But the Dalrymple carriage did not appear. Madame was in “privacy” just then; which might mean that she was in suffering or under the hands of that person who seemed so mysterious to Jessica—a professional hair-dresser. As Ephraim had said, Barnes had also retired with her sick headache, and Tipkins had gone marketing.
To waiting, watching, hoping little Sophy the big mansion looked strangely quiet and deserted; and the hours dragged by without her having courage even to molest a passer-by with her shrill;
“Posies! Only five centses a bunch? Please buy my posies!”
Like the little maid behind those barricading iron lions, at that very moment speculating on the realities of life, Sophy herself fell pondering; and inquired of a vagrant cur who timidly approached:
“Say, doggie, what makes us all so different? I’ve asked Granny and all she says is, ‘Injustice.’ I don’t know what that means. I don’t know why Jessica Trent wears all the time a soft white dress and I—Well, I wear this one, too, now, only it isn’t quite so white as it was. But I dassent take it off to let Granny wash it, ’cause she says it’s none too big now an’ ’twould pucker and shrink all up, ’cause it’s wool. Why does she live in that big house and I in Aveny A? What makes her folks so rich and mine so poor? Hey, doggie? Yes, you may smell o’ my posies. Smellin’ ’em won’t hurt any. I wish—Oh! I wish she would come right out that door and walk up to me and say: ‘Why, Sophy! How glad I am to see you!’ That’s the way I believe she’d talk if she was let. If that White Hair—Whew, doggie! What’s that I smell? ’Tisn’t them posies. It’s more like smoke somewheres. Never mind. I guess that carriage isn’t a-ridin’ out to-day, so I’ll just go close up to them iron gates and watch closer. If she should happen to come to the door to look out—If she should happen!—Why then I’d be right on hand and ready, and I’d fire that laylock bunch clean into the doorway and the hall, lickety-cut! Come on! Who’s afraid? That old policeman is out of sight, anyway, and besides I don’t believe he’s half so mad as he pretended. I’ll walk right straight along as bold as—as one them lions and—Queer! Where is that smell of smoke. Oh! I hope it isn’t 221 Aveny A! But, course, it can’t be. That’s too far off to smell.”
Keeping a wary eye for the return of the policeman, Sophy assumed as nonchalant an air as possible and sauntered slowly up to the closed gates of the great, old-fashioned mansion, and there forcing her up-tilted nose between the bars resumed her anxious watch. But only for a moment longer. Then the awful truth burst on the startled child, wise in city lore; and, with an agility unlooked for in her poor body, she leaped the closed gates and pulled at the bell. Forgotten now was the precious “laylock,” already wilting on the hot sidewalk, forgotten fear of the policeman and of that more formidable White Hair—Ring, ring, ring!
When Ephraim rushed to answer that frenzied appeal, still clinging to the handle of the old-fashioned bell Sophy fell headlong at his feet; but was up and dashing onward again with the mad cry:
“This house is afire! This house is burnin’ up! Where’s Jessica Trent? O Jessica, Jessica, Jes-si-ca!!”
At that moment the “Little Captain” was in the garden. It was the most attractive spot to her in that establishment, and she, with Ephraim’s help, had already reduced some of its disorder to a semblance of neatness. Now, as if guided by instinct, Sophy made her way thither, still screaming her warning cry:
“The house is afire! Where are you, Jessica Trent?”