Part 25 (1/2)
”It's very wrong, and, more than that, it's so uncomfortable,”
complained Cecily. ”It spoils everything.”
”Were they ever like this before?” I asked Cecily, as we talked the matter over privately in Uncle Stephen's Walk.
”Never for so long,” said Cecily. ”They had a spell like this last summer, and one the summer before, but they only lasted a couple of days.”
”And who spoke first?”
”Oh, the Story Girl. She got excited about something and spoke to Felicity before she thought, and then it was all right. But I'm afraid it isn't going to be like that this time. Don't you notice how careful the Story Girl is not to get excited? That is such a bad sign.”
”We've just got to think up something that will excite her, that's all,”
I said.
”I'm--I'm praying about it,” said Cecily in a low voice, her tear-wet lashes trembling against her pale, round cheeks. ”Do you suppose it will do any good, Bev?”
”Very likely,” I a.s.sured her. ”Remember Sara Ray and the money. That came from praying.”
”I'm glad you think so,” said Cecily tremulously. ”Dan said it was no use for me to bother praying about it. He said if they COULDN'T speak G.o.d might do something, but when they just WOULDN'T it wasn't likely He would interfere. Dan does say such queer things. I'm so afraid he's going to grow up just like Uncle Robert Ward, who never goes to church, and doesn't believe more than half the Bible is true.”
”Which half does he believe is true?” I inquired with unholy curiosity.
”Oh, just the nice parts. He says there's a heaven all right, but no--no--h.e.l.l. I don't want Dan to grow up like that. It isn't respectable. And you wouldn't want all kinds of people crowding heaven, now, would you?”
”Well, no, I suppose not,” I agreed, thinking of Billy Robinson.
”Of course, I can't help feeling sorry for those who have to go to THE OTHER PLACE,” said Cecily compa.s.sionately. ”But I suppose they wouldn't be very comfortable in heaven either. They wouldn't feel at home. Andrew Marr said a simply dreadful thing about THE OTHER PLACE one night last fall, when Felicity and I were down to see Kitty, and they were burning the potato stalks. He said he believed THE OTHER PLACE must be lots more interesting than heaven because fires were such jolly things. Now, did you ever hear the like?”
”I guess it depends a good deal on whether you're inside or outside the fires,” I said.
”Oh, Andrew didn't really mean it, of course. He just said it to sound smart and make us stare. The Marrs are all like that. But anyhow, I'm going to keep on praying that something will happen to excite the Story Girl. I don't believe there is any use in praying that Felicity will speak first, because I am sure she won't.”
”But don't you suppose G.o.d could make her?” I said, feeling that it wasn't quite fair that the Story Girl should always have to speak first.
If she had spoken first the other times it was surely Felicity's turn this time.
”Well, I believe it would puzzle Him,” said Cecily, out of the depths of her experience with Felicity.
Peter, as was to be expected, took Felicity's part, and said the Story Girl ought to speak first because she was the oldest. That, he said, had always been his Aunt Jane's rule.
Sara Ray thought Felicity should speak first, because the Story Girl was half an orphan.
Felix tried to make peace between them, and met the usual fate of all peacemakers. The Story Girl loftily told him that he was too young to understand, and Felicity said that fat boys should mind their own business. After that, Felix declared it would serve Felicity right if the Story Girl never spoke to her again.
Dan had no patience with either of the girls, especially Felicity.
”What they both want is a right good spanking,” he said.
If only a spanking would mend the matter it was not likely it would ever be mended. Both Felicity and the Story Girl were rather too old to be spanked, and, if they had not been, none of the grown-ups would have thought it worth while to administer so desperate a remedy for what they considered so insignificant a trouble. With the usual levity of grown-ups, they regarded the coldness between the girls as a subject of mirth and jest, and recked not that it was freezing the genial current of our youthful souls, and blighting hours that should have been fair pages in our book of days.
The Story Girl finished her wreath and put it on. The b.u.t.tercups drooped over her high, white brow and played peep with her glowing eyes. A dreamy smile hovered around her poppy-red mouth--a significant smile which, to those of us skilled in its interpretation, betokened the sentence which soon came.
”I know a story about a man who always had his own opinion--”