CHAPTER X. DISAPPEARANCE OF PADDY
As I remember, the spring came late that year in Carlisle. It was Maybefore the weather began to satisfy the grown-ups. But we children weremore easily pleased, and we thought April a splendid month because thesnow all went early and left gray, firm, frozen ground for our ramblesand games. As the days slipped by they grew more gracious; the hillsidesbegan to look as if they were thinking of mayflowers; the old orchardwas washed in a bath of tingling sunshine and the sap stirred in thebig trees; by day the sky was veiled with delicate cloud drift, fine andfilmy as woven mist; in the evenings a full, low moon looked over thevalleys, as pallid and holy as some aureoled saint; a sound of laughterand dream was on the wind and the world grew young with the mirth ofApril breezes.
"It's so nice to be alive in the spring," said the Story Girl onetwilight as we swung on the boughs of Uncle Stephen's walk.
"It's nice to be alive any time," said Felicity, complacently.
"But it's nicer in the spring," insisted the Story Girl. "When I'm deadI think I'll FEEL dead all the rest of the year, but when spring comesI'm sure I'll feel like getting up and being alive again."
"You do say such queer things," complained Felicity. "You won't bereally dead any time. You'll be in the next world. And I think it'shorrid to talk about people being dead anyhow."
"We've all got to die," said Sara Ray solemnly, but with a certainrelish. It was as if she enjoyed looking forward to something in whichnothing, neither an unsympathetic mother, nor the cruel fate which hadmade her a colourless little nonentity, could prevent her from being thechief performer.
"I sometimes think," said Cecily, rather wearily, "that it isn't sodreadful to die young as I used to suppose."
She prefaced her remark with a slight cough, as she had been all too aptto do of late, for the remnants of the cold she had caught the night wewere lost in the storm still clung to her.
"Don't talk such nonsense, Cecily," cried the Story Girl with unwontedsharpness, a sharpness we all understood. All of us, in our hearts,though we never spoke of it to each other, thought Cecily was not aswell as she ought to be that spring, and we hated to hear anything saidwhich seemed in any way to touch or acknowledge the tiny, faint shadowwhich now and again showed itself dimly athwart our sunshine.
"Well, it was you began talking of being dead," said Felicity angrily."I don't think it's right to talk of such things. Cecily, are you sureyour feet ain't damp? We ought to go in anyhow--it's too chilly out herefor you."
"You girls had better go," said Dan, "but I ain't going in till oldIsaac Frewen goes. I've no use for him."
"I hate him, too," said Felicity, agreeing with Dan for once in herlife. "He chews tobacco all the time and spits on the floor--the horridpig!"
"And yet his brother is an elder in the church," said Sara Raywonderingly.
"I know a story about Isaac Frewen," said the Story Girl. "When he wasyoung he went by the name of Oatmeal Frewen and he got it this way. Hewas noted for doing outlandish things. He lived at Markdale then and hewas a great, overgrown, awkward fellow, six feet tall. He drove over toBaywater one Saturday to visit his uncle there and came home the nextafternoon, and although it was Sunday he brought a big bag of oatmeal inthe wagon with him. When he came to Carlisle church he saw that servicewas going on there, and he concluded to stop and go in. But he didn'tlike to leave his oatmeal outside for fear something would happen to it,because there were always mischievous boys around, so he hoisted the bagon his back and walked into church with it and right to the top of theaisle to Grandfather King's pew. Grandfather King used to say hewould never forget it to his dying day. The minister was preaching andeverything was quiet and solemn when he heard a snicker behind him.Grandfather King turned around with a terrible frown--for you know inthose days it was thought a dreadful thing to laugh in church--to rebukethe offender; and what did he see but that great, hulking young Isaacstalking up the aisle, bending a little forward under the weight of abig bag of oatmeal? Grandfather King was so amazed he couldn't laugh,but almost everyone else in the church was laughing, and grandfathersaid he never blamed them, for no funnier sight was ever seen. YoungIsaac turned into grandfather's pew and thumped the bag of oatmeal downon the seat with a thud that cracked it. Then he plumped down besideit, took off his hat, wiped his face, and settled back to listen to thesermon, just as if it was all a matter of course. When the service wasover he hoisted his bag up again, marched out of church, and drove home.He could never understand why it made so much talk; but he was known bythe name of Oatmeal Frewen for years."
Our laughter, as we separated, rang sweetly through the old orchard andacross the far, dim meadows. Felicity and Cecily went into the houseand Sara Ray and the Story Girl went home, but Peter decoyed me into thegranary to ask advice.
"You know Felicity has a birthday next week," he said, "and I want towrite her an ode."
"A--a what?" I gasped.
"An ode," repeated Peter, gravely. "It's poetry, you know. I'll put itin Our Magazine."
"But you can't write poetry, Peter," I protested.
"I'm going to try," said Peter stoutly. "That is, if you think she won'tbe offended at me."
"She ought to feel flattered," I replied.
"You never can tell how she'll take things," said Peter gloomily. "Ofcourse I ain't going to sign my name, and if she ain't pleased I won'ttell her I wrote it. Don't you let on."
I promised I wouldn't and Peter went off with a light heart. He said hemeant to write two lines every day till he got it done.
Cupid was playing his world-old tricks with others than poor Peter thatspring. Allusion has been made in these chronicles to one, Cyrus Brisk,and to the fact that our brown-haired, soft-voiced Cecily had foundfavour in the eyes of the said Cyrus. Cecily did not regard her conquestwith any pride. On the contrary, it annoyed her terribly to be teasedabout Cyrus. She declared she hated both him and his name. She was asuncivil to him as sweet Cecily could be to anyone, but the gallant Cyruswas nothing daunted. He laid determined siege to Cecily's young heart byall the methods known to love-lorn swains. He placed delicate tributesof spruce gum, molasses taffy, "conversation" candies and decoratedslate pencils on her desk; he persistently "chose" her in all schoolgames calling for a partner; he entreated to be allowed to carry herbasket from school; he offered to work her sums for her; and rumour hadit that he had made a wild statement to the effect that he meant toask if he might see her home some night from prayer meeting. Cecily wasquite frightened that he would; she confided to me that she would ratherdie than walk home with him, but that if he asked her she would be toobashful to say no. So far, however, Cyrus had not molested her out ofschool, nor had he as yet thumped Willy Fraser--who was reported to bevery low in his spirits over the whole affair.
And now Cyrus had written Cecily a letter--a love letter, mark you.Moreover, he had sent it through the post-office, with a real stampon it. Its arrival made a sensation among us. Dan brought it from theoffice and, recognizing the handwriting of Cyrus, gave Cecily no peaceuntil she showed us the letter. It was a very sentimental and ratherill-spelled epistle in which the inflammable Cyrus reproached her inheart-rending words for her coldness, and begged her to answer hisletter, saying that if she did he would keep the secret "in violets."Cyrus probably meant "inviolate" but Cecily thought it was intended fora poetical touch. He signed himself "your troo lover, Cyrus Brisk" andadded in a postcript that he couldn't eat or sleep for thinking of her.
"Are you going to answer it?" asked Dan.
"Certainly not," said Cecily with dignity.
"Cyrus Brisk wants to be kicked," growled Felix, who never seemed to beany particular friend of Willy Fraser's either. "He'd better learn howto spell before he takes to writing love letters."
"Maybe Cyrus will starve to death if you don't," suggested Sara Ray.
"I hope he will," said Cecily cruelly. She was truly vexed over theletter; and yet, so contradictory a thing is the feminine heart, even attwelve years
old, I think she was a little flattered by it also. It washer first love letter and she confided to me that it gives you a veryqueer feeling to get it. At all events--the letter, though unanswered,was not torn up. I feel sure Cecily preserved it. But she walked pastCyrus next morning at school with a frozen countenance, evincing not theslightest pity for his pangs of unrequited affection. Cecily winced whenPat caught a mouse, visited a school chum the day the pigs were killedthat she might not hear their squealing, and would not have stepped on acaterpillar for anything; yet she did not care at all how much she madethe brisk Cyrus suffer.
Then, suddenly, all our spring gladness and Maytime hopes were blightedas by a killing frost. Sorrow and anxiety pervaded our days andembittered our dreams by night. Grim tragedy held sway in our lives forthe next fortnight.
Paddy disappeared. One night he lapped his new milk as usual at UncleRoger's dairy door and then sat blandly on the flat stone before it,giving the world assurance of a cat, sleek sides glistening, plumy tailgracefully folded around his paws, brilliant eyes watching the stir andflicker of bare willow boughs in the twilight air above him. That wasthe last seen of him. In the morning he was not.
At first we were not seriously alarmed. Paddy was no roving Thomas,but occasionally he vanished for a day or so. But when two days passedwithout his return we became anxious, the third day worried us greatly,and the fourth found us distracted.
"Something has happened to Pat," the Story Girl declared miserably. "Henever stayed away from home more than two days in his life."
"What could have happened to him?" asked Felix.
"He's been poisoned--or a dog has killed him," answered the Story Girlin tragic tones.
Cecily began to cry at this; but tears were of no avail. Neither wasanything else, apparently. We searched every nook and cranny of barnsand out-buildings and woods on both the King farms; we inquired far andwide; we roved over Carlisle meadows calling Paddy's name, until AuntJanet grew exasperated and declared we must stop making such exhibitionsof ourselves. But we found and heard no trace of our lost pet. The StoryGirl moped and refused to be comforted; Cecily declared she could notsleep at night for thinking of poor Paddy dying miserably in some cornerto which he had dragged his failing body, or lying somewhere mangled andtorn by a dog. We hated every dog we saw on the ground that he might bethe guilty one.
"It's the suspense that's so hard," sobbed the Story Girl. "If I justknew what had happened to him it wouldn't be QUITE so hard. But I don'tknow whether he's dead or alive. He may be living and suffering, andevery night I dream that he has come home and when I wake up and findit's only a dream it just breaks my heart."
"It's ever so much worse than when he was so sick last fall," saidCecily drearily. "Then we knew that everything was done for him thatcould be done."
We could not appeal to Peg Bowen this time. In our desperation we wouldhave done it, but Peg was far away. With the first breath of spring shewas up and off, answering to the lure of the long road. She had notbeen seen in her accustomed haunts for many a day. Her pets were gainingtheir own living in the woods and her house was locked up.