Eight Girls and a Dog

by Carolyn Wells

CHAPTER V

THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS

THE sun was shining o’er the sea, shining with all its might, and had been doing so for two hours, but no one in Hilarity Hall had awakened to the fact. A loud rap at the kitchen door partially roused sleepy Jessie, who murmured, “Yes, mamma,” and dozed off again. But Betty was thoroughly awakened by the sound, and, giving Jessie a shake, she exclaimed: “I believe it’s that horde of men again!” Then, springing up, she began to dress hastily.

The knocking not only continued but was supplemented by other peremptory sounds,—a ring at the front-door bell, a toot on a tin fish-horn, the postman’s whistle,—all of which were responded to by frantic barkings from Timmy Loo, who tore madly from one door to another, bouncing at last into Betty’s room and waltzing before her on his hind legs. His fat little body was quivering with excitement, and his bright eyes blinked through the wispy locks that hung over them.

But Betty was struggling with a stiff shirt-waist and a pair of sleeve-links, and her fruitless endeavors to bring them into harmony rendered her incapable of good work in that direction. Then Timmy Loo grew wheedlesome and patted Betty’s foot, as was his custom when he wanted anybody to go anywhere. Betty pushed him aside, a little impatiently it seemed to Tim, and he ran to Jessie, who was enjoying the added luxury of Betty’s pillow, and looking as if she would stay there undisturbed though China fell.

But the second-story contingent was also aroused by this time, and six frowzled heads hung over the banister and twelve bare feet poked themselves between the rails.

“Can’t you go, Betty?” said Marguerite’s plaintive voice.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” sang out Marjorie, as she skipped back to her room and made things fly.

“Oh, hang!” said Betty, throwing her links down on the bureau and flinging her shirt-waist across the room.

“Take mine, dear,” said Jessie, placidly; “it’s on that chair, and the buttons are all in it.”

Betty’s face cleared, and she slipped on Jessie’s waist in a jiffy, and was at the front door in another.

There she found the postman and a pleasant-faced Irish girl who said:

“I’m Rosie, mum.”

“You are indeed,” said Betty, looking at her red cheeks; “come in.”

Just then Hester landed in the lower hall with a jump which had included the last four stairs.

“I’m glad to see you, Rosie,” said she, kindly; “come along with us and we’ll face the bombardment.”

Rosie, looking somewhat bewildered, followed the two girls to the kitchen. Going through, Betty unlocked the door which opened into a sort of outer kitchen or shed with latticed and morning-gloried walls. The door of the shed too was barred, and when this was finally unfastened, instead of the looked-for multitude they saw only the red-haired grocer sitting dejectedly on the stump of a tree.

He took off his cap as he saw the girls, and his hair blazed merrily in the sunshine.

“Morning, young ladies,” said he; “the fish-man he couldn’t wait no longer, and the vegetable-man likewise was in a hurry. But I sez, I’ll wait, fer like as not there’ll be things you fergot overnight, besides fresh orders.”

“Yes,” said Hester, abstractedly; “but couldn’t you come round again later? We’re—we haven’t decided yet what we do want.”

“Well, no, mum, I couldn’t call later—not to say later. I’ll be round again to deliver the goods, but not to take orders.”

“I’ll tell you what, Hester,” said Betty; “don’t order now, and after breakfast some of us can ride over on our wheels and leave the order in time for him to bring the things. Er—what shall I call you, sir?”

“Dan’l, mum.”

“Well, Daniel, we won’t give you any order now, but we’ll send it over to the store.”

“All right, mum”; and looking a little injured, the red-haired one shambled off.

“Now,” said Betty, “we must have breakfast first of all; and as I cooked most of the dinner last night, it isn’t my turn this morning. Marguerite’s the Matron of this establishment, and I think she ought to assume some responsibility.”

“So do I,” said Betty; “let’s go and read the Riot Act to her.”

“No,” said Hester; “let’s write a mandamus or habeas corpus or whatever they call it, and send it up to her by Rosie, and we’ll go for a spin on our wheels.”

Whisking a leaf off the order-pad, Betty wrote in large letters:

MATRON MARGUERITE

OF

HILARITY HALL

WILL PREPARE AND SERVE

BREAKFAST

THIS (FRIDAY) MORNING

IN THE

REFECTORY

COVERS LAID FOR EIGHT

“There, Rosie; take that upstairs, please, and knock at the first door at the head of the stairs, and give this to the young lady with the fly-away yellow hair: the one that came to see you last night, you know—Miss Marguerite.”

“Yes, mum,” said Rosie.

Then Hester and Betty each drank a tumblerful of the fresh milk Farmer Hobbs had brought, and in great glee started off on their wheels, while Timmy Loo scampered along behind.

“It seems mean to run away,” said Hester; but Betty replied:

“Not at all; it’s only fair that Daisy should do some work. Let’s go around by the church and down that road to the beach.”

Rosie started obediently on her errand; but Jessie stopped her as she passed the door, inquiring:

“Where did the girls go?”

“I cudden’t tell ye, miss; they wint galloping away on their bicycles.”

“They did! What about breakfast?”

“They towld me to give this note to Miss Margreet.”

“Oho!” said Jessie, reading the notice, “they did, did they? Well, take it up, Rosie.” And Jessie sauntered out on the piazza and sniffed the salt morning air.

Rosie went upstairs with the note, but her knock at the door received no response. After another gentle rap she opened the door, to find the room vacated. The bed-clothing was thrown back and the windows wide open.

“Faix, they’ve been shpirited away,” thought the astonished maid. “If this ain’t the quarest family! I’ll be l’avin’ if things goes on like this.”

Uncertain how to proceed, she returned to the kitchen, and sat down with folded hands to await developments.

Helen came downstairs next. Seeing nobody around, she went into the kitchen, and looked amazed at the solitary Rosie.

“Where is everybody?” began Helen.

“Sure, I don’t know, mum. Thim as was in the house wint out, and the rest was gone before.”

“Well, of all performances!” And Helen wandered out to the front veranda, and discovered Jessie there.

Now the front door of Hilarity Hall was at the side, and so faced Aunt Molly’s front door, which was also on the side. And just as the two puzzled-looking maidens met on their veranda, Aunt Molly stepped out on hers.

“Good morning, girlies! Had your breakfast?”

“No,” said they.

“Come over and breakfast with us,” cried jolly Uncle Ned, not expecting at all that they would do so.

But Helen replied: “Indeed we will; for I’m awfully hungry, and it doesn’t look at all hopeful over here.” And the two girls ran across and gratefully seated themselves at Aunt Molly’s cozy table.

And that’s how it happened that the mystified Rosie waited alone in the silent kitchen until she could stand it no longer, and resolved to take her hat and go home. But first she thought she would go upstairs and make sure that the fairy-like “Miss Margreet” had not reappeared in the same mysterious fashion in which she must have taken her departure.

But no, she found the room still empty.

Uncertain what to do, she opened the door of the next room, and there were Millicent and Marjorie, who had returned to bed and to sleep, just waking up, startled at the sudden apparition.

The apparition was startled, too, and exclaimed:

“Oh, young ladies, I was thot shcared! Sure there’s nobody in the house at all, at all—savin’ your prisince.”

Millicent could think of no explanation for this extraordinary statement, but that didn’t bother her in the least. Here was a dramatic situation just to her mind, and she grasped it at once.

“Who are you?” she said in a low, mysterious whisper.

“Rosie O’Neill, miss,” said the Irish girl, fascinated by Millicent’s gaze.

“Roseoneal,” continued Millicent, pronouncing it as if it were one word, and speaking in a thrilling tone, “I am a Princess—the Princess Millikens. This lady beside me is my first gold-stick in waiting. But, alas! we are under an enchantment, and dare not leave this bed. If I were to set foot to the floor I should at once be changed into a red dragon breathing forth fire and flames.”

“Oh, Lor’, miss!” exclaimed Rosie, clasping her hands and gazing, horror-stricken, at Millicent’s tragic face.

“But there is one thing that will break the direful spell,” went on the mendacious maiden. “If any one should bring me a mug of mead and a golden pomegranate, I would be freed from the enchantment and regain my liberty.”

“What’s thim things, miss? Could I get ’em fer ye?”

“Alas, no! they grow in the land of the cypress and myrtle, where Afric’s sunny fountains roll down their golden sand. But a base imitation might answer the purpose. Is there aught of food below?”

“ ‘WHO ARE YOU?’ SHE SAID IN A LOW, MYSTERIOUS WHISPER.”

“Plenty of milk an’ bread, miss; an’ I can make you a toast.”

“Roseoneal, truly thou art a man-of-infinite-resource-and-sagacity. But, stay! Can you indeed make a golden toast which may play the part of the missing pomegranate? I want no slice of charred bread. Listen! I will give minute directions which, if faithfully carried out, may be the means of releasing my Royal Highness and my gold-stick, who is, alas! dumb and all unable to speak for herself, from our unfortunate predicament. First, cut two slices from last night’s loaf—this morning’s bread is too fresh to toast. Let them be of even thickness, about the thickness of—of a lead-pencil. Then, having trimmed off the upper crusts, lay them in the oven—the slices, I mean, not the crusts. Then get the little Japanese tray from the sideboard, and lay on it a fresh napkin from the upper drawer; find one that fits. Then add two of those gold-edged plates and two thin glass tumblers. Now pour milk in the tumblers until it reaches three quarters of an inch from the top; but have a care that no drip or drop appears on the glass above the sea-level. Have a bit of butter in readiness. And now comes the exciting part. Toast your bread over a clear, bright fire. Have you one handy?”

“Yes, miss—Princess, I mean.”

“That’s right. Or say, ‘Yes, your Royal Highness.’ Well, then, make your toast with the greatest care; brown first one side and then the other until each is a clear, golden crisp that may deceive the enchanter into thinking it is the golden pomegranate. Then, the moment it is done, spread it lightly with the bit of butter, lay it on the plate, and fly upstairs, that we may nibble the portion in all its pristine hotness. Hast thou understood me, O maiden?”

“Yes, your Royal Highness; but wouldn’t you like some jam?”

“Roseoneal, I am your friend, and therefore your future is assured. Right heartily will I like jam, if jam there be. Place a generous spoonful on a small glass saucer, but prepare it ere thou toastest thy toast. And lay also on the tray a silver knife and spoon. Now hie thee to thy task, and we may yet cheat the enchanter of his dire intent. But beware of a crumb or a drop out of place! All is lost unless it be conveyed hither with neatness and despatch. And before you go please hand me my gold crown which is on the bureau.”

“I don’t see it, your Highness; there’s nothing here but brushes and hair-pins.”

“What! has my crown been stolen? Alackaday! What shall I do? Bring me then a bunch of goldenrod, and we may devise a temporary coronet that shall at least proclaim my rank and station. Disappear!” And Millicent waved her hands with such an impressive gesture that Rosie shot out of the door as if under the influence of a real enchantment. Marjorie lay back on her pillows choking with laughter at Millicent’s dramatics, and wondering whether Rosie would really bring them some breakfast.