Peggy-Alone Part 5

A DISGUSTED POET

When Laura rashly undertook the role of stage manager, or to say more truly, when the position devolved upon her as a matter of course, because she was the president of the Happy-Go-Luckys, she accepted the honor and the duties in blithe confidence, never dreaming of difficulties.

For a time everything went smoothly, and that lively sympathy for others in like position which marked her after years would never, perhaps, have been called forth was it not for her discovery one day in the attic of an old reader which contained something she thought could be used as a dialogue in the coming exhibition.

It was a poem in which each of four children expresses a cherished ambition to the mother, who comments on the wish with approval or censure.

The piece required two boys, and Laura's brother Mat and his chum, Hugh Bonner, were called upon, and after some grumbling on their part and as much coaxing on the part of the girls they "came in to help the Happy-Go-Luckys out," as they expressed it.

They were a.s.signed their characters; Laura took the role of mother, giving the girls' parts to Alene and Ivy.

"I ask for beauty, for an eye Bright as the stars in yonder sky; For tresses on the air to fling And put to shame the raven's wing; Cheeks where the lily and the rose Are blended in a sweet repose; For pearly teeth and coral lip, Tempting the honey bee to sip, And for a fairy foot as light As is a young gazelle's in flight, And then a small, white, tapering hand-- I'd reign, a beauty, in the land!"

This was Alene's verse, but Ivy read it over and over instead of her own, and the oftener she read, the more discontented she grew.

"Why should Alene wish for 'a fairy foot, as light as is the young gazelle's in flight' when she has one already--two of 'em for that matter?" she thought. "The other wish is fine, I know--'a n.o.ble gift,'

the mother says, but I don't care, I can't do justice to it as I could to the other! Of course, I don't care much for the 'eye, bright as the stars,' and all that rubbish, but I can imagine being light and gay and dancing!"

Although Ivy learned her part she went through it at rehearsal in such a spiritless way that Laura could not have failed to remark it if she were not occupied with so many other things.

When Alene's turn came and she stepped forward rather timidly to recite, Ivy listened eagerly to her rendition. It proved to be letter-perfect but expressionless. Ivy was justified in thinking that she herself could have done much better.

"She says it just in the way you might wish for a piece of plum cake or another gum-drop," she mused bitterly.

No one suspected her dissatisfaction except Hugh, who someway understood all the moods of the frail little sister whom he wors.h.i.+ped.

In her sick spells, dating from a fall five years before, no one could move her so tenderly, nor place her in so comfortable a position as this st.u.r.dy lad of fifteen.

He resented Ivy's affliction even more than she did herself.

"I don't see why it couldn't have been one of us big lubbers of boys instead of her," he grumbled to his mother. "She seems to be made to run and dance and play--almost to fly like a bird."

"It's the Lord's will," returned Mrs. Bonner with a sigh.

"Umph! I don't know! When doctors fail to cure a disease, it seems pesky mean to blame it on the Lord! If we were only rich enough, I bet we could find some clever doctor who could make her O.K.! Why couldn't it have been a rich girl instead of her?"

"Oh, Hugh! That is wrong! Why need it be any poor little creature?"

said the mother, who thought to herself that in this case money would indeed be a desirable thing; she never envied the rich except when she thought of Ivy.

But the boy, with all youth's revolt, hated the seeming injustice and his resentment often extended to those whose wealth made the difference so marked.

When Ivy, trying to conceal her own disapproval, spoke of Alene's joining the Happy-Go-Luckys, Hugh was opposed to it.

"I know just how it will be, and you girls are makin' a big guess when you take her in," he had warned.

"But she seemed so lonely, and Laura wanted it so much--"

"So did that city chap who used to go with us boys. He looked all right, but my, nothin' suited him. He laughed at our dug-bait, and fis.h.i.+n' rods, and our old-fas.h.i.+oned skiff and things, and talked about his pa's yacht and motor-cars and his ma's diamonds, until we were sick of 'em all!"

"But Alene is different," replied Ivy, and her brother said no more but wore a look of "just wait and you'll find out that I told you so," that was exasperating.

As time pa.s.sed and he heard nothing but praises of Alene, and saw for himself her una.s.suming manners and her evident good will, he was obliged to confess that she was a good little thing in spite of her citified dress and her haughty relations; but in this dialogue affair he thought it too bad that the fortunate little maid, who had everything else, should stand in Ivy's way.

"I'll give a hint to Laura," he suggested.

"Oh, no, no, Hugh! Don't say a word to anyone! Not for the world!"

"After all, your part is fine. The other is silly stuff--sounds like some empty-headed thing!"

"Oh, Hugh, it's beautiful! Anyway, I could just enter into part of it!

I'm tired of being tied to crutches and people thinkin', because of them, one never even wants any foolishness and fun, like other girls!"

Hugh looked troubled.

"It's a wonder Laura didn't think you might--"

"Laura didn't think anything about it! She just saw it was about a poet, and so the very thing for me!"

"Maybe Alene would--"

"Yes, I know she'd give it up if she knew I wanted it! She's an unselfish little thing. She took it because it was all that was left when Laura disposed of the 'soulful poet' part," Ivy said. Then after a silence, "I wonder why bad health makes me cranky and selfish and envious, instead of patient and meek, like the little girls in story books!"

Hugh smiled. He couldn't imagine his sprightly sister in the story book role of uncomplaining heroine, and he wouldn't wish to have her so, not for the world. Ivy was Ivy with all her faults; he wouldn't wish to have her otherwise except a happier Ivy, with the blessing of health and strength, flitting gaily through life, having part in the work and the play of the world.

CHAPTER VI

A SCORNFUL BEAUTY

Ivy could not have complained of Alene's want of animation had she followed her home after rehearsal one afternoon a few days later.

She entered the library, threw her hat on a chair and herself upon a snug little sofa that stood invitingly in the embrasure of a window, which, by drawing the crimson curtains, could be shut off from the rest of the room, leaving a cosy den--her favorite place for dreaming and reading, where her eyes, straying from her book, rested on an ever-varying picture of sky and river, which the window framed.

To-day, not waiting to shut herself away, and paying no attention to the smiling landscape, she opened a sheet of foolscap paper that she had held clasped tightly in her hand, and gravely perused the lines of Ivy's angular writing which covered it. A similar sheet had been given to the other actors in the dialogue so that each might learn his part at leisure.

"'I ask for beauty--' yes, you little numskull, ask for it,--that's all people think you're good for! Laura, of course, never thought of it that way but others will! And I don't wish for it, I'd rather be a poet any day!

'I ask the poet's gift, the lyre, With skillful hand to sweep each wire, I'd pour my burning thoughts in song, In lays deep, pa.s.sionate and strong, Till heart should thrill at every word As mind is thrilled at song of bird!

Oh, I would die and leave some trace That earth had been my dwelling place, Would live in hearts forevermore When this frail, fitful life is o'er!

Oh, for the gifted poet's power-- This is my wish, be this my dower!"

Alene jumped to her feet, and standing in the window facing the room, recited the words with a dash and a fire that brought forth a "Bravo!"

from Uncle Fred, who on his way through the hall had heard her voice and, stopping softly at the door, witnessed her performance.

It formed a pretty picture, the little tragedienne, standing where the crimson draperies made an effective background for her slender, white-robed figure, with the long strands of rumpled brown hair straying over her shoulder, and her earnest, gray eyes deepening to black or sparkling into blue, her whole face lit with pa.s.sion.