Five Little Peppers Grown Up

M >> Margaret Sidney >> Five Little Peppers Grown Up

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"What did she run off for?" cried Jasper, scaling the platform steps.
Polly glanced quickly up into his beaming face.

"Oh, Jasper, she has gone home--I couldn't help it," and her face fell.

He looked annoyed. "Never mind, Polly," he said, his brow clearing,
"father wanted to introduce her to some friends, that's all. Well, and
wasn't it a grand success, though!" and he beamed at her.

"Yes," said Polly, settling Amy's music with an unsteady hand.

"And Charlotte really surprised us all," he went on gaily. "Why, Polly,
who would think that we have--or you rather, for you have done it
all--the honor to bring out a nightingale! Here, let me do that for
you." He was fairly bubbling over with delight, and as he essayed to
take the music out of Polly's hand, he laughed again. "Dear me, how
stupid I am," as a piece fluttered to the floor.

"And didn't Amy do nicely?" asked Polly beginning to feel a bit tired
now.

"Yes, indeed," assented Jasper enthusiastically, as he recovered the
piece. "Just splendidly! I didn't know she had so much music in her. Oh,
here comes a horde of congratulations, Polly." He threw her the
brightest of smiles as he moved to make way for a group of friends
hurrying up to shower Polly with compliments, and every one had
something delightful to add of Charlotte Chatterton's singing.

"Jasper couldn't help but be happy over Charlotte's singing," said Polly
to herself, and looking after him, "it's so beautiful," as they came up.

"Where are you going, Polly?" called Alexia at last, when it was all
over, and the janitor was closing the big outer door, as Polly ran ahead
of the girls and down the long steps of The Exeter.

[Illustration: POLLY TURNED AND WAVED HER MUSIC-ROLL AT THEM]

Polly turned and waved her music-roll at them for a reply.

"Now somebody is going to carry her off," grumbled Alexia; "hurry up,
girls, let's see who it is." So they ran as lightly as Polly herself,
after her, down the steps, only in time to see old Mr. King help her
into the carriage with Mrs. Fisher and Phronsie, and drive rapidly off.

"Whatever in the world is the matter?" cried Alexia, running up to
Jasper who was watching them speed away.

"Why, Polly thinks Charlotte is sick," explained Jasper, "because she
went home before the Recital was out."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Alexia angrily. "What is the matter with
Polly, Jasper? She grows worse and worse. Why can't she let Charlotte
Chatterton alone, pray tell. I, for one, should think mischief enough
had been done by that girl."

"You should think mischief enough had been done by Charlotte?" repeated
Jasper in astonishment. "I must say, Alexia, that I fail to understand
you."

"To hear people praise to the very skies that Chatterton girl," cried
Alexia in a passion--she was actually stamping her foot now--"oh, oh!
why don't some of you say something?" she cried, appealing suddenly to
the girls. "You all feel as I do about Polly's pushing forward that
girl; and there you stand and make me do all the talking."

Jasper looked grave at once. "There is no occasion for any one to exert
herself to talk over this," he said. "It is Polly's affair, and hers
alone." He raised his hat to her, and to the rest of the group, and
walked off.

CHAPTER X.

PHRONSIE HAS A PLAN.

Phronsie was the first to reach Charlotte's door.

"Charlotte?" she called softly through the keyhole. There was no answer,
and after one or two ineffectual attempts, Phronsie turned fearfully
away.

"I do believe something is in the room with Charlotte," she said, as
Polly came running up the stairs. Then she sat down on the top step and
clasped her hands. "I heard it raging up and down."

"Oh, no, Phronsie," said Polly reassuringly, "there couldn't be anything
in there with Charlotte. I'll try," and she laid a quick hand on the
knob. "Oh, Charlotte, do open the door; you are worrying us all so,"
called Polly imploringly.

Charlotte flung wide the door. Two red spots burned on her cheeks, and
her pale blue eyes snapped. But when she saw Polly, she said, "I'm sorry
I frightened you, but I'm best alone."

"Isn't there really anything in here with you, Charlotte?" asked
Phronsie, getting off from her stair, to peer past Polly. "Oh, I'm sure
I heard it raging up and down."

"That was I," said Charlotte; "I was the wild beast, Phronsie."

"Oh, dear," breathed Phronsie.

"And oh!" exclaimed Polly.

"Charlotte," said Phronsie, coming in to slip her hand into Charlotte's,
"it was just beautiful when you sang; I thought it was birds when you
went clear up into the air. I did really, Charlotte."

"Oh, don't!" begged Charlotte, looking over at Polly.

"Come down to dinner, Charlotte," said Polly quickly. "Really you must,
else I am afraid Grandpapa will be up here after you."

"I don't want any dinner," said Charlotte, drawing back.

"Indeed, but you must come down," said Polly firmly, holding out her
hand. "Come, Charlotte."

"Let me smooth your hair," begged Phronsie, standing on tiptoe; "do bend
down just a very little, please. There, that's it," patting Charlotte's
head with both hands; "now you look very nice; you really do--doesn't
she, Polly."

"Yes, indeed," said Polly cheerily, "just as fine as can be. There, they
are coming after us," as quick footsteps sounded in the hall below.
"Hurry, Charlotte, do. We're coming, boys," she called.

They had just finished dinner, when a note was handed Polly. It ran
thus:

"Do, dear Polly, run over to-morrow morning early. I want to consult you
in regard to asking Miss Chatterton to sing at my next 'At Home.' I
should be charmed to have her favor us.

"FELICIA A. CABOT."

"The very thing!" exclaimed Jasper, with only a thought for Polly's
pleasure, when Polly had cried, "How nice of Mrs. Cabot!" "Don't you say
so, father?" he added.

"Assuredly," said old Mr. King with great satisfaction in Polly's
pleasure, and at her success in drawing Charlotte out. And then he
thought no more about it, and the bell ringing and Mr. Alstyne coming
in, he went off into the library for a quiet chat.

And after this, there were no more quiet days for Charlotte Chatterton.
Everybody who was musical, wanted to revel in her voice; and everybody
who wasn't, wanted the same thing because it was so talked about. So she
was asked to sing at musicales and receptions without end, until Alexia
exclaimed at last, "They are all raving, stark-mad over her, and it's
all Polly's own fault, the whole of it."

Phronsie laid down the note she was writing to Mrs. Fargo, a fortnight
later, and said to herself, "I would better do it now, I think," and
going out, she went deliberately to old Mr. King's room, and rapped at
the door.

"Come in!" called the old gentleman, "come in! Oh, bless me, it's you,
Phronsie!" in pleased surprise.

"Yes, Grandpapa," said Phronsie, coming in and shutting the door
carefully, "I came on purpose to see you all alone."

"So you did, dear," said Mr. King, highly gratified, and pushing away
his writing table, he held out his hand. "Now, then, Phronsie, you are
never going to be too big, you know, to sit on my knee, so hop up now."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa," cried Phronsie in a rapture, "I could never be too
big for that," so she perched up as of old on his knee, then she folded
her hands and looked gravely in his face.

"Well, my dear, what is it?" asked the old gentleman presently, "you've
come to tell me something, I suppose."

"Yes, Grandpapa, I have," said Phronsie decidedly, "and it is most
important too, Grandpapa, and oh, I do wish it so much," and she clasped
her hands tighter and sighed.

"Well, then, Phronsie, if you want it, I suppose it must be," said Mr.
King, quite as a matter of course. "But first, child, tell me what it
is," and he stroked her yellow hair.

"Grandpapa," asked Phronsie suddenly, "how much money did Mrs. Chatterton
say I was to have?"

"Oh, bless me!" exclaimed Mr. King, with a start. "Why, what makes you
ask such a question? Oh, she left you everything she had, Phronsie; a
couple of millions or so it is; why?"

"Grandpapa," asked Phronsie, looking intently at him, "isn't Charlotte
very, very poor?"

"Charlotte poor?" repeated the old gentleman. "Why, no, not exactly; her
father isn't rich, but Charlotte, I think, may do very well, especially
as I intend to keep her here for a while, and then I shall never let her
suffer, Phronsie; never, indeed."

"Grandpapa," said Phronsie, "wasn't Mrs. Chatterton aunt to Charlotte?"

"Yes; that is, to Charlotte's father," corrected Mr. King. "But what of
that, child, pray? What have you got into your head, Phronsie?"

"If Mrs. Chatterton was aunt to Charlotte," persisted Phronsie
slowly, "it seems as if Charlotte ought to have some of the money. It
really does, Grandpapa."

"But Cousin Eunice didn't think so, else she'd have left it to
Charlotte," said Mr. King abruptly, "and she did choose to leave it to
you. So there's an end of it, Phronsie. I didn't want you to have it,
but the thing was fixed, and I couldn't help myself. And neither can we
do anything now, but take matters as they are."

"I do think," said Phronsie, without taking her eyes from his face,
"that maybe Mrs. Chatterton is sorry now, and wishes that she had left
some money to Charlotte. Don't you suppose so, Grandpapa?" and one hand
stole up to his neck.

"Maybe," said the old gentleman, with a short laugh, "and I shouldn't
wonder if Cousin Eunice was sorry over a few other things too,
Phronsie."

"Wouldn't it make her very glad if I gave Charlotte some of the money?"
Phronsie's red lips were very close to his ear now, "oh, I do want to so
much; you can't think, Grandpapa, how much!"

For answer, Mr. King set her down hastily on the floor, and took two or
three turns up and down the room. Phronsie stood a moment quite still
where he left her, then she ran up to him and slipped her hand within
his.

"Oh, I do so wish I might," she said, "there's so much for a little girl
like me. It would be so nice to have Charlotte have some with me."

Still no answer. So Phronsie went up and down silently by his side for a
few more turns. Then she spoke again. "Does it make you sorry, Grandpapa
dear, to have me want Charlotte to have the money with me?" she asked
timidly.

"No, no, child," answered Mr. King hastily, "and yet I don't know what
to say. I don't feel that it would be right for you to give any of your
money to her."

"Right?" cried Phronsie, opening her brown eyes very wide. "Why, isn't
the money my very own, Grandpapa?"

"Yes, yes, of course; but you are too young to judge of such things,"
said the old gentleman decidedly, "as the giving away of property and
all that."

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Phronsie, in gentle reproach, and standing
very tall. "Why, I am thirteen."

"And when you get to be ten years older, you might blame me," said Mr.
King, "and I can't say but what you'd have reason if I let you do such a
thing as to give away any money to Charlotte."

"Blame you? Why, Grandpapa, I couldn't." Phronsie drew a long breath,
then threw herself convulsively into his arms, her face working hard in
her efforts not to cry. But it was no use, and Mr. King caught her in
time to see the quick drops roll down Phronsie's cheek and to feel them
fall on his hand.

"Oh, dear me!" he cried in great distress, "there, there, child, you
shall give away the whole if you wish; I've enough for you without
it--only don't cry, Phronsie. You may do anything you like, dear.
There," mopping up her wet little face with his handkerchief, "now
that's a good child; Phronsie, you are not going to cry, of course not.
There, do smile a bit; that's my girl now," as a faint light stole into
Phronsie's eyes. "I didn't mean you'd really blame me, only"--

"I couldn't," still said Phronsie, and it looked as if the shower were
about to fall again.

"I know, child; you think your old Grandpapa does just about right,"
said Mr. King soothingly, and highly gratified.

"He's ever and always right," said Phronsie, still not moving.

"Bless you, child," cried the old gentleman, much moved, "I wish I could
say I believed what you say. But many things in my life might have been
bettered."

"Oh, no, Grandpapa," protested Phronsie in a tone of horror, "they
couldn't have been better. Don't, Grandpapa, don't!" she caught him
around the neck imploringly.

"Well, I won't, child," promised Mr. King, holding her close. "And now,
Phronsie, I'll tell you; I'll think of all this that you and I have
talked over, and I'll let you know by and by what you ought to do about
it, and you mustn't say anything about it to anybody, not to a single
soul, child. It shall be just a secret between you and me."

"I won't, Grandpapa," said Phronsie obediently, and patting his broad
back with her soft hand.

"And, meantime," said Mr. King, quite satisfied, "why, Charlotte is
having pretty good times, I think. Polly is looking out for that."

"Polly is making her have beautiful times," said Phronsie happily, "oh,
very beautiful times indeed, Grandpapa."

"I expect she's an awful nuisance," the old gentleman broke out
suddenly.

"Oh, Grandpapa!" exclaimed Phronsie, breaking away from him to look into
his face.

"Well, well, perhaps I shouldn't say quite that," said Mr. King,
correcting himself. "But, well, now, Phronsie, you run back to your
play, child, and I'll set to work at once to think out this matter."

"I was writing a note to Mrs. Fargo," said Phronsie, putting up her lips
for a kiss. "You are sure you won't make your head ache thinking about
it, Grandpapa?" she asked anxiously.

"Sure as I can be, Phronsie," said old Mr. King, smiling. "Good-by,
dear."

* * * * *

"See here, Pickering," Mr. Cabot threw wide the door of his private
office with a nervous hand. "It is time I had a good talk with you. Come
in; I never get one nowadays."

"Can't stop, Uncle," said Pickering hastily. "Besides, what would be the
use, you never see anything encouraging about me or my career. And I
believe I am going to the dogs."

"Indeed you are not, Pickering," cried Mr. Cabot quickly, the color
rising to his cheek. "There, there, my sister's boy shall never say
that. But come in, come in." He laid hold of Pickering's arm and gently
forced him into the little room.

Not to be ungracious, the young man threw himself into a chair. "Well,
what is it, Uncle? Do out with it; I'm in no mood for a lecture, though,
this morning."

"I'm not going to lecture you, my boy," said Mr. Cabot, closing the
door, then going to the mantel to lean one elbow on it, a favorite
attitude of his, while he scanned his nephew. "But something worse than
common has come to you. Can I help in any way?"

"No, no, don't ask me," ejaculated Pickering, striking his knee with one
glove, and turning apprehensively in his chair. "Oh, hang it, Uncle, why
can't you let me alone?"

"I've seen this thing, whatever it is, coming upon you for sometime,"
said Mr. Cabot, too nervous to notice the entreaty in Pickering's voice
and manner, "and I cannot wait any longer to find out the trouble. It's
my right, Pickering; you have no father to see to you, and I've always
wanted to have the best success be yours." He turned away his head now,
a break coming in his voice.

[Illustration: "I'M NOT GOING TO LECTURE YOU."]

"You have, Uncle, you have," assented Pickering, brought out a trifle
from his distress, "but then I'm not equal to the strain my relatives
put upon me. Not worth it, either," he added, relapsing into his gloom.
Then he shoved his chair so that he could not look his uncle in the
face, and bent a steady glance out of the window.

Mr. Cabot gave a nervous start that carried him away from the mantel a
step or two. But when he was there, he felt so much worse, that he soon
got back into the old position.

"I don't see, Pickering," he resumed, "why you shouldn't get along.
You're through college."

"Which is a wonder," interpolated Pickering.

"Well, I can't say but that I was a good deal disturbed at one time,"
said Mr. Cabot frankly; "but never mind that now, you are through," and
he heaved a sigh of relief, "and nicely established with Van Metre and
Cartwright. It's the best law firm in the town, Pickering." Mr. Cabot
brought his elbow off from the mantel enough to smite his palms together
smartly in enthusiasm. "I got you in there."

"I know you did, Uncle," said Pickering; "you've done everything that's
good. Only I repeat I'm not worth it," and he drummed on the chair-arm.

"For Heaven's sake, Pickering!" cried his uncle, darting in front of the
chair and its restless occupant, "don't say that again. It's enough to
make a man go to the bad, to lose hope. What have you been doing lately?
Do you gamble?"

"What do you take me for?" demanded Pickering, starting to his feet with
flashing eyes, and throwing open his top-coat as if the weight oppressed
him. "I've been a lazy dog all my life, and a good-for-naught; but I
hope I've not sunk to that."

"Oh, nothing, nothing--I'm sure I didn't mean," cried Mr. Cabot,
starting back suddenly in astonishment. "Dear me, Pickering," taking off
his eyeglasses to blow his nose, "you needn't pick me up so violently.
I've been much worried about you," settling his glasses again for
another look at his nephew. "And I can't tolerate any thoughts I cannot
speak."

"I should think not," retorted Pickering shortly; "the trouble is in
having the thoughts."

"And I am very much relieved to find that my fears
are groundless--that you've been about nothing that my sister or I
should be ashamed of," and he picked up courage to step forward gingerly
and pat the young man on the shoulder. "You are in trouble, though, and
I insist on knowing what it is."

Pickering dropped suddenly beneath his uncle's hand, into the nearest
chair.

CHAPTER XI.

THINGS ARE GETTING MIXED.

"How can you ask me, Uncle?" cried Pickering passionately.

"Because I will know." Mr. Cabot was quite determined.

"Well, then, if you must have it, it's--it's Polly Pepper." Pickering
could get no further.

"It's Polly Pepper!" ejaculated Mr. Cabot. Then a light broke over his
face, and he laughed aloud, he was so pleased. "You mean, you are in
love with Polly Pepper?"

"As if everybody didn't know it?" cried Pickering hotly. "Don't pretend,
Uncle, that you are surprised;" he was really disrespectful now in
manner. "Oh, beg pardon, sir," recovering himself.

"Never mind," said Mr. Cabot indulgently, "you are over-wrought this
morning. My boy," and he came over and clapped his nephew on the back
approvingly, "that's the best thing you ever told me; you make me very
happy, and"--

"Hold, Uncle," cried Pickering, darting away from the hand, "don't go so
fast. You are taking too much for granted."

Mr. Cabot for answer, bestowed another rap, this time on Pickering's
arm, indulging all the while in the broadest of smiles.

Just then some one knocked at the door, and in response to Mr. Cabot's
unwilling "Come in," Ben's head appeared. "Beg pardon, Mr. Cabot, but
Mr. Van Metre wants you out here."

Pickering lunged past Ben. "Don't stop me," he cried crossly, in
response to Ben's "Well, old fellow."

Ben stared after him with puzzled eyes as he shot down the long store;
and all that afternoon he could not get Pickering and his strange ways
out of his mind, and on the edge of the twilight, jumping out of his car
at the corner nearest home, he buttoned up his coat and rushed on,
regardless that Billy Harlowe was making frantic endeavors to overtake
him.

"What's got into the old chap," said Ben to himself, pushing on doggedly
with the air of a man who has thoughts of his own to think out. "I
declare, if I should know Pickering Dodge lately; I can't tell where to
find him."

[Illustration: "DON'T STOP ME," CRIED PICKERING CROSSLY.]

And with no light on his puzzle, Ben turned into the stone gateway, and
strode up to the east porch to let himself in as usual, with his latch
key. As he was fitting it absently, all the while his mind more intent
on Pickering and his changed demeanor than on his own affairs, he heard
a little rustling noise that made him turn his head to see a tall figure
spring down the veranda floor in haste to gain the quickest angle.

"Charlotte, why, what are you doing out here?" exclaimed Ben, leaving
his key in the lock to look at her.

"Don't speak!" begged Charlotte hastily, and coming up to him. "Somebody
will hear you. I came out here to walk up and down--I shall die in that
house; and I am going home to-morrow." She nervously twisted her
handkerchief around her fingers, and Ben still looking at her closely,
saw that she had been crying.

"Charlotte, what are you talking about?" he cried, opening his honest
blue eyes wide at her. "Why, I thought you had ever so much sense, and
that you were way ahead of other girls, except Polly," he added, quite
as a matter of course.

"Don't!" cried Charlotte, wincing, and, "but I shall go home to-morrow."

"Look here," Ben took out his key and tucked it into his pocket, then
faced Charlotte, "take a turn up and down, Charlotte; you'll pull out of
your bad fit; you're homesick." Ben's honest face glowed with pity as he
looked at her.

"I'm--I'm everything," said Charlotte desperately. "O, Ben, you can't
think," she seized his arm, "Polly is just having a dreadful time
because I'm here."

"See here, now," said Ben, taking the hand on his arm in a strong grip,
as if it were Polly's, "don't you go to getting such an idea into your
head, Charlotte."

"I can't help it," said Charlotte; "it was put there," she added
bitterly.

Ben gave a start of surprise. "Well, you are not the sort of girl to
believe such stuff, any way," he said.

Charlotte pulled away her hand. "I'm going home," she declared flatly.

"Indeed you are not," said Ben, quite as decidedly.

"O, yes, I am."

"We'll see;" he nodded at her. "Take my advice, Charlotte, and don't
make a muff of yourself.

"It's very easy for you to talk," cried Charlotte, a little pink spot of
anger rising on either cheek, "you have everybody to love you, and to be
glad you are here; very easy, indeed!"

With that, she walked off, swinging her gown disdainfully after her.

"Whew!" ejaculated Ben, "well, I must say I'm surprised at you,
Charlotte. I didn't suppose you could be jealous."

"Jealous?" Charlotte flamed around at him. "O, Ben Pepper, what do you
mean?"

"You are just as jealous as you can be," said Ben honestly, "absolutely
green."

"I'd have you to know I never was jealous in my life," said Charlotte,
quite pale now, and standing very still.

"You don't know it, but you are," said Ben imperturbably; "when people
begin to talk about other folks being loved and happy and all that,
they're always jealous. Why in the world don't you think how everybody
is loving you and wanting to make you happy?" It was quite a long speech
for Ben, and he was overcome with astonishment at himself for having
made it.

[Illustration: "I'M GOING HOME." DECLARED CHARLOTTE.]

"Because they are not," said Charlotte bitterly, "at least, they can't
love me, if they do try to make me happy."

"Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Ben.

"And Polly"--then Charlotte pulled herself up.

"Well, what about Polly?" demanded Ben.

"Oh, nothing." Charlotte twisted uneasily, and shut her lips tightly
together.

"If you think my sister Polly doesn't love you and want to make you
happy, there's no use in my talking to you," said Ben, in a displeased
way.

"I didn't say so," cried Charlotte quickly. "Oh, don't go. You are the
only one who can help me," as he made a movement toward the door. "I
never told anybody else, and they don't guess."

"And it's a pity that they should now," said Ben. "I tell you,
Charlotte, if you never say anything like this again, I'll believe that
you're the girl I thought you, with plenty of sense, and all that.
There, give us your hand. Hurry up, now; here comes Phronsie."

Charlotte slowly laid her hand in Ben's big palm, as Phronsie opened the
oaken door, and peered out into the darkness.

"I can't think what makes Ben so late," she said softly to herself.

"I'm going into the other door," said Charlotte, springing off down the
veranda.

"Halloo, Pet!" Ben rushed into the hall, and seized Phronsie for a good
hug.

"O, Ben, you're so late!" cried Phronsie.

"Well, I'm here now," said Ben comfortably.

"You can't think what has happened," said Phronsie, with a delightful
air of mystery.

"To be sure I can't; but you are going to tell me," declared Ben with
assurance.

"O, Bensie, I'd so much rather you would guess," said Phronsie, clasping
her hands.

"Well, then, you have a new cat," said Ben at a hazard, while he
disposed of his coat and hat.

"O, Ben," cried Phronsie in reproach, "why, I've given up having new
cats; indeed I have."

"Since when?" asked Ben.

"Why, last week. I really have. I'm not going to get any more," said
Phronsie.

Ben shouted. At the sound of his voice, somebody called over the stairs,
"O, Ben, are you home? Come up here."

"Come on, Pet," cried Ben, "we're wanted," seizing Phronsie, and
hurrying off to the stairs.

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