She would not meet his eyes, she was bending over her own hamper, and was laughing and chatting gayly with every one who came within her reach. The moment Flower’s influence was removed Polly became once more the ringleader of all the fun. Once more she was appealed to, her advice asked, her directions followed. She could not help admitting to herself that she liked the change, and for the first time a conscious feeling of active dislike to Flower took possession of her. What right had this strange girl to come and take the lead in everything? No, she was neither very pretty nor very agreeable; she was a conceited, ill-tempered, proud creature, and it was Polly’s duty, of course it was Polly’s duty, to see that she was not humored. Was there anything so unreasonable and monstrous as her dislike to poor little Maggie? Poor little harmless Maggie, who had never done her an ill-turn in her life. Really David had been too absurd when he proposed that Maggie should be sent home. David was a nice boy enough, but he was not to suppose that every one was to bow down to his Queen Flower. Ridiculous! let her go into passions if she liked, she would soon be tamed and brought to her senses when she had been long enough in England.
Polly worked herself up into quite a genuine little temper of her own, as she thought, and she now resolved, simply and solely for the purpose of teasing Flower, that Maggie should dine with them all, and have a seat of honor near herself. When she had carelessly thought of her coming to the picnic, she, of course, like all the others, had intended that Maggie and George should eat their dinner together after the great meal was over; and even Helen shook her head now when Polly proposed in her bright audacious way that Maggie should sit near her, in one of the best positions, where she could see the light flickering through the ivy, which nearly covered the beautiful west window.
“As you like, of course, Polly,” responded Helen. “But I do think it is putting Maggie a little out of her place. Perhaps father won’t like it, and I’m sure Flower won’t.”
“I’ll ask father myself, when he arrives,” answered Polly, choosing to ignore the latter part of Helen’s speech.
The banqueting-hall, which was a perfect ruin at one end, was still covered over at the other. And it was in this portion, full of picturesque half-lights and fascinating dark corners, that the children had laid out their repast. The west window was more than fifty feet distant. It was nearly closed in with an exquisite tracery of ivy; but as plenty of light poured into the ruin from the open sky overhead, this mattered very little, and but added to the general effect. The whole little party were very busy, and no one worked harder than Polly, and no one’s laugh was more merry. Now and then, it is true, an odd memory and a queer sensation of failure came over her. Was she really—really to-day, at least—trying to climb successfully the highest mountain? She stifled the little voice speaking in her heart, delighted her brothers and sisters, and even caused a smile to play round David’s grave lips as she made one witty remark after another. Firefly in particular was in ecstasies with her beloved sister, and when the Doctor at last appeared on the scene the fun was at its height.
The moment he entered the banqueting-hall Polly went up to him, put on her archest and most pleading expression, and said in a tone of inquiry:
“It’s all so delightful, and such a treat for her. And you don’t mind, do you father?”
“I don’t know that I mind anything at this moment, Polly, for I am hungry, and your viands look tempting of the tempting. Unless you bid me not to come to the feast, I shall quarrel with no other suggestion.”
“Oh! you darlingest of fathers; then you won’t be angry if poor Maggie sits next me; and has her dinner with us? She is a little afraid of the moor, and I wanted to cure her, so I brought her to-day, and she will be so happy if she can sit next me at dinner.”
“Put her where you please, my dear; we are not sitting on forms or standing on ceremony at present. And now to dinner, to dinner, children, for I must be off again in an hour.”