The Key Note. Burnham Clara Louise

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      "You must have had an inspiring ride down the bay, Miss Veronica," she said. "I have been taking a walk to see the sun set. It was heavenly to-night. Such translucent rose-color, and violet that shimmered into turquoise, and robin's-egg blue. How fortunate for the new people to get that first impression! Well, Miss Burridge," Diana sighed. "Of course we must be glad to see them, but it has been a very subtle joy to retire and to waken with no human sounds about us. I shall always remember this last two weeks."

      "I'm glad you feel that way," said Miss Priscilla. "I thought, though, that you'd heard lots o' sounds. Phil makes enough noise for a regiment when he is dressin' in the mornin'."

      "You can scarcely call such melodious tones noise, can you?" replied Miss Wilbur gently. "His flute is more liquid than that of the hermit thrush."

      "I never heard him play the flute." Miss Priscilla looked surprised.

      "I refer to the marvelous, God-bestowed instrument that dwells within him," explained Diana.

      "I think myself," said Miss Priscilla, clearing her throat, "that it's kind o' cozy to hear a man whistlin' and shoutin' around in the mornin' while he's dressin'. I suppose he'll be leavin' us pretty soon now. I hate to see him go, he's gettin' the plants into such good shape; and wasn't he good about scythin' paths so we wouldn't get wet to our knees every time we left the house? I don't know how you ever had the courage to wade over to this piazza before I came, Miss Wilbur."

      "Mr. Barrison certainly did smooth our paths."

      "He told me he was Aunt Priscilla's man-of-all-work," said Veronica, busy with her omelette.

      "So he has been," replied Diana seriously: "out of the goodness of his heart and the cleverness of his hands; but he is a great artist, Miss Veronica, or at least he will be."

      "Do you mean he paints?"

      "No, he sings: and it is singing – such as must have sounded when the stars sang together."

      "Dear me," said Veronica, "I wish I'd asked him to pipe up when we were on the boat."

      Diana let her gaze rest for a moment of silence on the sacrilegious speaker, then she excused herself, saying she would go up to her room.

      As soon as the door had closed behind her, Veronica looked up and bestowed upon her aunt a meaning wink.

      "She's got it bad, hasn't she?" she said.

      Miss Burridge put her finger to her lips warningly. "Sh!" she breathed. "Sometimes I think she has: but, law, Phil's nothing but a boy."

      "And she's nothing but a girl," said Veronica practically. "That's the way it usually begins."

      Miss Burridge laughed. "What do you know about it, you child?"

      "Not so much as I'd like to. Puppa would never let anybody stay after ten o'clock, and you don't really get warmed up before ten o'clock."

      "Why, Veronica Trueman, how you talk!"

      "Don't speak of how I talk!" said Veronica. "Hasn't that Miss Wilbur got language! I guess Mr. Barrison likes her, too. He told me she was a goddess."

      "Oh, Phil's just full of fun. He always will be a rapscallion at heart, no matter how great he ever gets to be."

      "Well, he doesn't want anybody else to stop saying prunes and prisms. He didn't even want me to chew gum. Anybody that's as unnatural as that had better marry a goddess. Now, let's go for those dishes, Aunt Priscilla."

      "You good child!" said Miss Burridge appreciatively. "I can't really ask Genevieve to stay in the evenin'. She's the little girl who comes every day and prepares vegetables and washes dishes. Now, one minute, Veronica, while I get the names o' these new people straight. I've got their letters here." Miss Priscilla took them down from the chimney-piece. "There's Mrs. Lowell, she's alone, and Miss Emerson, she's alone, and Mr. Nicholas Gayne and his nephew, Herbert Gayne. I wonder how long I'll remember that."

      "I know them all," said Veronica sententiously. "The whole bunch came on in the same car with me from Boston. It's my plan to poison Mr. Gayne."

      "Don't talk that way, child."

      "You'll agree to it when you see how mean he is to his nephew. The boy isn't all there."

      "What do you mean?"

      "Has rooms to let in the upper story, you know." Veronica touched her round forehead. "Mrs. Lowell is a queen and Miss Emerson isn't; or else Miss Emerson is a queen and Mrs. Lowell isn't. I'll know which is t'other to-morrow."

      "You seem to have made up your mind about them all."

      "Oh, yes!" said Veronica. "You don't have to eat a whole jar of butter to find out whether it's good. All I need is a three-minute taste of anybody, and I had three hours and a half of them. Now, come on, Aunt Priscilla, let's put some transparent water in the metal bowl, and the snowy foam of soap within it." She rolled up her naughty eyes as she spoke.

      Miss Burridge gave the girl a rebuking look, and then laughed. "Don't you go to makin' fun of her now," she said. "She's my star boarder, no matter who else comes, I'm in love with her whether Phil is or not. She's genuine, that girl is, – genuine."

      "And you don't want me to be imitation," giggled Veronica. "I see."

      Then the two went at the clearing-up and dish-washing in high good-humor.

      CHAPTER III

      A FRIENDLY PACT

      "You, Veronica," said Miss Burridge one morning, looking out of the kitchen window. "I feel sorry for that young boy."

      "I told you you would. Old Nick should worry what his nephew does with himself all day."

      "Veronica!" Miss Priscilla gave the girl a warning wink and motioned with her hand toward the sink where Genevieve, her hair in a tight braid and her slender figure attired in a scanty calico frock, was looking over the bib of an apron much too large for her, and washing the breakfast dishes.

      "Excuse me," said Veronica demurely. "I meant to say Mr. Gayne. Genevieve, you must never call Mr. Gayne 'Old Nick.' Do you hear?"

      "Veronica!" pleaded Miss Burridge.

      "Oh, we all know Mr. Gayne," said Genevieve, in her piercing, high voice which always seemed designed to be heard through the tumult of a storm at sea.

      "He has been here before, then?" asked Miss Burridge.

      "Pretty near all last summer. He comes to paint, you know."

      "No, I didn't know he was an artist."

      "Oh, yes, he paints somethin' grand, but I never saw any of his pitchers."

      "Was his nephew with him last summer?"

      "No, I don't believe so. I never saw anybody around with him. He spent most of his time up to the Dexter farm. He said he could paint the prettiest pitchers there. It was him seen the first ghost."

      "What are you talking about, Genevieve?" asked Miss Burridge, while Veronica busied herself drying the glass and silver.

      "Oh, yes," she put in. "That is the haunted farm. Mr. Barrison was telling me about it."

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