CHAPTER VIII
THE LONGEST WEEK ON RECORD
IT was a Thursday when the four Friendly Terrace girls entered on theirremarkable contract with Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back, and Fridaybegan the longest week recorded in the experiences of any of the four.According to the calendar, it contained only the usual seven days.According to the clock, each of these days consisted of the customarytwenty-four hours. But the four chums knew better. It was at least amonth long. They had spent Thursday evening explaining the situationto their friends and relatives and saying good-by as if for a week'sabsence. It was not to be expected that their news would meet the samereception in all quarters. Fathers and mothers, while not exactlyapproving, were on the whole rather amused, and inclined to takethe attitude that girls will be girls. Among their friends outside,their announcement was received with a surprise that was sometimessuggestive of enjoyment, and again of indignation.
Peggy found Graham particularly obdurate. "Not to speak to me for aweek? Well, I like that!"
"I can write you letters, dear."
"Letters!" Graham's repetition of the word was anything but flatteringto Peggy's epistolary efforts. "Of course," he went on in a mildertone, "I love your letters when I'm away from you. But to read lettersinstead of talking to you is like--like eating dried apple pie inOctober."
"It's only a week," said Peggy, but she sighed. And her sigh would havebeen much more vehement had she dreamed how long that week would prove.
Priscilla writing a little note to Horace Hitchcock did not sigh overthe prospect that she could exchange no words with him for seven days.Indeed she was conscious of a profound relief. Recently Horace hadtaken up the philosophical style in conversation, and Priscilla, as shelistened, frequently found herself unable to understand a word he wassaying. At first she assumed that this was due to her not having givenhim sufficiently close attention, and she had chided herself for herwandering thoughts. But things were no better when she listened herhardest. Priscilla knew that she was not a fool. She had finished herjunior year in college, and her class standing in all philosophicalsubjects had been excellent. If she could not understand what Horacewas talking about, she felt reasonably sure that the explanationwas not in her own intellectual lack but because Horace was talkingnonsense. The polysyllables he used so glibly and the epigrammaticphrases which to the unthinking might have seemed indicative oferudition and originality, when Priscilla came to analyze them seemedto have no more relation to one another than glittering beads strungon a wire. Priscilla was driven to the conclusion that Horace hadbeen reading literature considerably over his head, and that he wasreproducing for her benefit a sort of _pot-pourri_ of recollections,blended without much regard to their original connection.
But this was not the only reason why Priscilla had a sense of reliefin writing to ask Horace not to call for a week. As the days wenton, the thought of her silver wedding had been increasingly painful.Horace's affectations, to which for a time she had deliberately closedher eyes, were continually more glaringly in evidence. Once, whenthey were alone, Priscilla had tremulously hinted that perhaps theyhad been mistaken in supposing themselves fitted for each other, andHorace's reception of the suggestion had terrified her unutterably.He had addressed himself to the stars and asked if it were true thatthere was neither faith nor constancy in womankind. Then he had lookedat Priscilla, with an expression of agony, and said, "I thought itwas you who was to heal my tortured heart, and now you have failedme." But when he began to put his hand to his forehead and mutter thatlife was only a series of disappointments and that the sooner it wasover the better, Priscilla, white to the lips, had assured him that hehad misunderstood her. Her efforts to restore his serenity were notaltogether successful and she did not feel at ease about him until,a day or two later, she saw his name among the guests at a dinnerdance, at Mrs. Sidney Vanderpool's country house. But the interview hadconfirmed her certainty that there was no escaping the snare into whichshe had walked with eyes wide open. And for that reason a week freefrom Horace's society was more than welcome.
The silent week starting Friday morning had seemed rather a joke tobegin with. At four breakfast tables, four girls who contributed nota syllable to the conversation, contributed largely, nevertheless, tothe family gaiety. But by noon the humorous phase of the situation hadpassed, at least for the four chiefly concerned. All of them went aboutwith an expression of Spartan-like resolve, blended with not a littleanxiety. For when people have been chattering animatedly every day forfifteen or twenty years, it is very easy for an exclamation to escapetheir lips in spite of resolutions to the contrary.
Peggy probably had the hardest time of any one. For her brother, Dick,although fond of calling attention to a fuzzy excrescence which hedenominated his mustache, was as fond of mischief as he had ever been.And while undoubtedly he would have been sorry to have Peggy break hervow of silence, and lose the hundred dollars which meant another yearin school for little Myrtle Burns, he nevertheless subjected his sisterto any number of nerve-racking tests. A crash as of a falling body inan upstairs room, a cry of anguish from the cellar, a loud knocking onthe ceiling of her room apparently by ghostly fingers, were among thedevices Dick used for the testing of his sister. On each occasion Peggystarted convulsively, but somehow or other choked back the cry thatrose to her lips, "Oh, what is it? What is the matter?"
Though Dick was the only one of the Raymond family who madedeliberate attempts to betray his sister into unguarded speech, Mrs.Raymond, innocent as were her intentions, was almost as much of astumbling-block. "Now what do you think, Peggy," she would begin,"had we better try Turners again or--" And then catching sight ofthe Joan-of-Arc expression on Peggy's face, she would break off herquestion in the middle, and cry, "Oh, dear, I entirely forgot! I shallcertainly be glad when this ridiculous week is over."
There was one advantage in a week of silence. The girls were allowedto write letters, and they took full advantage of that permission.They wrote to aunts and uncles and cousins and all sorts of neglectedrelatives. They wrote to old friends, who had moved to other cities.They wrote to the girls they had come to know in their work asfarmerettes. They wrote--all four of them--to Lucy Haines, a countrygirl they had helped one summer vacation, now a successful teacher. Ifall weeks had been like this one, the postman who collected the mailfrom the Friendly Terrace letter-box would have needed an assistant.Peggy also wrote to Graham every day, and she tried to make her lettersas sprightly and entertaining as possible, so that he should not misstheir daily talks so much. But under the circumstances there was nota great deal to tell, and if it had not been for Dick's machinations,which Peggy repeated in much detail, she feared that her missives wouldhave proved dull reading.
Every afternoon the four girls met at the home of one or the otherof the quartette, bringing sewing or fancy work. They usually satindoors, for if a neighbor conversationally inclined had happened tocome along while they were occupying the porch the situation mighthave been embarrassing. Amy made a valiant effort to revive a fingeralphabet they had used in school to carry on extended conversationsacross a school room. But though it had not taken long for the girls torefresh their memories of the letters, they found it much harder workto converse after the fashion of the deaf and dumb than it had seemedwhen they were younger, and for the most part conversation languished.They sat and sewed, each vaguely cheered by the proximity of her fellowsufferers, though all the time conscious that this was an abnormallylong week.
But long as the days were, each came to an end in time. Amy had fallenin the way of apprising Aunt Phoebe by post-card that another day hadbeen passed in silence. "Tell Mr. Frost he might as well make out hischeck now," she wrote at the conclusion of the third day. "We haven'tspoken yet, and now we've learned the secret, there isn't the leastdanger that any one will speak before the week is up."
As the days went by, the vigilance of the girls increased instead ofrelaxing. Each realized that a single inadvertent exclamation from thelips of one w
ould render vain the effort and sacrifice of all. Thisrealization got rather on their nerves, and Ruth particularly, showedit.
"It's the most absurd thing I ever heard of," declared Mr. Wylie atbreakfast one morning, as Ruth came downstairs heavy-eyed. "You girlscall yourselves college women, don't you? This affair is worthy of abunch of high-school Freshmen."
"I think Ruth wants me to remind you," said Mrs. Wylie, as her daughterlooked at her appealingly, "that they mean to use the hundred dollarsin sending a little girl to school."
"But no man in his senses is going to pay good money for anything likethis. Who is he, anyway?"
"A sort of Uncle of Amy's, didn't you say, Ruth?"
As Amy's relationship to Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back was toocomplicated to explain without the assistance of language, Ruthcontented herself with nodding.
"Probably he was only joking. A hundred dollars is a hundred dollars,especially these days. You oughtn't to have taken him seriously, Ruth."
"I think Peggy is really responsible," remarked Mrs. Wylie, with arather mischievous smile, for Mr. Wylie's admiration for his son'sfiancee was as outspoken as Graham's own.
"Is that so, Ruth?"
Ruth nodded.
"Then all I can say," declared Mr. Wylie, pushing back his chair fromthe table, "is that in this matter my future daughter-in-law showedless than her usual good horse-sense."
"I'm beginning to understand something that always puzzled me,"Peggy wrote Graham, that same evening. "You know in mathematics theytalk about an _asymptote_, something that something else is alwaysapproaching, but never reaches. That always seemed so foolish tome, to approach a thing continually and never get there. But now Iunderstand. Thursday is an asymptote."
But though Thursday loitered on the way, it arrived at last, and fourgirls woke to the realization that it was supremely important--the daythat either made void or confirmed the success of the previous six.They spent the morning characteristically. Ruth, who had felt underthe weather for a day or two, decided to stay in bed, this being asafe refuge. Priscilla took a basket of mending and retired to herroom. Peggy spent her time at her writing desk and tried to collectsome fugitive ideas into a theme for her college English work in thefall. Amy devoted herself to making a cake with a very thick chocolatefrosting.
It happened that this morning Amy had received a postcard from AuntPhoebe, the first reply to her daily bulletins. "Glad to hear you aregetting on so well," wrote the old lady. "P---- quite nervous." Afterthe cake was finished and the frosting hardening, Amy resolved to takeAunt Phoebe's card over to Peggy. While they could not talk it over,they could exchange smiles, and probably a few ideas as well, throughthe medium of a lead pencil. The luckless Amy picked up the post cardand started off in high spirits.
It happened that one of the houses on the Terrace had been built witha slate roof, which at the present time was undergoing repairs. Amy,swinging lightly along the familiar way, gained rapidly on an old manahead who walked very deliberately, apparently examining the numbers ofthe houses. Amy noticed that, although the sky was clear, he carried amassive cotton umbrella.
The old gentleman was just opposite the house which was being repaired,when one of the workmen pulled out a broken slate and without evenlooking behind him, flung it to the street below. Amy saw the workmanbefore the slate left his hand, and some intuition warned her ofdanger. "Look out!" she cried shrilly, "Look out!"
The old man ahead dodged back. He was none too quick, for the pieceof slate, flying through the air with the sharp edge down, droppedwhere he had stood an instant before. The old man took off hishat and ran his fingers through his hair. Amy saw it was UnclePhilander-Behind-His-Back.
The discovery, interesting in itself, meant nothing to Amy at themoment. She uttered a heart-broken wail. She had spoken before the weekwas up. By her impulsive exclamation she had forfeited the hundreddollars. Though she knew acknowledgment must be made to her partnersin the undertaking, since as she had broken the spell the others wereautomatically released from the obligation of silence, to face any ofthem at that moment seemed impossible. Without a word to Mr. Frost, Amywheeled about and started for home, the tears running down her cheeks.
Breathing hard, Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back trotted after her. Whathe meant to say does not matter, since the discovery that Amy was intears resulted in the inquiry, "What are you crying for, hey?"
"I lost it," Amy sobbed. "I spoke."
Her companion seemed to be deliberating. "I s'pose you mean the hundreddollars."
"Of course I mean the hundred dollars. But I don't see how I could havehelped it. I couldn't walk on deliberately and see a sharp piece ofslate drop on a man's head."
"'A HUNDRED DOLLARS AIN'T ANY TOO MUCH TO PAY FOR HAVINGYOUR LIFE SAVED'"]
"I came in to-day thinking I'd have a talk with that friend of yours,"said Mr. Frost, "seeing she seemed to be the head one in this thing.I was going to tell her that now I'd thought it over, my consciencewasn't quite easy about this agreement of ourn. I'm afraid it is toomuch like placing a bet."
Amy's jaw dropped as she looked at him. Her tears dried instantly, themoisture evaporated by the fires of her wrath. But either because herusually ready tongue was out of practise after six days of idleness,or because the realization of the perfidy of the old man produced amomentary paralysis of her vocal chords, not a word escaped her partedlips.
"Yes, it didn't look right to me," Mr. Frost continued. "It was thesame as betting that you four girls couldn't keep from talking for aweek. My conscience wouldn't let me be a party to anything of thatsort. But--"
The pause after the "but" was prolonged. Amy searched her vocabularyfor words that would do justice to the occasion, but UnclePhilander-Behind-His-Back was continuing before she knew what shewanted to say.
"Having your life saved is a different thing. That slate had an edge onit like a meat ax, and coming through the air the way it was, it wouldhave cleft my head open like it had been an egg shell. My widow couldhave got damages all right, but that wouldn't have helped me out."
They had reached Amy's door by now. "Got pen and ink handy?" asked Mr.Frost, with a marked change of manner.
"Yes," said Amy tonelessly, and opened the door for him. She led theway to the writing desk, and pointed out the articles he required.Mr. Philander Frost, seating himself, wrote out a check for a hundreddollars, payable to Amy Lassell or order.
"There," he said as he reached for the blotter. "Can't nobody no matterhow sensitive their consciences are, find any fault with that. Ahundred dollars ain't any too much to pay for having your life saved."
And then the ink had a narrow escape from being overturned, for Amyflung her arms around the old gentleman's neck and hugged him. "UnclePhilander!" she screamed, "You're a prince."
And that is how little Myrtle Burns was assured of her year in highschool, and Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back was adopted, unreservedly,by four unusually attractive nieces.