Black-Eyed Susan Part 13

It was a miserable Susan whom Grandmother joined a few moments later.

Without a word, Mrs. Whiting washed the hot face and hands, and helped Susan make ready for bed.

Downstairs she put Gentilla into the hammock, she herself lay down on the couch, and the afternoon quiet was unbroken as they all refreshed themselves with a long nap.

When Susan woke, and saw Grandmother standing by her bedside, she stretched out her arms and laid her penitent head upon Grandmother's soft shoulder.

"I don't know what did it," said Susan at last, when she had whispered for several moments in Grandmother's ear. "I meant to be good. I was trying so hard." And Susan pensively put out her tongue and caught a tear rolling slowly down her cheek.

"Well, Susan, take my advice," said Grandmother sensibly, "and don't try to train Gentilla any more. It is all most of us can do to take care of ourselves, and we think Gentilla is a nice little girl just as she is now, don't we?"

Susan nodded soberly. Much nicer than Susan Whiting, she thought, as she remembered slapping and pus.h.i.+ng and knocking Gentilla down.

But she brightened when Grandmother added:

"Hurry now and dress yourself. We are all invited over to Mrs. Vane's for tea, Grandfather and all. And you are going to wear your new dress with the little pink flowers. I put the last st.i.tch in it for you not five minutes ago."

CHAPTER IX-HICKORY d.i.c.kORY DOCK

It was a stormy autumn afternoon, and Phil sat in his rocking-chair before the red coal fire watching the clock upon the mantelpiece. He hoped it would strike soon and tell him what time it was, for he was expecting company, and he felt that he had already waited quite long enough.

He looked round the nursery and saw that everything was in its place, spick and span and ready for visitors, too. The big dapple gray rocking-horse stood in his corner, his fore feet impatiently lifted and an eager gleam in his brown gla.s.s eye. No doubt he was anxious to do his part by giving the visitor as many rides as she wished.

The tin kitchen, with its gay blue oven, was polished until it sparkled and glittered like precious stones. The kitchen was a favorite toy with Phil. He never tired of making strange little messes of pounded crackers and water, that smelled of the tins they were cooked in, and tasted no one but Phil could say how, for no one but he would eat them.

His big electric train, running on real tracks, a present from Great-Uncle Fred, was nicely set up in the middle of the floor, and looked as if it could take you to Jericho and return in one afternoon.

Little black Pompey in a red-and-white striped minstrel suit, high hat on head, looked anxiously from the cab of the engine, for, as engineer, was he not responsible for the safety of a whole family of paper dolls who occupied an entire pa.s.senger car and who seemed not at all concerned at the delay in starting?

The nodding donkey, the dancing bear, the flannel rabbit with only one ear, stood stiffly on parade. The box of tin soldiers and sailors lay invitingly open.

Yes, everything was ready, even to the big sailboat that leaned against the wall, canvas spread to catch the first salt breeze. And best of all, there stood the low nursery table covered with a spotless white cloth, a sight which promised such a pleasant ending to what was sure to be a pleasant afternoon that Phil treated himself to a violent rocking as a way of working off his emotion.

For Phil had been ill in bed, and this was his first taste of fun in two whole weeks. He had looked forward mightily to this very moment, and his mother's promise that he should have a party as soon as he was well had helped, more than anything else, to make the big spoonfuls of black medicine go down without a struggle.

Phil's cheeks were white and his face was thin, and he wore for warmth his manly little blue-and-white checked bathrobe, since only last night his cough had been croupy again. Not that Phil called it his bathrobe.

In admiring imitation of his father's lounging costume he called it his "smoking-jacket," and he had even had the daring to slip a match or two into the deep side pocket, in which he fervently hoped no one might pry.

If Phil's mother had even suspected such a thing, he and the matches would have parted company speedily, he well knew. He meant to slip them safely back as soon as the party was over, and no one would be the wiser or harmed in the least by what he had done, he thought. He smiled to himself as he fingered the forbidden objects that nestled so innocently in his pocket and gave him such a jaunty grown-up feeling.

And, in Phil's secret heart, there was another reason why he was happy this afternoon. Gentilla had gone away.

It was not that Phil didn't like Gentilla, for he did. He had played happily with her and Susan through the long summer days that the little girl had spent in Featherbed Lane. He had enjoyed, he thought, the long stay Gentilla had made with the Whitings when her gypsy relatives had disappeared in the night and had never been heard of from that time to this.

But at last Gentilla's visit had come to an end. Mr. Drew knew of a Home for little children who needed some one to love and care for them. And so, one bright October day, the good minister took the little gypsy girl to her new home where she would lead an ordered, comfortable life quite different from the rough-and-tumble days she had known in gypsy van or camp.

At parting, Phil had presented Gentilla with his treasured Noah's ark because she loved it so. He would willingly have given her his express wagon, in which he had treated her to many a ride, if his mother hadn't explained that it would not go into Gentilla's tiny trunk which her kind friends were filling for her with a neat little outfit. He stood upon the station platform, loyally waving his hat until the train was quite out of sight.

And it was not until then that he learned how pleasant it was to have an undivided Susan for a playmate once again, a Susan who was always glad to see him, who never whispered secrets and wouldn't tell, who never ran away from him, and who, in short, was to be the chosen guest of honor that very afternoon.

"It must be most supper-time," grumbled Phil. "I wish the clock would strike, or Susan would come, or something would happen."

The clock on the mantel began a whirring and creaking that caused Phil to spring to his feet and fasten his eyes upon the little Roman soldier in helmet and s.h.i.+eld, who stood alert, both day and night, atop the clock, ready to strike the hours as they came. The whirring grew louder.

Slowly the little Roman soldier raised his arm and loudly struck his s.h.i.+eld once, twice. Two o'clock!

"Time for Susan," said Phil joyfully.

He dragged a low cricket to the window, and, standing upon it, looked out at the sodden brown lawn, the leafless trees rocking in a late October gale, and the gray windswept sky. Big raindrops hurried nowhere in particular down the window-pane, and Phil amused himself by racing them with his finger. And presently he spied Susan.

"Come on, come on!" he shouted, knocking on the window, quite careless of the fact that Susan couldn't possibly hear him. "I've been waiting forever. Come on!"

The little figure in blue waterproof cape and hood, Susan's pride, hurried down to the stone wall, through the gap, and across Phil's lawn.

Here was a puddle, and the blue waterproof hopped nimbly over it. Just one peep into the empty dog kennel, and Phil heard the side door shut, and knew that Susan would be there in a moment.

He waited impatiently, his eyes at the crack of the nursery door, since the cold halls were forbidden him. He heard Susan and his mother talking, and at last up she came, a box under her arm.

"See what I've brought," said Susan. "Grandmother sent it. And your mother gave me some, just now, too. We will each have a long string of them."

Susan sat down on the hearth-rug and opened the box. It was full of b.u.t.tons, large and small, dull and bright, white and colored, and these she poured out in a little heap upon the floor.

"Grandmother sent a long thread for each of us," and Susan pounced upon a small parcel at the bottom of the box. "She told me how to do it, too.

You string the b.u.t.tons, as many as you like, and one of them is your 'touch b.u.t.ton.' You must never tell which one that is, because who ever touches that b.u.t.ton must give you one of his. Do you see?"

"But won't you even tell me, Susan?" asked simple Phil, who wanted to share all things with his friend, even to dark mysteries like "touch b.u.t.tons."

"Why, yes," said Susan generously, "if you will tell me yours."

Phil nodded and rummaged in the b.u.t.ton heap.

"These are good ones," said he, ranging them on the floor before him.

"I'm going to begin to string."

Phil's taste was severe. He had chosen several large, dark, velvet b.u.t.tons, a bra.s.s military b.u.t.ton, a useful black b.u.t.ton or two that might have come from his father's coat, a flat silver disk as big as a dollar, and, as a lighter touch, all the b.u.t.tons he could find covered with a gay tartan plaid gingham.

Susan uttered cries of delight as she rapidly made her selection.

"Look at these blue diamonds," she exclaimed rapturously over some gla.s.s b.u.t.tons that had seen better days. "And here is one with beautiful pink flowers painted on it. Here is a white fur one off my baby coat, and these little violet-and-white checks are from Grandmother's gingham dress. I know they are."

"Now this is the grandmother," she went on, taking up a fat brown doork.n.o.b of a b.u.t.ton. "I'll put her on my string first of all, so that she can take care of the rest of them. And next I'll put this little green velvet one so that it won't be lonesome."

"Which is your touch b.u.t.ton?" asked Phil, after working busily in silence for a whole minute.

"Shh-h-h!" warned Susan, looking carefully about her before answering, as if a spy might be peeping through the keyhole or even hiding behind the one-eared rabbit. "This one. It's my favorite, too." And she touched a hard little rose-colored ball that looked uncommonly like a pill.

"Which is yours?"

Phil proudly displayed the military b.u.t.ton, and whirled away from Susan just in time to keep the secret from his mother who entered the room, bearing a tray.

"Are you ready for your refreshments?" she asked, setting her burden down upon the table. "Oh, let me see your b.u.t.ton strings."