CHAPTER III.
THE PRIZE.
The princesses quite enjoyed their stolen meetings and their mysterious signs. O, how little the world suspected that they were keeping weighty secrets! So surprised as the world would be if the princesses only had a mind to tell!
It was evident that Isabel was more interested as soon as Cassy Hallock had gone away to Kentucky. Then there was no rivalry, for Isa was sure that she stood next to Cassy in Grace Clifford's esteem.
But an event soon occurred which caused the Ruby Seal to sink into comparative insignificance. The graduating class walked home from school one evening, looking, one and all, as if they had something on their minds. They were talking of a prize which had been promised to the best scholar at close of school. Judith Pitcher, the girl with long features and melancholy eyes, looked discouraged. Diademia Jones, who usually wore a Berlin iron breastpin, which looked like an ink-blot, pouted, and said she wouldn't try: what did she care? Weak little Lucy Lane was nervous, and declared, if she hadn't staid home and got behind in her lessons, she might try; but, as it was, she didn't call it quite fair.
All agreed it was a pity that Cassy Hallock should be away; they wondered her ma would allow her to go visiting in the midst of the term.
One little girl, with bright and animated face, listened to all these remarks, but said nothing herself.
Grace Clifford and Isabel Harrington were walking together, hand in hand. This was not quite to Grace's fancy. If she might have had her way, she would hardly have joined hands with any one but Cassy, certainly not with Isa, who was not a particular favorite of hers.
They happened to be walking directly behind Mahla Linck and Diademia Jones. Diademia, or Di, as she was called, was saying, "I reckon you'll get the prize, Mahla, dear. I'm sure I hope so."
A pink color flushed Mahla's pale cheeks, and she looked very eager, but said, sadly,—
"No use, Di. I could, perhaps, if it wasn't for Gracie Clifford; but she's so smart in arithmetic she'll get it. O, I'm sure she will."
And as Mahla spoke she seemed to lean more helplessly on her crutch, and to limp more painfully than ever. She little knew that every word she spoke was overheard by Grace Clifford, and was sinking deep into her heart.
Mahla was a gentle, studious girl, pitied by every one for her incurable lameness, and beloved for the sweet patience with which she bore her great sufferings. It was certainly Grace's intention, and had been ever since the promise of a prize, to try for it; but when she heard Mahla's hopeless words she was grieved, and felt an impulse to rush forward and throw her arms about the poor girl's neck, and say, "Now don't be afraid of me, Mahla. I'll not stand in your way."
But this impulse Grace checked at once. In the first place, it would have been a silly parade of sentiment, she thought; and, in the second place, ambition was a strong feature in Grace's character; she could not, without a struggle, give up the hope of a prize.
By this time she and Isabel had crossed the street, and heard nothing more that passed between Mahla and her companion.
"Well, Gracie, dear," said Isa, "I'd be ashamed, if I was Di Jones, to talk about Mahla Linck's getting this prize, when Di knows well enough Mahla isn't half so good a scholar as you are."
"O, but she is, though, Isa," said Grace, faintly. "Mahla's very studious, very, indeed."
"Studious? Yes, she stays in from recess because she can't play. Now, if Cassy was here, she'd try for the prize—wouldn't she, Gracie?"
"I dare say—I don't know."
"Well, she's the last person to be afraid of," said Isa, sharply. She could never speak of Cassy without a feeling akin to anger. The thought of the tender friendship which existed between Grace and Cassy was like gall and wormwood to the unhappy, jealous little girl.
"Why, Isa, to hear you talk, one would think that Cassy was dull! I'm sure Cassy's smart!"
"O, dear me," said Isa, "how you do take a body up! I said Cassy's the last person to be afraid of,—I mean for you to be afraid of. She's smart, Cassy is; but then everybody knows, Gracie, she isn't so smart as you are, and don't begin to be."
"I'd like to know," thought Grace, as she parted with Isa, and walked from the acorn-tree alone,—"I'd just like to know what does possess Isa to be so spiteful about Cassy! I wish that darling old Cassy was here this minute! I don't see what I did without her all last summer, when I was east!"
"Ma," cried Grace, rushing into the parlor, swinging her hat by one string, "just guess what a splendid thing has happened! The three live trustees were all in school this day, and you never saw the like of the way they smiled and patted us on the head, ma! And they're going to give a beautiful prize to the one that improves most between this and July, and passes the best examination for the High School, you know."
"Indeed, and shall you try for it, my dear?"
"I don't know, ma," replied Grace, with quivering lips; for just at that moment Mahla's words, "Grace Clifford will get it; I'm sure she will," came back and rang in her ears.
Mrs. Clifford saw that something was troubling her daughter, but refrained from asking any questions. She always preferred that Grace should confide in her of her own free will.
"I don't know, my child," said she, "that I can say I am glad of this project."
"But wouldn't you be proud to have me get it—not the least bit proud, ma?"
Mrs. Clifford smiled meaningly.
"O, no, ma; not exactly proud; pleased and gratified, I mean."
"You always gratify me, my child, when you do your best. As for your excelling your schoolmates, why should I care for you to do that?"
Grace thought her father would not listen to her story as coolly as her mother had done.
"What's this I hear about a prize?" said he that evening. And Grace grew quite eager again, describing the benevolent looks and manners of the trustees, and declaring that the prize must be something elegant, everybody said. "But how did you hear of it, pa?"
"Your head trustee and I talked the matter over yesterday."
"You didn't approve of it, Henry?" asked Mrs. Clifford, looking surprised.
"I did, Maria; why not? Dear knows there's need enough of ambition in our schools."
"But, Henry, I don't like children to strive so hard to outdo one another. Don't you think prizes are likely to awaken envy and ill-feeling?"
Grace listened with her eager mind all awake. She very well knew that on such a question a little girl's opinion is worth nothing; still it seemed strange that her mamma could talk of "envy and ill feeling" in the same breath with the Girls' Grammar School. Mrs. Clifford, however, did not know of the Ruby Seal, which had united the girls in such strong bonds of friendship that it would never be possible for a trifle like this to part them.
Captain Clifford settled himself into his dressing-gown and slippers. "I know," said he, "there are various opinions with regard to giving prizes; but so far as my own experience goes, they are real helps to industry. Begging your pardon, Maria, I highly approve of anything that quickens the ambition."
Grace's eyes shone.
"Yes," continued Captain Clifford, stroking his daughter's hair, "and if our Grace can win the prize, I'll promise to give her a handsome present to go with it."
Grace gave a little scream of delight. "O, pa," cried she, throwing her arms about Captain Clifford's neck, "you're just the greatest darling! I do believe nobody else ever had such a father."
Mrs. Clifford looked at her little girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and feared a sleepless night for her. "Remember this, Gracie," said she, gently: "'The reward is in the race we run, not in the prize.' Do your best, and then never mind who wins."
Grace laughed nervously.
"Ma doesn't care a speck," she thought. "You can't get ma eager about anything; but pa cares. O, dear me, won't I work hard just for the sake of pleasing pa!"
It occurred to Grace that she must write at once to Cassy, and tell her what Mahla had said. Those mournful words, "Grace will get it," haunted her. It seemed to the child that she could not press forward and gain the prize without walking right over Mahla's heart. So Grace seated herself at the centre-table, and opened her little writing-desk; when her father, who had been quietly reading to himself, suddenly exclaimed, "Really, Maria, this is horrible," and began to read aloud an account of the last battle.
When Grace heard any mention of the war, she either stopped her ears or ran away. Now she hastily gathered up her writing materials, and went into the kitchen, where Barbara sat with her unfailing black knitting-work. Barbara was very glad to have her tidy premises honored with a visit, and insisted upon bringing an arm-chair out of the dining-room for her guest.
Grace seated herself at the kitchen table, which was as white as it could be scoured; but scarcely had she smoothed out her paper and written "Darling old Cassy," when Horace appeared in the door-way, making mysterious signals to Barbara. What could the boy mean? The good, foggy-brained German girl was sorely puzzled,—did not know the deaf and dumb alphabet, and could never take a hint.
"Come here, then, Barby," cried the boy; "I'll make you 'ferstand.'"
"So I'm the one in the way," said Grace, quickly; "you're so mightily mysterious, all of a sudden, Horace!"
"Good evening, Grace," said Robert Sherwood, appearing at the door; "what about the prize?"
"O, dear, I don't know, Robin."
"What think I heard? That the trial would lie between two of you girls—Grace Clifford and Mahla Linck."
Grace flushed to the temples.
Then other people thought that, as well as the school-girls.
"What are you doing, Grace?" said Horace, returning from the dining-room, and eying his sister's writing-desk with some curiosity.
"Writing a letter, or trying to," replied Grace, flourishing her pen nervously in the air.
"Why is your letter like the equator?" said Robert.
"Equator? Don't know. Can't stop to guess conundrums."
"Because it's only an imaginary line."
"My letter? O, Robin, how smart! It always will be imaginary, I reckon, while you boys stand there looking at me. Do, please, let me alone!"
"O, good by, South Carolina," said Robert, bowing. "I'm off."
"Good by, Car'line," echoed little Horace, with a patronizing sweep of his thumb.
Grace returned to her writing, her feelings still somewhat ruffled.
She had proceeded as far as "I want to see you more than tongue can
tell," when Horace burst into the room again with a second message to
Barbara.
"Is there, or is there not, a place in this house where a body can go to write a letter?" cried Grace, rising and pushing back her paper. But her remark was unheeded. Barbara and Horace went on whispering together, and seemed to be enjoying their little secret, whatever it might be.
Grace's nerves were quivering from the day's excitement. "I'm not cross," thought she. "O, no, not cross; but I'd like to give that boy a good shaking. It's not my temper, it's my 'nervous system.' The doctor said my nervous system was torn to pieces by the chills."
Grace would never forget this unfortunate remark of her physician. But she was a sensible girl, and it suddenly occurred to her that her "nervous system" could never go to scolding unless she opened her mouth. Bitter, sharp words sprang to her tongue; but if her tongue was only "kept between her teeth," the words couldn't fly out. "I'll just 'lock my lips,'" mused Grace, "for, as ma says, 'A spoken word no chariot can overtake, though it be drawn by four swift horses.'"
Tedious little Horace at last made an end of his story, and left the kitchen whistling either Dixie or Yankee Doodle, no mortal could tell which; for out of Horace's mouth they were one and the same thing. Barbara seated herself, and resumed her knitting. She usually nodded over that black stocking as drowsily as if it had been a treatise on philosophy, or something quite as stupid; but to-night she was painfully wide awake.
"O, my patience!" thought Grace; "can't she look at anything but me?"
There by the stove sat the glaring white kitty, staring at Grace with winking eyelids, and on the mantel stood the clock ticking at her, and in the corner sat Barby clicking needles at her; every tick and every click seeming to go through Grace's ears like percussion caps.
"Miss Grace," said Barbara, picking up a stitch, "be you writin' to
Susy Parlin?"
"No, Barby," replied Grace, frowning at her paper.
Barbara went on with her knitting, the clock went on with its ticking, and the cat still stared at Grace. Presently Barbara dropped another stitch. "Miss Grace," said she, "does you write to little Prudy Parlin?"
"No, Barby; to Cassy. But seems to me you're amazingly wide awake."
"Yes, dear; I doesn't feel sleepy a bit."
Sharp words were on Grace's tongue again; but she said gently, after a pause,—"Barby, will you please not talk? It troubles me."
"Bless your little white heart," cried Barby, turning about, and putting her feet on the stove hearth, "not a word more will I speak." Grace felt quieted. She had fought against her "nervous system," and conquered a peace. Now, for the first time, she could write, and forget clocks, cats, and knitting-needles in her subject. She told Cassy just what her father said, what her mother said, and how "there never was anything she wanted so much as that splendid prize."
Then she spoke of Mahla Linck, and asked Cassy to be sure and write what she thought about her. Would it be a shame to try to get ahead of a poor lame girl? Why need one mind Mahla more than the other princesses? Hadn't one a right to push by all that came in one's way?
Somehow Grace did not wish to tell her mother of the strife going on in her mind. "Ma wouldn't care a picayune about my winning," thought she; "she'd say, 'Give it up to the little German.' Ma is almost too good to live. But pa cares about it; O, I can see that pa cares very much."
Grace's mind was settling itself. By writing the facts in black and white they had become clearer to her. Now she was fully decided what course to take about Mahla. She wrote till nine o'clock, then signed herself, "Yours, like everything—Gracie."
"Now, Barby," said she, "yon may talk as much as you please, for I've no more writing to do. Much obliged to you for keeping so still."
Barby laughed in high good humor, and going into the pantry, brought out a funny little table, about a foot and a half long. It was a miniature extension table, of black walnut, freshly polished with sweet oil. Grace clapped her hands, screaming with delight.
"Why, where did this come from? Just what I've wanted for my dining-room department, Barby, ever since I had my cabinet!"
Barbara took out the inside leaves, making an oval centre-table.
"O, so cunning! Whose is it, Barby? I haven't felt like I could give dinner parties for my enormous doll on that tea-poy—it's too tall."
Barbara laughed quietly, by and by telling Grace that this new article of furniture was hers, made on purpose for her by Horace. Grace could hardly believe it, for even a small extension table requires much mechanical skill.
"O, but he has worked at it all the days for so long!" said Barbara, who was extremely proud of Horace.
Upon inquiry, she confessed that he had been to see the "tischler" (joiner) "two times," and that Robin had helped him a little.
"O, where's Horace?" cried Grace; "I want to see him this minute, to thank him for my beautiful present."
"Sound abed and asleep," replied the German girl, yawning.
When had Barby been known to sit up so late? Faithful creature, she had kept her sleepy eyes open for the sake of presenting this pretty table to Grace; for, as she said, "I just does like to hear her laugh!"
"Deary me," thought Grace, "if I'd spoken up pettishly when she bothered me so, I'd want to bite my tongue out! Reckon I know of something as good for my 'nervous system' as quinine; and that's patience."