Lucile Triumphant Part 31

And Jessie listened while the little songster poured out his joy in liquid cadences that rose and fell and sparkled out upon the morning air like dancing sunbeams turned to music--so light, so rippling, so joyously alive, that the girls' hearts thrilled in answer.

"Oh, the darling!" cried Jessie, springing out of bed and joining Lucile at the window. "I wonder what he is; we never heard anything like that in Burleigh. Now he's stopped again----"

"He won't sing when you talk, of course," said Evelyn, who had been quietly watching them.

"Of course not," said Jessie, calmly. "He knows there is no use in trying to compete with the music of my voice."

"Time to get up," exclaimed Evelyn, in a loud voice, and began a show of dressing in a great hurry, while Lucile gave a little despairing laugh.

"I don't know what you two would do if you didn't have me to act the part of peacemaker all the time. I'm afraid they would have one or the other of you up for murder before the end of the week."

"Well, we couldn't get along without you, anyway," said Jessie, affectionately. "What's the use of thinking of such awful calamities ahead of time?"

"All right; we won't, if you say so," said Lucile, and, s.n.a.t.c.hing a pillow from the bed, she hurled it at the unsuspecting and suddenly pensive Evelyn. The aim was good and Evelyn tumbled over on the bed, while a couple of feet waved frantically in the air.

"Oh," she cried, half smothered by the pillow, "I'll get even for this, Lucile Payton! You just wait!" And, being a young person of her word, Lucile just ducked in time to escape an answering shot.

Then would have ensued an old-fas.h.i.+oned pillow fight, had not Lucile suddenly bethought her that this was not their own home.

"Girls!" she cried, half choked with laughter. "Girls, we'll have somebody in here, sure as fate, if we don't stop. They'll think there's a fire or something."

"Or worse," Jessie laughed, good-naturedly, and after that they gradually quieted down.

As usual, they were dressed and ready on the same instant. Lucile opened the door quietly and they stepped into the corridor.

"Guess we must have roused the hotel, after all," said Evelyn, ruefully, as they heard unmistakable sounds of awakening in the neighboring rooms.

"They'll be notifying us that our patronage is no longer desirable if we don't look out."

"I wonder how you say that in French," said Lucile, her eyes merry. "If they did try to put us out, we could just pretend we didn't understand."

"Yes, we could follow the example of Joe, the Italian who puts out our ashes," laughed Evelyn. "Just grin when they try to argue and shrug our shoulders. 'Me no speck Ang-lish.'"

The girls laughed appreciatively, and Jessie added, "Nevertheless, your comparisons are odious. Joe, the ash-man, is not what you might call--in our cla.s.s."

"I could understand French a good deal better than I can some of Jessie's United States," said Evelyn, plaintively, and so they laughed their way out onto the broad, picturesque porch of the rambling old inn and stood gazing curiously about them.

The road wound in front of the house, over a small hill, and was lost to view on the other side. The woodland, being so near the city, was not dense, but the girls thought they had never seen foliage so vividly green nor gra.s.s so soft and luxuriant. The beckoning shadows of the trees, the fragrance of the dew-drenched flowers, the trilling music of a thousand carefree, joyous little songsters, all combined in one irresistible appeal to the girls.

With common and unspoken consent they ran down the steps of the porch and to the other side of the road. They plucked beautiful, long-stemmed flowers from their hiding-place and excitedly called each other's attention to the brightly colored birds, that balanced on swaying twigs, regarding them with saucy inquiry.

"To see us now, anybody might think the country was new to us," exclaimed Lucile, with sparkling eyes and cheeks like twin roses. "Oh, girls, there's my bird again," she added, and stood, finger on lips, while the clear note, starting soft and sweet, swelled to a height of trilling ecstasy and abandon, when all the welled-up joy of summer poured liquidly golden from a bursting little heart; then slowly, hesitatingly, with soft, intermittent trillings and gurgles, died and faded into silence.

"Oh, ah!" Jessie whispered, as though afraid to break the spell. "Did you ever hear such bird music in all your life? What can he be?"

"I wish I'd paid a little more attention to my natural history now," said Lucile, smiling ruefully. "But even that wouldn't help much until we'd seen the bird, anyway. Let's see if we can get a glimpse of him."

They were following eagerly, when Jessie exclaimed, "Oh, bother! There's Phil on the porch beckoning to us. What do you suppose he wants?"

"I don't know; breakfast, maybe," Lucile answered. "Suppose you girls run over and tell him I'll come right away. I do want to locate that bird."

"All right; only don't be long," Jessie advised, as they started, arm in arm, toward the inn. "We'll have some time after breakfast to do the locating."

Lucile retorted laughingly, and was off in the direction from which the sweet notes had seemed to come.

"Of course, he wouldn't sing now that I want him to in a hurry," she communed with herself. "Any one of these birds might be the one as far as looks are concerned."

She was just about to despair, and had almost made up her mind to turn back, when the golden note rose again and she stopped, entranced. There, over her head and not five feet away, swaying perilously on a slender twig, balanced the little songster, pouring out his joy to a responsive world.

"Oh, you darling!" cried Lucile, impulsively. "I wish I could take you home with me, which you would not like at all. I must ask Dad what you are; he would probably know."

So, triumphant, she started happily along the path, anxious to tell the girls of her luck. It was a great temptation to linger along the way; it would be nice to take back with her a bunch of wild flowers. She would give them to a waiter, and see that they were put upon their table.

With this in view, she hastened along, not noticing that the sun had gone under a cloud and that the path to the road was very long.

Therefore, she was surprised, when she emerged from the woodland, to find the sky, formerly all blue and fleecy clouds, changed to a threatening, lowering gray.

"But where is the inn?" she stammered, looking about her, bewildered.

Then, as the appalling truth struck home, she grew pale with consternation.

"How could I do such a thing?" she wailed. "I must have taken the wrong path, and now I am goodness knows where. And even the sun has disappeared. Now I am in a nice fix," and she gazed about her helplessly and vexedly, not knowing which way to turn.

"Well, there's no use standing here; that never did anybody any good,"

she said, at last. "If my weather eye does not deceive me, I am in for a good wetting, if I can't find shelter anywhere. Oh, the folks will be wild!"

With these and other disquieting thoughts, she started to push her way along the deserted road, with the forgotten wild flowers clutched tightly in her hand.

She had walked for over half an hour, and the first drops of rain had begun to splash upon her bare head, when, to her great delight, she saw the white front of a house among the trees.

With a joyful cry she broke into a run and, a moment later, came upon a pebbled drive that led up to a low, picturesque structure, built on the top of a gentle slope.

Lucile had that strange sensation which we all have experienced some time in our lives, a distinct impression she was not looking upon the chateau for the first time. Something about it seemed vaguely familiar, and it was on the tip of her tongue to put her thoughts into words when she dismissed the idea as absurd. Why, she had spent all of her life, up to the last month at least, in Burleigh, so it was plainly ridiculous even to imagine she knew the place. Many and many a time she had read descriptions of French chateaux--ah, that was it! She must have read about just such a place. But, in spite of all reasoning, the illusion clung with startling persistency. In fact, the nearer she came to the house, the more and more was she impressed with its familiarity.

She ran up to the porch just as the storm broke.

"Pretty good time," she smiled, as she lifted the old-fas.h.i.+oned knocker on the big door and let it fall with a bang.

"Now, if I can't make whoever comes understand my French, and I haven't very high hopes, then am I lost indeed."

But she had no time for further thought. The door opened quietly and a soft voice inquired:

"Que voulez vous, Mam'selle?"

CHAPTER XXII

THE HEART OF THE MYSTERY