MARY F. LEONARD

AUTHOR OF THE SPECTACLE MAN, ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS ST CHASE EMERSON

W.A. WILDE COMPANY

BOSTON AND CHICAGO

1902

Mr. Pat's Little Girl. to A.E.F. in loving memory this story is lovingly dedicated by her niece

"HOW SWEET THE BREATH BENEATH THE HILL OF SHARON'S LOVELY ROSE."

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Mr Pat's Little Girl

CHAPTER FIRST.

THINGS BEGIN TO HAPPEN.

"A magician most profound in his art."

It was Sunday afternoon. The griffins on the doorstep stared straight before them with an expression of utter indifference; the feathery foliage of the white birch swayed gently back and forth; the peonies lifted their crimson heads airily; the snowball bush bent under the weight of its white blooms till it swept the grass; the fountain splashed softly.

Rosalind chanted dreamily.

Grandmamma had given her the hymn book, telling her to choose a hymn and commit it to memory, and as she turned the pages this had caught her eye and pleased her fancy.

"It sounds like the Forest of Arden," she said, leaning back on the garden bench and shutting her eyes.

She swung her foot in time to the rhythm. She was not sure whether a rill was a fountain or a stream, so she decided, as there was no dictionary convenient, to think of it as like the creek where it crossed the road at the foot of Red Hill.

Again she looked at the book; skipping a stanza, she read:—

The melancholy of this was interesting; at the same time it reminded her that she was lonely. After repeating, "Must shortly pass away," her eyes unexpectedly filled with tears.

"Now I am not going to cry," she said sternly, and by way of carrying out this resolve she again closed her eyes tight. It was desperately hard work, and she could not have told whether two minutes or ten had passed when she was startled by an odd, guttural voice close to her asking, "What is the matter, little girl?"

If the voice was strange, the figure she saw when she looked up was stranger still. A gaunt old man in a suit of rusty black, with straggling gray hair and beard, stood holding his hat in his hand, gazing at her with eyes so bright they made her uneasy.

"Nothing," she answered, rising hastily.

But the visitor continued to stand there and smile at her, shaking his head and repeating, "Mustn't cry."

"I am not crying," Rosalind insisted, glancing over her shoulder to make sure of a way of escape.

With a long, thin finger this strange person now pointed toward the house, saying something she understood to be an inquiry for Miss Herbert.

Miss Herbert was the housekeeper, and Rosalind knew she was at church; but when she tried to explain, the old man shook his head, and taking from his pocket a tablet with a pencil attached, he held it out to her, touching his ear as he uttered the one word "Deaf."

Rosalind understood she was to write her answer, and somewhat flurried she sat down on the edge of the bench and with much deliberation and in large clear letters conveyed the information, "She is out."

The old man looked at the tablet and then at Rosalind, bowing and smiling as if well pleased. "You'll tell her I'm going to the city to-morrow?" he asked.

There was something very queer in the way he opened his mouth and used his tongue, Rosalind thought, as she nodded emphatically, feeling that this singular individual had her at an unfair advantage. At least she would find out who he was, and so, as she still held the tablet, she wrote, "What is your name?"

He laughed as if this were a joke, and searching in his pocket, produced a card which he presented with a bow. On it was printed "C.J. Morgan, Cabinet Work."

"What is your name?" he asked.

Rosalind hesitated. She was not sure it at all concerned this stranger to know her name, but as he stood smiling and waiting, she did not know how to refuse; so she bent over the tablet, her yellow braid falling over her shoulder, as she wrote, "Rosalind Patterson Whittredge."

"Mr. Pat's daughter?" There was a twinkle in the old man's eye, and surprise and delight in his voice.

Rosalind sprang up, her own eyes shining. "How stupid of me!" she cried. "Why, you must be the magician, and you have a funny old shop, where father used to play when he was little. Oh, I hope you will let me come to see you!" Suddenly remembering the tablet, she looked at it despairingly. She couldn't write half she wished to say.

Morgan, however, seemed to understand pretty clearly, to judge from the way he laughed and asked if Mr. Pat was well.

Rosalind nodded and wrote, "He has gone to Japan."

"So far? Coming home soon?"

With a mournful countenance she shook her head.

Morgan stood looking down on her with a smile that no longer seemed uncanny. Indeed, there was something almost sweet in the rugged face as he repeated, "Mr. Pat's little girl, well, well," as if it were quite incredible.

Rosalind longed to ask at least a dozen questions, but it is dampening to one's ardor to have to spell every word, and she only nodded and smiled in her turn as she handed back the tablet.

"I wish father had taught me to talk on my fingers," she thought, feeling that one branch of her education had been neglected. "Perhaps Uncle Allan will, when he comes."

She watched the odd figure till it disappeared around a turn in the trim garden path, then she picked up the big red pillow which had fallen on the grass, and replacing it in one corner of the bench, curled herself up against it. The hymn book lay forgotten.

"I believe things are really beginning to happen," she said to herself. "You need not pretend they are not, for they are," she added, shaking her finger at the griffins with their provoking lack of expression. "You wouldn't make friends with anybody, not to save their lives, and it seemed as if I were never to get acquainted with a soul, when here I have met the magician in the most surprising way. And to think I didn't know him!"

The dream spirit was abroad in the garden. Across the lawn the shadows made mysterious progress; the sunlight seemed sifted through an enchanted veil, and like the touch of fairy fingers was the summer breeze against Rosalind's cheek, as with her head against the red pillow, she travelled for the first time in her life back into the past.

Back to the dear old library where two students worked, and where from the windows one could see the tiled roofs of the university. Back to the world of dreams where dwelt that friendly host of story-book people, where only a few short weeks ago Friendship, too, with its winding shady streets and this same stately garden and the griffins, had belonged as truly as did the Forest where that other Rosalind, loveliest of all story people, wandered.

Friendship was no longer a dream, and Rosalind, her head against the red pillow, was beginning to think that dreams were best.

"If we choose, we may travel always in the Forest, where the birds sing and the sunlight sifts through the trees."

These words of Cousin Louis's in his introduction to the old story pleased Rosalind's fancy. She liked to shut her eyes and think of the Forest and the brave-hearted company gathered there, and always this brought before her the fair face of the miniature on her father's desk and a faint, sweet memory of clasping arms.

When the doctor with a grave face had said that only rest and change of scene could restore Cousin Louis's health, and when Rosalind understood that this must mean for her separation from both her dear companions, it was to the Forest she had turned.

"I'll pretend I am banished like Rosalind in the story," she had said, leaning against her father's shoulder, as he looked over the proofs of "The Life of Shakespeare" on which Cousin Louis had worked too hard. "Then I'll know I am certain to find you sometime."

Her father's arm had drawn her close,—she liked to recall it now, and how, when she added, "But I wish I had Celia and Touchstone to go with me," he had answered, "You are certain to find pleasant people in the Forest of Arden, little girl." And putting aside the proofs, he had talked to her of her grandmother and the old town of Friendship.

She had been almost a week in Friendship now, and—well, things were not altogether as she had pictured them. Silver locks and lace caps, arm-chairs and some sort of fluffy knitting work, had been a part of her idea of a grandmother, and lo! her own grandmother was erect and slender, with not a thread of gray in her dark hair, nor a line in her handsome face.

She was kind—oh, yes, but so sad in her heavy crepe. Aunt Genevieve in her trailing gowns was charming to behold, but no more company for Rosalind—at least not much more—than the griffins. Miss Herbert was not a merry, comfortable person like their own Mrs. Browne at home. The house was very quiet. The garden was beautiful, but she longed to be outside its tall iron gates; and she longed—how she longed—for her old companions!

Cousin Louis had given her her favorite story in a binding of soft leather, delicious to hold against one's cheek, and her father had added a copy of the beautiful miniature. With these treasures she had set out upon her journey. But she had begun to feel as if in the great Forest she had lost her way, when the friendly face of the magician reassured her.

The sound of sweeping draperies broke in upon her thoughts. It was Aunt Genevieve, and she had not learned her hymn. Picking up her book, she stole swiftly across the grass till she was hidden by some tall shrubbery. Before her was a high hedge of privet; beyond it, among the trees, the chimneys of a red brick house.

Walking back and forth, Rosalind began to study in earnest. Looking first at her book and then up at the blue sky, she repeated:—

CHAPTER SECOND.

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HEDGE.

"Give me leave to speak my mind."

There was another garden on the other side of the hedge; not so large, nor so beautifully kept perhaps, but a pleasant garden, for all that. The red brick house to which it belonged was by no means so stately as the one whose doorstep the griffins guarded, yet it had an importance all its own. On week days, when the heavy shutters on the lower front windows were open, The National Bank of Friendship was to be seen in gilt letters on the glass; on Sundays, however, when they were closed, there was little to suggest that it was anything more than a private dwelling. It was a square, roomy house, and the part not in use for bank purposes was occupied by the cashier, Mr. Milton Roberts, and his family.

While Rosalind, curled up on the garden seat, was thinking of home, Maurice Roberts lay in the hammock under the big maple near the side porch, where his mother and Miss Betty Bishop sat talking. He held a book, but instead of reading was allowing himself the lazy entertainment of listening to their conversation.

From his position, a little behind the visitor, he had an excellent view of her as she sat erect in the wicker chair, her parasol across her lap. Miss Betty was plump and short, and had a dimple in her chin. Her hair, which was turning gray, waved prettily back from her forehead into the thickest of braids, and altogether there was a pleasant air of crispness about her; though something in the keenness of her glance, or the firmness with which her lips met, suggested that on occasion she might be unyielding. "The Barnwell stubbornness," she herself would have explained, with the same complacency she manifested when displaying her grandmother's tea-set.

Mrs. Roberts, Maurice's mother, was a gentle person, with large, soft eyes and a quiet manner.

The preliminary conversation had not been interesting, pertaining chiefly to flowers and the weather, and Maurice gave a sigh of satisfaction when, after a moment's pause, Miss Betty straightened herself and remarked, "Well, I hear the will is certain to be sustained."

"Then the property will have to be sold?" questioned Mrs. Roberts.

"Yes, and I may as well say good-by to the cream-jug and sugar-dish that Cousin Anne always said should be mine. Still, I never shall believe Cousin Thomas was out of his mind when he made that last will, it was too much like him. Dear knows it ought to be broken, but not on that ground. It was a case of pure spite."

"Oh, Betty!"

Maurice smiled to himself at his mother's tone.

"I assure you it was. I knew Cousin Thomas. Didn't Cousin Anne tell me dozens of times in his presence, 'Betty, this is your cream-jug and sugar-dish, because they match your teapot'?"

"I should think you had enough silver, Betty; still it was a shame Miss Anne left that list unsigned," said Mrs. Roberts.

"If you knew Cousin Anne at all, Mrs. Roberts, you knew how hesitating she was. She couldn't decide whether to leave the Canton china to Ellen Marshall or to Tom's wife. She changed her mind any number of times, but she was always clear about my cream-jug and sugar-dish. If Cousin Thomas had had any decency, he would have considered her wishes. Think of my own grandmother's things put up at public auction!"

"Most of Mr. Gilpin's money goes to the hospital, I suppose," remarked Mrs. Roberts.

"Pretty much everything but the real estate in and around Friendship, and the contents of the house, all of which will have to be sold and divided among his first cousins or their heirs. The only bequests made besides the money to the hospital are to Celia Fair and Allan Whittredge. Celia is to have the spinet, and Allan that beautiful old ring, if ever it comes to light again. I wish Cousin Thomas had left Celia some money. She was one person for whom he had a little affection."

Maurice wished so too. He admired Miss Celia Fair, and felt it was too bad she should get only an antiquated piano.

"Are the Fairs related to the Gilpins?" his mother asked. Not being a native of Friendship, she had difficulty in mastering the intricacies of its relationships.

It was ground upon which Miss Betty was entirely at home, however. "They were kin to Cousin Thomas's wife," she explained. "Mrs. Fair's grandmother was half-sister to Cousin Emma's mother, and raised Cousin Emma as her own child. Of course it is not very near when it comes to Celia. The spinet belonged to old Mrs. Johnson,—Celia's great-grandmother, you know,—whose name was also Celia. Saint Cecilia, they used to call her, because she was so good and played and sang so sweetly. It is right the spinet should go to Celia, but that would not have influenced Cousin Thomas a minute if he had not wished her to have it."

"And the ring has never been heard of?" Mrs. Roberts asked, as her visitor paused for breath.

"I doubt if it ever comes to light. It is nearly three years now since it disappeared," was the reply. Miss Betty looked up at the vines above her head, and her lips curled into a sort of half smile. "I should like to hear Cousin Ellen Whittredge on the will," she added. "I don't think she cares much about the money, however; it is more that old feeling against Dr. Fair. You remember he testified to Mr. Gilpin's sanity."

"And her son?" asked Mrs. Roberts.

"Allan? It is hard to find out what Allan thinks, but there is no bitterness in him. He is like his father, poor man! What I am curious to know is, what Cousin Thomas meant by saying in his will that Allan knew his wishes in regard to the ring. That strikes me as a little sensational. I asked Allan about it the last time I saw him, but he only laughed and said he'd have to get it before he could dispose of it."

Miss Betty now made some motions preliminary to rising, but as if on second thought, she laid her parasol across her knees again and asked, "Have you heard that Patterson's daughter is here?"

"Yes, I think I saw her in the carriage with her grandmother yesterday," was Mrs. Roberts's reply.

This was news to Maurice, and he listened with interest.

Miss Betty shook her head. "I am surprised," she said. "That marriage of Patterson's was a dreadful blow to Cousin Ellen."

"It seems to me she was unreasonable about it. I am glad she sent for him before his father died." Mrs. Roberts spoke with some hesitation. She did not often array her own opinions against those of her friends.

"I don't blame her as some do. A person of that sort, and Patterson the very light of her eyes! How would you feel if Maurice some day should do a thing like that?"

Maurice laughed softly. His thoughts were not much occupied with marriage. His mother ignored the question, and in her turn asked, "Did Mrs. Whittredge ever see her daughter-in-law?"

"No, indeed. This child was not more than three when she died."

"Poor little thing!" Mrs. Roberts sighed.

"Such a name! I detest fancy names. Rosalind!" Miss Betty rose.

"A good old English name and very pretty, I think. Was it her mother's?"

"I suppose so, but I don't know. Yes, I must go; Sophy will think I am lost. Good-by," and Miss Betty stepped briskly down the path.

The gate had hardly closed when Maurice heard some one calling him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw his sister Katherine beckoning.

"Maurice, Maurice, do come here; I want you to see something."

Her tone impressed him as unduly mysterious. "What is it?" he asked indifferently.

"Come, and I'll show you."

"I sha'n't come till you tell me," he persisted.

"Oh, I think you might, because if I stop to tell you she may be gone."

"Who'll be gone? You might have told it twice over in this time."

"The girl I want you to see," explained Katherine, drawing nearer in desperation. "Did you know there was a girl next door?"

"Yes, of course." There was nothing in Maurice's tone to indicate how brief a time had passed since this information had been acquired.

"Truly? I don't believe it," Katherine faltered.

"She is Mrs. Whittredge's granddaughter, and her name is Rosalind, so now!"

Privately, Katherine thought her brother's power of finding things out, little short of supernatural. "Don't you want to see her?" she asked meekly. "There is a thin place in the hedge behind the calycanthus bush, and she is walking to and fro studying something." Would Maurice declare he had already seen this girl?

Maurice sat up and reached for a crutch that rested against the tree. He had his share of curiosity. He was a tall, well-grown boy of thirteen, and it was apparent as he swung himself after Katherine, that accident and not disease had caused his lameness.

Rosalind, studying her hymn all unconscious of observation, was a pleasant sight.

"Isn't she pretty?" whispered Katherine, but Maurice silenced her so sternly she concluded he did not agree with her.

In reality he thought very much as she did, although he would not have used the same adjective. There was something unusual about this girl. Why it was, he did not understand, but she seemed somehow to belong in a special way to the sweet old garden with its June roses. Maurice had fancies that would have astonished Katherine beyond measure if she could have known anything about them. But how was she to know when he pinched her arm and looked sternly indifferent?

The tea bell called them back to the house; on the way Katherine's enthusiasm burst forth afresh.

"Isn't she sweet? and such a beautiful name—Rosalind. How old do you think she is? and do you suppose she is going to live there? Oh, Maurice, shouldn't you be afraid of Mrs. Whittredge?"

"I don't know anything about her," Maurice replied, forgetting for the moment that he bad been pretending to know a great deal.

"I should like to have my hair tied on top of my head with a big ribbon bow as hers is," continued Katherine, who would innocently persist in laying herself open to brotherly scorn.

"I suppose you think you will look like her then," was his retort.

"Now, Maurice, I don't. I know I am not pretty." Katharine's round face grew suddenly long, and tears filled her blue eyes.

"Don't be a goose, then. I'll tell you what she made me think of, that statue of Joan of Arc—don't you remember? Where she is listening to the voices? We saw it at the Academy of Fine Arts."

"Why, Maurice, how funny! She is much prettier than that," said Katherine.

CHAPTER THIRD.

FRIENDSHIP.

"True it is that we have seen better days."