface of the gilt-framed pier glass was a mark—a
tiny ink-line that had been carefully drawn across the outer edge of the wide
bevel. As Gwendolyn stared at the line, the reflection of her small face in the
mirror grew suddenly all white, as if some rude hand had reached out and brushed
away the pink from cheeks and lips. Arms rigid at her sides, and open palms
pressed hard against the flaring skirts of her riding-coat, she shrank back from
the glass.
"Oo-oo!" she breathed, aghast. The gray eyes swam.
After a moment, however, she blinked resolutely to clear her sight, stepped
forward again, and, straightening her slender little figure to its utmost
height, measured herself a second time against the mirror.
But—as before—the top of her yellow head did not reach above the ink-mark—not
by the smallest part of an inch! So there was no longer any reason to hope! The
worst was true! She had drawn the tiny line across the edge of the bevel the
evening before, when she was only six years old; now it was mid-morning of
another day, and she was seven—yet she was not a whit taller!
The tears began to overflow. She pressed her embroidered handkerchief to her
eyes. Then, stifling a sob, she crossed the nursery, stumbling once or twice as
she made toward the long cushioned seat that stretched the whole width of the
front window. There, among the down-filled pillows, with her loose hair falling
about her wet cheeks and screening them, she lay down.
For months she had looked forward with secret longing to this seventh
anniversary. Every morning she had taken down the rose-embossed calendar that
stood on the top of her gold-and-white writing-desk and tallied off another of
the days that intervened before her birthday. And the previous evening she had
measured herself against the pier glass without even a single misgiving.
She rose at an early hour. Her waking look was toward the pier glass. Her one
thought was to gauge her new height. But the morning was the usual busy one.
When Jane finished bathing and dressing her, Miss Royle summoned her to
breakfast. An hour in the school-room followed—an hour of quiet study, but under
the watchful eye of the governess. Next, Gwendolyn changed her dressing-gown for
a riding-habit, and with Jane holding her by one small hand, and with Thomas
following, stepped into the bronze cage that dropped down so noiselessly from
nursery floor to wide entrance-hall. Outside, the limousine was waiting. She and
Jane entered it. Thomas took his seat beside the chauffeur. And in a moment the
motor was speeding away.
At the riding-school, her master gave her the customary lesson: She circled
the tanbark on her fat brown pony—now to the right, at a walk; now to the left,
at a trot; now back to the right again at a rattling canter, with her yellow
hair whipping her shoulders, and her three-cornered hat working farther and
farther back on her bobbing head, and tugging hard at the elastic under her
dimpled chin. After nearly an hour of this walk, trot and canter she was very
rosy, and quite out of breath. Then she was put back into the limousine and
driven swiftly home. And it was not until after her arrival that she had a
moment entirely to herself, and the first opportunity of comparing her height
with the tiny ink-line on the edge of the mirror's bevel.
Now as she lay, face down, on the window-seat, she know how vain had been all
the longing of months. The realization, so sudden and unexpected, was a blow.
The slender little figure among the cushions quivered under it.
But all at once she sat up. And disappointment and grief gave place to
apprehension. "I wonder what's the matter with me," she faltered aloud. "Oh,
something awful, I guess."
The next moment caution succeeded fear. She sprang to her feet and ran across
the room. That tell-tale mark was still on the mirror, for nurse or governess to
see and question. And it was advisable that no one should learn the unhappy
truth. Her handkerchief was damp with tears. She gathered the tiny square of
linen into a tight ball and rubbed at the ink-line industriously.
She was not a moment too soon. Scarcely had she regained the window-seat,
when the hall door opened and Thomas appeared on the sill, almost filling the
opening with his tall figure. As a rule he wore his very splendid footman's
livery of dark blue coat with dull-gold buttons, blue trousers, and striped buff
waistcoat. Now he wore street clothes, and he had a leash in his hand.
"Is Jane about, Miss Gwendolyn?" he inquired. Then, seeing that Gwendolyn was
alone, "Would you mind tellin' her when she comes that I'm out takin' the
Madam's dogs for a walk?"
Gwendolyn had a new thought. "A—a walk?" she repeated. And stood up.
"But tell Jane, if you please," continued he, "that I'll be back in time to
go—well, she knows where." This was said significantly. He turned.
"Thomas!" Gwendolyn hastened across to him. "Wait till I put on my hat.
I'm—I'm going with you." Her riding-hat lay among the dainty pink-and-white
articles on her crystal-topped dressing-table. She caught it up.
"Miss Gwendolyn!" exclaimed Thomas, astonished.
"I'm seven," declared Gwendolyn, struggling with the hat-elastic. "I'm a
whole year older than I was yesterday. And—and I'm grown-up."
An exasperating smile lifted Thomas's lip. "Oh, are you!" he
observed.
The hat settled, she met his look squarely. (Did he suspicion anything?)
"Yes. And you take the dogs out to walk. So"—she started to pass
him—"I'm going to walk."
His hair was black and straight. Now it seemed fairly to bristle with
amazement. "I couldn't take you if you was grown-up," he asserted firmly,
blocking her advance; "—leastways not without Miss Royle or Jane'd say Yes. It'd
be worth my job."
Gwendolyn lowered her eyes, stood a moment in indecision, then pulled off the
hat, tossed it aside, went back to the window, and sat down.
At one end of the seat, swung high on its gilded spring, danced the
dome-topped cage of her canary. Presently she raised her face to him. He was
traveling tirelessly from perch to cage-floor, from floor to trapeze again. His
wings were half lifted from his little body—the bright yellow of her own hair.
It was as if he were ready for flight. His round black eyes were constantly
turned toward the world beyond the window. He perked his head inquiringly, and
cheeped. Now and then, with a wild beating of his pinions, he sprang sidewise to
the shining bars of the cage, and hung there, panting.
She watched him for a time; made a slow survey of the nursery next,—and
sighed.
"Poor thing!" she murmured.
She heard the rustle of silk skirts from the direction of the school-room.
Hastily she shook out the embroidered handkerchief and put it against her
eyes.
A door opened. "There will be no lessons this afternoon, Gwendolyn." It was
Miss Royle's voice.
Gwendolyn did not speak. But she lowered the handkerchief a trifle—and noted
that the governess was dressed for going out—in a glistening black silk
plentifully ornamented with jet paillettes.
Miss Royle rustled her way to the pier-glass to have a last look at her
bonnet. It was a poke, with a quilted ribbon circling its brim, and some lace
arranged fluffily. It did not reach many inches above the spot where Gwendolyn
had drawn the ink-line, for Miss Royle was small. When she had given the poke a
pat here and a touch there, she leaned forward to get a better view of her face.
She had a pale, thin face and thin faded hair. On either side of a high bony
nose were set her pale-blue eyes. Shutting them in, and perched on the thinnest
part of her nose, were silver-circled spectacles.
"I'm very glad I can give you a half-holiday, dear," she went on. But her
tone was somewhat sorrowful. She detached a small leaf of paper from a tiny book
in her hand-bag and rubbed it across her forehead. "For my neuralgia is
much worse to-day." She coughed once or twice behind a lisle-gloved hand,
snapped the clasp of her hand-bag and started toward the hall door.
It was now that for the first time she looked at Gwendolyn—and caught sight
of the bowed head, the grief-flushed cheeks, the suspended handkerchief. She
stopped short.
"Gwendolyn!" she exclaimed, annoyed. "I hope you're not going to be
cross and troublesome, and make it impossible for me to have a couple of hours
to myself this afternoon—especially when I'm suffering." Then, coaxingly, "You
can amuse yourself with one of your nice pretend-games, dear."
From under long up-curling lashes Gwendolyn regarded her in silence.
"I've planned to lunch out," went on Miss Royle. "But you won't mind,
will you, dear Gwendolyn?" plaintively. "For I'll be back at tea-time.
And besides"—growing brighter—"you're to have—what do you think!—the birthday
cake Cook has made."
"I hate cake!" burst out Gwendolyn; and covered her eyes once
more.
"Gwen-do-lyn!" breathed Miss Royle.
Gwendolyn sat very still.
"How can you be so naughty! Oh, it's really wicked and ungrateful of
you to be fretting and complaining—you who have so many blessings! But
you don't appreciate them because you've always had them. Well,"—mournfully
solicitous—"I trust they'll never be taken from you, my child. Ah, I know
how bitter such a loss is! I haven't always been in my present
circumstances, compelled to go out among strangers to earn a scant living.
Once—"
Here she was interrupted. The door from the school-room swung wide with a
bang. Gwendolyn, looking up, saw her nurse.
Jane was in sharp contrast to Miss Royle—taller and stocky, with broad
shoulders and big arms. As she halted against the open school-room door, her
hair was as ruddy as the panel that made a background for it. And she had
reddish eyes, and a full round face. In the midst of her face, and all out of
proportion to it, was her short turned-up nose, which was plentifully sprinkled
with freckles.
"So you're goin' out?" she began angrily, addressing the governess.
Miss Royle retreated a step. "Just for a—a couple of hours," she
explained.
Jane's face grew almost as red as her hair. Slamming the school-room door
behind her, she advanced. "I suppose it's the neuralgia again," she suggested
with quiet heat.
The color stole into Miss Royle's pale cheeks. She coughed. "It is a
little worse than usual this afternoon," she admitted.
"I thought so," said Jane. "It's always worse—on bargain-days."
"How dare you!"
"You ask me that, do you?—you old snake-in-the-grass!" Now Jane grew pallid
with anger.
Gwendolyn, listening, contemplated her governess thoughtfully. She had often
heard her pronounced a snake-in-the-grass.
Miss Royle was also pale. "That will do!" she declared. "I shall report you
to Madam."
"Report!" echoed Jane, giving a loud, harsh laugh, and shaking her hair—the
huge pompadour in front, the pug behind. "Well, go ahead. And I'll report
you—and your handy neuralgia."
"It's your duty to look after Gwendolyn when there are no lessons," reminded
Miss Royle, but weakening noticeably.
"On week-days?" shrilled Jane. "Oh, don't try to fool me with any of
your schemin'! I see. And I just laugh in my sleeve!"
Gwendolyn fixed inquiring gray eyes upon that sleeve of Jane's dress which
was the nearer. It was of black sateen. It fitted the stout arm sleekly.
"This is the dear child's birthday, and I wish her to have the afternoon
free."
"A-a-ah! Then why don't you take her out with you? You like the
automobile nice enough,"—this sneeringly.
Miss Royle tossed her head. "I thought perhaps you'd be using the
car," she answered, with fine sarcasm.
Jane began to argue, throwing out both hands: "How was I to know
to-day was her birthday? You might've told me about it; instead, just all of a
sudden, you shove her off on my hands."
Gwendolyn's eyes narrowed resentfully.
Miss Royle gave a quick look toward the window-seat. "You mean you've made
plans?" she asked, concern supplanting anger in her voice.
To all appearances Jane was near to tears. She did not answer. She nodded
dejectedly.
"Well, Jane, you shall have to-morrow afternoon," declared Miss Royle,
soothingly. "Is that fair? I didn't know you'd counted on to-day. So—"
Here another glance shot window-ward. Then she beckoned Jane. They went into the
hall. And Gwendolyn heard them whispering together.
When Jane came back into the nursery she looked almost cheerful. "Now off
with that habit," she called to Gwendolyn briskly. "And into something for your
dinner."
"I want to wear a plaid dress," announced Gwendolyn, getting down from her
seat slowly.
Jane was selecting a white muslin from a tall wardrobe. "Little girls ain't
wearin' plaids this year," she declared shortly. "Come."
"Well, then, I want a dress that's got a pocket," went on Gwendolyn, "—a
pocket 'way down on this side." She touched the right skirt of her
riding-coat.
"They ain't makin' pockets in little girls' dresses this year," said Jane,
"Come! Come!"
"'They,'" repeated Gwendolyn. "Who are 'They'? I'd like to know; 'cause I
could telephone 'em and—"
"Hush your nonsense!" bade Jane. Then, catching at the delicate square of
linen in Gwendolyn's hand, "How'd you git ink smeared over your handkerchief?
What do you suppose your mamma'd say if she was to come upon it? I'd be
blamed—as usual!"
"Who are They'?" persisted Gwendolyn. "'They' do so many things. And I
want to tell 'em that I like pockets in all my dresses."
Jane ignored the question.
"Yesterday you said 'They' would send us soda-water," went on
Gwendolyn—talking to herself now, rather than to the nurse. "And I'd like to
know where 'They' find soda-water." Whereupon she fell to pondering the
question. Evidently this, like many another propounded to Jane or Miss Royle; to
Thomas; to her music-teacher, Miss Brown; to Mademoiselle Du Bois, her French
teacher; and to her teacher of German, was one that was meant to remain a secret
of the grown-ups.
Jane, having unbuttoned the riding-coat, pulled at the small black boots. She
was also talking to herself, for her lips moved.
The moment Gwendolyn caught sight of her unshod feet, she had a new idea—the
securing of a long-denied privilege by urging the occasion. "Oh, Jane," she
cried. "May I go barefoot?—just for a little while. I want to." Jane
stripped off the cobwebby stockings. Gwendolyn wriggled her ten pink toes. "May
I, Jane?"
"You can go barefoot to bed," said Jane.
Gwendolyn's bed stood midway of the nursery, partly hidden by a high
tapestried screen. It was a beautiful bed, carved and enamelled, and
panelled—head and foot—with woven cane. But to Gwendolyn it was, by day, a white
instrument of torture. She gave it a glance of disfavor now, and refrained from
pursuing her idea.
When the muslin dress was donned, and a pink satin hair-bow replaced the
black one that bobbed on Gwendolyn's head when she rode, she returned to the
window and sat down. The seat was deep, and her shiny patent-leather slippers
stuck straight out in front of her. In one hand she held a fresh handkerchief.
She nibbled at it thoughtfully. She was still wondering about "They."
Thomas looked cross when he came in to serve her noon dinner. He arranged the
table with a jerk and a bang.
"So old Royle up and outed, did she?" he said to Jane.
"Hush!" counseled Jane, significantly, and rolled her eyes in the direction
of the window-seat.
Gwendolyn stopped nibbling her handkerchief.
"And our plans is spoiled," went on Thomas. "Well, ain't that our luck! And I
suppose you couldn't manage to leave a certain party—"
Gwendolyn had been watching Thomas. Now she fell to observing the silver
buckles on her slippers. She might not know who "They" were. But "a certain
party"—
"Leave?" repeated Jane, "Who with? Not alone, surely you don't mean. For
something's gone wrong already to-day, as you'll see if you'll use your eyes.
And a fuss or a howl'd mean that somebody'd hear, and tattle to the Madam,
and—"
Thomas said something under his breath.
"So we can't go after all," resumed Jane; "—leastways not like we'd counted
on. And it's too exasperatin'. Here I am, a person that likes my freedom
once in a while, and a glimpse at the shop-windows,—exactly as much as old
you-know-who does—and a bit of tea afterwards with a—a friend."
At this point, Gwendolyn glanced up—just in time to see Thomas regarding Jane
with a broad grin. And Jane was smiling back at him, her face so suffused with
blushes that there was not a freckle to be seen.
Now Jane sighed, and stood looking down with hands folded. "What good does it
do to talk, though," she observed sadly. "Day in and day out, day in and
day out, I have to dance attendance."
It was Gwendolyn's turn to color. She got down quickly and came forward.
"Sh!" warned Thomas. He busied himself with laying the silver.
Gwendolyn halted in front of Jane, and lifted a puzzled face. "But—but,
Jane," she began defensively, "you don't ever dance."
"Now, whatever do you think I was talkin' about?" demanded Jane, roughly.
"You dance, don't you, at Monsoor Tellegen's, of a Saturday afternoon? Well, so
do I when I get a' evenin' off,—which isn't often, as you well know, Miss. And
now your dinner's ready. So eat it, without any more clackin'."
Gwendolyn climbed upon the plump rounding seat of a white-and-gold chair.
Jane settled down nearby, choosing an upholstered arm-chair—spacious,
comfort-giving. She lolled in it, at ease but watchful.
"You can't think how that old butler spies on me," said Thomas, addressing
her. "He seen the tray when I put it on the dumb-waiter. And, 'Miss Royle is
havin' her lunch out,' he says. Then would you believe it, he took more'n
half my dishes away!"
Jane giggled. "Potter's a sharp one," she declared. "But, oh, you should've
been behind a door just now when you-know-who and I had a little
understandin'."
"Eh?" he inquired, working his black brows excitedly. "How was that?"
Gwendolyn went calmly on with her mutton-broth. She already knew each detail
of the forth-coming recital.
"Well," began Jane, "she played her usual trick of startin' off without so
much as a word to me, and I just up and give her a tongue-lashin'."
Gwendolyn's spoon paused half way to her expectant pink mouth. She stared at
Jane. "Oh, I didn't see that," she exclaimed regretfully. "Jane, what is a
tongue-lashing?"
Jane sat up. "A tongue-lashin'," said she, "is what you need, young
lady. Look at the way you've spilled your soup! Take it, Thomas, and serve the
rest of the dinner, I ain't goin' to allow you to be at the table all
day, Miss.... There, Thomas! That'll be all the minced chicken she can
have."
"But I took just one little spoonful," protested Gwendolyn, earnestly. "I
wanted more, but Thomas held it 'way up, and—"
"Do you want to be sick?" demanded Jane. "And have a doctor come?"
Gwendolyn raised frightened eyes. A doctor had been called once in the dim
past, when she was a baby, racked by colic and budding teeth. She did not
remember him. But since the era of short clothes she had been mercifully spared
his visits. "N-n-no!" she faltered.
"Well, you look out or I'll git one on the 'phone. And you'll be sorry the
rest of your life.... Take the chicken away, Thomas. 'Out of sight is'—you
know the sayin'. (It's a pity there ain't some way to keep it hot.)"
"A bit of cold fowl don't go so bad," said Thomas, reassuringly. And to
Gwendolyn, "Here's more of the potatoes souffles, Miss Gwendolyn,—very
tasty and fillin'."
Gwendolyn put up a hand and pushed the proffered dish aside.
"Now, no temper," warned Jane, rising. "Too much meat ain't good for
children. Your mamma herself would say that. Come! See that nice potatoes and
cream gravy on your plate. And there you set cryin'!"
Thomas had an idea. "Shall I fetch the cake?" he asked in a loud whisper.
Jane nodded.
He disappeared—to reappear at once with a round frosted cake that had a
border of pink icing upon its glazed white top. And set within the circle of the
border were seven pink candles, all alight.
"Oh, look! Look!" cried Jane, excitedly, pulling Gwendolyn's hand away from
her eyes. "Isn't it a beautiful cake! You shall have a bi-i-ig piece."
Those seven small candles dispelled the gloom. With tears on her cheeks, but
all eager and smiling once more, Gwendolyn blew the candles out. And as she bent
forward to puff at each tiny one, Jane held her bright hair back, for fear that
a strand might get too near a flame.
"Oh, Jane," cried Gwendolyn, "when I blow like that, where do all the
little lights go?"
"Did you ever hear such a question?" exclaimed Jane, appealing to
Thomas.
He was cutting away at the cake. "Of course, Miss, you'd like me to
have a bite of this," he said. "You know it was me that reminded Cook about
bakin'—"
"Perhaps all the little lights go up under the big lamp-shade," went on
Gwendolyn, too absorbed to listen to Thomas. "And make a big light." She started
to get down from her chair to investigate.
"Now look here," said Jane irritably, "you'll just finish your dinner before
you leave the table. Here's your cake. Eat it!"
Gwendolyn ate her slice daintily, using a fork.
Jane also ate a slice—holding it in her fingers. "There's ways of managin' a
fairly jolly afternoon," she said from the depths of the arm-chair.
"You're speakin' of—er—?" asked Thomas, picking up cake crumbs with a damp
finger-tip.
"Uh-huh."
"A certain party would have to go along," he reminded.
"Of course. But a ride's better'n nothin'."
"Shall I telephone for—?" Thomas brought a finger-bowl.
Gwendolyn stood up. A ride meant the limousine, with its screening top and
little windows. The limousine meant a long, tiresome run at good speed through
streets that she longed to travel afoot, slowly, with a stop here and a stop
there, and a poke into things in general.
Her crimson cheeks spoke rebellion. "I want a walk this afternoon," she
declared emphatically.
"Use your finger-bowl," said Jane. "Can't you never remember your
manners?"
"I'm seven today," Gwendolyn went on, the tips of her fingers in the small
basin of silver while her face was turned to Jane. "I'm seven and—and I'm
grown-up."
"And you're splashin' water on the table-cloth. Look at you!"
"So," went on Gwendolyn, "I'm going to walk. I haven't walked for a whole,
whole week."
"You can lean back in the car," began Jane enthusiastically, "and pretend
you're a grand little Queen!"
"I don't want to be a Queen. I want to walk.
"Rich little girls don't hike along the streets like common poor little
girls," informed Jane.
"I don't want to be a rich little girl,"—voice shrill with
determination.
Jane went to shake her frilled apron into the gilded waste-basket beside
Gwendolyn's writing-desk. "You can telephone any time now, Thomas," she said
calmly.
Gwendolyn turned upon Thomas. "But I don't want to be shut up in the
car this afternoon," she cried. "And I won't! I won't! I WON'T!"
Jane gave a gasp of smothered rage. The reddish eyes blazed. "Do you want me
to send for a great black bear?" she demanded.
At that Gwendolyn quailed. "No-o-o!"
Jane shot a glance toward Thomas. It invited suggestion.
"Let her take something along," he said under his breath, nodding toward a
glass-fronted case of shelves that stood opposite Gwendolyn's bed.
Each shelf of the case was covered with toys. Along one sat a line of
daintily clad dolls—black-haired dolls; golden-haired dolls; dolls from China,
with slanted eyes and a queue; dolls from Japan, in gayly figured kimonos; Dutch
dolls—a boy and a girl; a French doll in an exquisite frock; a Russian; an
Indian; a Spaniard. A second shelf held a shiny red-and-black peg-top, a black
wooden snake beside its lead-colored pipe-like case; a tin soldier in an English
uniform—red coat, and pill-box cap held on by a chin-strap; a second uniformed
tin man who turned somersaults, but in repose stood upon his head; a black dog
on wheels, with great floppy ears; and a half-dozen downy ducklings acquired at
Easter.
"Much good takin' anything'll do!" grumbled Jane. Then, plucking crossly at a
muslin sleeve, "Well, what do you want? Your French doll? Speak up!"
"I don't want anything," asserted Gwendolyn, "—long as I can't have my Puffy
Bear any more." There was a wide vacant place beside the dog with the large
ears.
"The little beast got shabby," explained Thomas, "and I was compelled to
throw him away along with the old linen-hamper. Like as not some poor little
child has him now."
She considered the statement, gray eyes wistful. Then, "I liked him," she
said huskily. "He was old and squashy, and it wouldn't hurt him to walk up the
Drive, right in the path where the horses go. The dirt is loose there, like it
was in the road at Johnnie Blake's in the country. I could scuff it with my
shoes."
"You could scuff it and I could wear myself out cleanin', I suppose,"
retorted Jane. "And like as not run the risk of gittin' some bad germs on my
hands, and dyin' of 'em. From what Rosa says, it was downright shameful
the way you muddied your clothes, and tore 'em, and messed in the water after
nasty tad-poles that week you was up country. I won't allow you to treat
your beautiful dresses like that, or climb about, or let the hot sun git at
you."
"I'm going to walk."
Silence; but silence palpitant with thought. Then Jane threw up her head—as
if seized with an inspiration. "You're going to walk?" said she. "All right!
All right! Walk if you want to." She made as if to set out. "Go
ahead! But, my dear," (she dropped her voice in fear) "you'll no more'n
git to the next corner when somebody'll steal you!"
Gwendolyn was silent for a long moment. She glanced from Jane to Thomas, from
Thomas to Jane, and crooked her fingers in and out of her twisted
handkerchief.
"But, Jane," she said finally, "the dogs go out walking—and—and nobody steals
the dogs."
"Hear the silly child!" cried Jane. "Nobody steals the dogs! Why, if anybody
was to steal the dogs what good would it do 'em? They're only Pomeranians
anyhow, and Madam could go straight out and buy more. Besides, like as not
Pomeranians won't be stylish next year, and so Madam wouldn't care two snaps.
She'd go buy the latest thing in poodles, or else a fine collie, or a spaniel or
a Spitz."
"But other little girls walk all the time," insisted Gwendolyn, "and nobody
steals them."
Jane crossed her knees, pursed her mouth and folded her arms. "Well, Thomas,"
she said, shaking her head, "I guess after all that I'll have to tell her."
"Ah, yes, I suppose so," agreed Thomas. His tone was funereal.
Gwendolyn looked from one to the other.
"I haven't wanted to," continued Jane, dolefully. "You know that. But
now she forces me to do it. Though I'm as sorry as sorry can be."
Thomas had just taken his portion of cake in one great mouthful. "Fo'm my,"
he chimed in.
Gwendolyn looked concerned. "But I'm seven," she reiterated.
"Seven?" said Jane. "What has that got to do with it? Age don't
matter."
Gwendolyn did not flinch.
"You said nobody steals other little girls," went on Jane. "It ain't true.
Poor little girls and boys, nobody steals. You can see 'em runnin' around
loose everywheres. But it's different when a little girl's papa is made of
money."
"So much money," added Thomas, "that it fairly makes me palm itch." Whereat
he fell to rubbing one open hand against a corner of the piano.
Gwendolyn reflected a moment. Then, "But my fath-er isn't made of money,"—she
lingered a little, tenderly, over the word father, pronouncing it as if it were
two words. "I know he isn't. When I was at Johnnie Blake's cottage, we
went fishing, and fath-er rolled up his sleeves. And his arms were strong; and
red, like Jane's."
Thomas sniggered.
But Jane gestured impatiently. Then, making scared eyes, "What has that
got to do," she demanded, "with the wicked men that keep watch of this
house?"
Gwendolyn swallowed. "What wicked men?" she questioned apprehensively.
"Ah-ha!" triumphed Jane. "I thought that'd catch you! Now just let me
ask you another question: Why are there bars on the basement
windows?"
Gwendolyn's lips parted to reply. But no words came.
"You don't know," said Jane. "But I'll tell you something: There ain't no
bars on the windows where poor little girls live. For the simple reason
that nobody wants to steal them."
Gwendolyn considered the statement, her fingers still busy knotting and
unknotting.
"I tell you," Jane launched forth again, "that if you run about on the
street, like poor children do, you'll be grabbed up by a band of kidnapers."
"Are—are kidnapers worse than doctors?" asked Gwendolyn.
"Worse than doctors!" scoffed Thomas, "Heaps worse."
"Worse than—than bears?" (The last trace of that rebellious red was
gone.)
Up and down went Jane's head solemnly. "Kidnapers carry knives—big curved
knives."
Now Gwendolyn recalled a certain terror-inspiring man with a long belted coat
and a cap with a shiny visor. It was not his height that made her fear him, for
her father was fully as tall; and it was not his brass-buttoned coat, or the
dark, piercing eyes under the visor. She feared him because Jane had often
threatened her with his coming; and, secondly, because he wore, hanging from his
belt, a cudgel—long and heavy and thick. How that cudgel glistened in the
sunlight as it swung to and fro by a thong!
"Worse than a—a p'liceman?" she faltered.
"Policeman? Yes!"
"Than the p'liceman that's—that's always hanging around here?"
Now Jane giggled, and blushed as red as her hair. "Hush!" she chided.
Thomas poked a teasing finger at her. "Haw! Haw!" he laughed. "There's other
people that's noticed a policeman hangin' round. He's a dandy, he
is!—not. He let that old hand organ man give him a black eye."
"Pooh!" retorted Jane. "You know how much I care about that policeman! It's
only that I like to have him handy for just such times as this."
But Gwendolyn was dwelling on the newly discovered scourge of moneyed
children. "What would the kidnapers do?" she inquired.
"The kidnapers," promptly answered Jane, "would take you and shut you up in a
nasty cellar, where there was rats and mice and things and—"
Gwendolyn's mouth began to quiver.
Hastily Jane put out a hand. "But we'll look sharp that nothin' of the kind
happens," she declared stoutly; "for who can git you when you're in the
car—especially when Thomas is along to watch out. So"—with a great show
of enthusiasm—"we'll go out, oh! for a grand ride." She rose. "And maybe
when we git into the country a ways, we'll invite Thomas to take the inside seat
opposite," (another wink) "and he'll tell you about soldierin' in India, and
camps, and marches, and shootin' elephants."
"Aren't there kidnapers in the country, too?" asked Gwendolyn. "I—I guess I'd
rather stay home."
"You won't see 'em in the country this time of day," explained Jane. "They're
all in town, huntin' rich little children. So on with the sweet new hat and a
pretty coat!" She opened the door of the wardrobe.
Gwendolyn did not move. But as she watched Jane the gray eyes filled with
tears, which overflowed and trickled slowly down her cheeks. "If—if Thomas
walked along with us," she began, "could—could anybody steal me then?"
Jane was taking out coat, hat and gloves. "What would kidnapers care about
Thomas?" she demanded contemptuously. "Sure, they'd steal you, and
then they'd say to your father, 'Give! me a million dollars in cash if you want
Miss Gwendolyn back.' And if your father didn't give the money on the spot,
you'd be sold to gipsies, or—or Chinamen."
But Gwendolyn persisted. "Thomas has killed el'phunts," she reminded.
"Are—are kidnapers worse than el'phunts?" She drew on her gloves.
Jane sat down and held out the coat. It was of velvet. "Now be still!" she
commanded roughly. "You'll go in the machine if you go at all. Do you
hear that?"—giving Gwendolyn a half-turn-about that nearly upset her. "Do you
think I'm goin' to trapse over the hard pavements on my poor, tired feet just
because you take your notions?"
Gwendolyn began to cry—softly. "Oh, I—I thought I wouldn't ever have to ride
again wh-when I was seven," she faltered, putting one white-gloved hand to her
eyes.
"Stop that!" commanded Jane, again, "Dirtyin' your gloves, you wasteful
little thing!"
Now the big sobs came. Down went the yellow head.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" said Thomas. "Little ladies never cry."
"Walk! walk! walk!" scolded Jane, kneeling, and preparing to adjust the new
hat.
The hat had wide ribbons that tied under the chin—new, stiff ribbons.
"Johnnie Bu-Blake didn't fasten his hat on like this," wept Gwendolyn.
She moved her chin from side to side. "He just had a—a sh-shoe-string."
Jane had finished. "Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake! Johnnie Blake!" she mocked.
She gave Gwendolyn a little push toward the front window. "Now, no more of your
nonsense. Go and be quiet for a few minutes. And keep a' eye out, will you, to
see that there's nobody layin' in wait for us out in front?"
Gwendolyn went forward to the window-seat and climbed up among its cushions.
From there she looked down upon the Drive with its sloping, evenly-cut grass,
its smooth, tawny road and soft brown bridle-path, and its curving walk,
stone-walled on the outer side. Beyond park and road and walk were tree-tops,
bush-high above the wall. And beyond these was the broad, slow-flowing river,
with boats going to and fro upon its shimmering surface. The farther side of the
river was walled like the walk, only the wall was a cliff, sheer and dark and
timber-edged. And through this timber could be seen the roofs and chimneys of
distant houses.
But Gwendolyn saw nothing of the beauty of the view. She did not even glance
down to where, on its pedestal, stood the great bronze war-horse, its mane and
tail flying, its neck arched, its lips curved to neigh. Astride the horse was
her friend, the General, soldierly, valorous, his hat doffed—as if in silent
greeting to the double procession of vehicles and pedestrians that was passing
before him. Brave he might be, but what help was the General now?
When Jane was ready for the drive, Gwendolyn took a firm hold of one thick
thumb. And, with Thomas following, they were soon in the entrance hall. There,
waiting as usual, was Potter, the butler. He smiled at Gwendolyn.
But Gwendolyn did not smile in return. As the cage had sunk swiftly down the
long shaft, her heart had sunk, too. And now she thought how old Potter was; how
thin and stooped. With kidnapers about, was he a fit guardian for the
front door? As Potter swung wide the heavy grille of wrought iron, with its
silk-hung back of plate-glass, Gwendolyn pulled hard at Jane's hand, and went
down the granite steps and across the sidewalk as quickly as possible, with a
timid glance to right and left. For, even as she entered the car, might not that
band of knife-men suddenly catch sight of her, and, rushing over walk and
bridle-path and roadway, seize her and carry her off?
She sank, trembling, upon the seat of the limousine.
Jane followed her. Then Thomas closed the windowed door of the motor and took
his place beside the chauffeur.
Gwendolyn leaned forward for a swift glance at the lower windows, barred
against intruders. The great house was of stone. On side and rear it stood flat
against other houses. But it was built on a corner; and along its front and
outer side, the tops of the basement windows were set a foot or more above the
level of the sidewalk. To Gwendolyn those windows were huge eyes, peering out at
her from under heavy lashes of iron.
The automobile started. Jane arranged her skirts and leaned back luxuriously,
her big hands folded on her lap.
"My! but ain't this grand!" she exclaimed. Then to Gwendolyn: "You don't
mind, do you, dearie, if Jane has a taste of gum as we go along?"
Gwendolyn did not reply. She had not heard. She was leaning toward the little
window on her side of the limousine. In front of Jane was the chauffeur,
wide-backed and skillful, and crouched vigilantly over his wheel. But in front
of her was Thomas, sitting in the proudly erect, stiff position peculiar to him
whenever he fared abroad. He looked neither to right nor left. He seemed
indifferent that danger lurked for her along the Drive.
But she—! As the limousine joined others, all speeding forward merrily, her
pale little face was pressed against the shield-shaped pane of glass, her
frightened eyes roved continually, searching the moving crowds.