Part 25 (2/2)
Mary allowed herself a laugh at this young thing with her refres.h.i.+ng way of saying first whatever first came into her head and letting this serve as a greeting, said she was sure the big car and Pete were equal to taking her aunt to the four-miles-distant village.
”That's all right then. I won't have to wait for her,” said Sylvia, letting down her jugs into the tonneau of the Ford. ”I'll run straight along with this. They must be simply peris.h.i.+ng for it. Isn't it hot, though!”
Mary wanted to know who they were and what they were peris.h.i.+ng for.
”Lemonade,” said Sylvia, ”for the boys out in the hay field. It's perfectly gorgeous out there but hot enough to frizz your hair.”
”Where is the hay field?” Mary asked. ”Is it very far?”
”It's just over in the northeast eighty,” said Sylvia, with a rather conscious parade of her mastery of bucolic vernacular. ”But you don't want to walk. It would be awfully jolly if you would come along with me.”
”Wait two minutes until I've said h.e.l.lo to Aunt Lucile and I will,” said Mary, and turned to go into the house.
”Don't step on any of the piano,” Sylvia called after her. ”It's spread all over the place.”
They had made a good many changes in the apple house since Mary had gone to Ravinia, but the thing that drew a little cry of surprise from her was this old square piano. The case of it stood snugly in the corner of the west wall. But the works were spread about the room in a manner which made Sylvia's warning less far-fetched than it seemed.
The feeling that caught Mary at sight of it was more than just surprise.
Its dismantled condition brought to her a half-scared but wholly happy rea.s.surance that Anthony March was really here.
Her journey to Hickory Hill had been, so she had told herself at intervals during the day, merely a flight from her father and Paula.
There was no real reason for thinking that she would find March at the end of it. Week-end visits usually ended Monday morning, and it was probable that he would have gone hours before she arrived. She was conscious now of having commanded herself not to be silly when she was fretting over the late start from Ravinia and Paula's errand in town. It _would_ be nice to see him again! He was probably out in the hay field with the others.
She gave her aunt a rather absent-minded greeting and a highly condensed summary of her news. Her father was well and was stopping on with Paula for a day or two.
”He's taken over my job,” she concluded mischievously, ”maid, chauffeur and chaperon. Paula doesn't mind now that she's made such an enormous. .h.i.t and she doesn't sing again until Thursday. Pete will take you in the big car to Durham.”
”Well, that's Heaven's mercy,” exclaimed Miss Wollaston. ”I don't like to drive with Sylvia in any car and I don't like riding in a Ford no matter who drives. But Sylvia driving a Ford--her own car's broken down somehow--is simply frightful.”
”She's waiting for me now,” said Mary, ”to take me out to the hay field.
I must run before she grows any more impatient.”
And run was precisely what she did, down the slope to where Sylvia awaited her, a lighter-hearted creature altogether than she had supposed this morning that it was possible for her to be.
She got an explanation of the piano from Sylvia. She had gone with Rush and Mr. March to an auction sale late Sat.u.r.day afternoon at a farm three or four miles away. Just for a lark. They hadn't meant seriously to buy anything. But this old piano, Mr. March having sworn that he would make it play despite the fact that half the keys wouldn't go down at all and the rest when they did made only the most awful noises, they had bought for eleven dollars, and had fetched home in the truck on Sunday.
”I think he's terribly nice,” Sylvia confided. ”You know him, don't you?
He's quite old, of course.--Well, over thirty he says; but he's awfully--don't you know--well preserved. There are a whole lot of things he can do.”
Mary laughed. ”That is remarkable. How old are you, you nice young thing?
Going on six? Lookout! You'll smash the lemonade!”
”We're going to surprise them,” Sylvia announced when they had arrived, miraculously without disaster, at the northeast eighty. They had careened through the wagon gate and halted under an oak tree at the edge of the field. ”I'll go and tell them I've brought the lemonade, but I won't say anything about you. You keep out of sight behind the tree. Then Graham won't want to go and brush his hair.”
It startled Mary to realize that she had forgotten all about Graham. Not even the sight of his sister had recalled the--highly special nature of the state of things between them nor suggested the need for preparing an att.i.tude to greet him with. At all events she wouldn't follow Sylvia's suggestion and pop out at him from behind a tree.
He was, it happened, the first person the child encountered in her flight across the field; the others, indistinguishable at that distance, were in a group a little farther away. Mary walked out to meet him when she saw him coming toward her and competently gave the encounter its tone by beginning to talk to him--about how hot it was and how nice the hay smelled and how good it seemed to be back here at Hickory Hill--while they were still a good twenty paces apart. You couldn't strike any sort of sentimental note very well when you had to begin at a shout. Then she led him back to the lemonade, gave him a cigarette and answered at length and with a good deal of spontaneous vivacity his obligatory questions about Paula and the opening of the Ravinia season.
<script>