Part 23 (1/2)
Bell asked no more questions: the johnny-cake seemed to be at a critical point; she stirred a.s.siduously, and Jack, turning to look at her, could see only the tip of a very rosy little ear under the brown, cl.u.s.tering hair.
There was another silence, broken only by the singing of the teakettle and the soft, thick ”hub-bubble” of the boiling porridge.
”Bell!” said Jack, presently.
”Yes, Jack.”
”I had another letter last night, that I haven't told you about yet.”
”From Hilda?”
”No. From the manager of the Arion Quartette. They want me to go on a tour with them in the autumn, before the Conservatory opens. It's a great chance, and they offer me twice what I am worth.”
”Oh, Jack!” cried Bell, turning her face, s.h.i.+ning with pleasure, full on him. ”How glorious! how perfectly glorious! Oh! this is great news indeed.”
”There is only one difficulty,” said Jack. ”I have to provide my own accompanist.”
”But you can easily do that!” said Bell.
”Can I?” cried Jack Ferrers, dropping the porridge spoon and coming forward, his two hands held out, his brown face in a glow. ”Can I, Bell?
There is only one accompanist in the world for me, and I want her for life. Can I have her, my dear?”
”Oh, Jack!” cried Bell, and another spoon was dropped.
”Children, you are letting that porridge burn!” cried Mrs. Merryweather, as she hurried into the kitchen a few minutes later.
”Oh, Mammy, I am so sorry!” said Bell, looking up,
”All kind o' smily round the lips, And teary round the lashes.”
”Oh, Mammy, I am so glad!” cried Jack Ferrers; and without more ado he kissed Mrs. Merryweather. ”I like burnt porridge!” said this young gentleman.
CHAPTER XV.
CONCERNING VARIOUS THINGS
”WHERE are you going, Margaret?” asked w.i.l.l.y.
”Up to the farm. Bell lost one of her knitting-needles, and thought she might have dropped it there; she is up there now, hunting for it, and here it was in my tent all the time. Would you like to come with me, w.i.l.l.y?”
w.i.l.l.y twinkled with pleasure, and fell into step beside her, and the two walked along the pleasant gra.s.sy road through the fields, talking busily. They had become great friends, and w.i.l.l.y was never tired of hearing about Basil, who, he declared, ”must certainly be a corker.”
”I suppose he is, w.i.l.l.y,” said Margaret, with resignation. ”There seems nothing else for any nice person to be. Did I tell you how brave he was when a great savage dog attacked our poor puppies? Oh, you must hear that.”
The recital of Basil's heroism lasted till they reached the farmhouse, both in a state of high enthusiasm, and w.i.l.l.y filled with ardent longings for attacks by savage dogs, that he might show qualities equal to those of the youthful hero. (N. B. Basil, honest, freckled, and practical, would have been much surprised to hear himself held up as a youthful embodiment of Bayard and the Cid in one.)
”I'll wait for you out here, Margaret,” he said, when they came to the door. ”No, I don't want to come in; they will tell me how I've grown, and I do get so tired of it. I'll sit on the fence and think; I like to think.”