The Story of the Gravelys

“Of course you may come in,” she said, producing a key from her pocket. “The workmen have about finished—there are a few loose boards about, but I will take care that they don’t fall on you.”

With squeals of delight, the little girls dashed ahead, then stood staring about them.

Milligan’s Wharf had indeed been transformed. A high fence surrounded it on every side, one end had been smoothed and levelled for games, the other was grassy and planted with trees.

“Those elms will be kept trimmed,” said Berty, “except in midsummer. I am determined that these River Street children shall have enough sunlight for once—just look at those little girls.”

The Mayor smiled broadly. Like discoverers who have fallen on some rich store of treasure, the little girls had espied a huge heap of sand, and had precipitated themselves upon it.

“Isn’t it queer how crazy children get over sand?” said Berty. Then she stepped into a small gate-house. “Here, children, are pails and shovels. Now have a good time.”

The little shovels were plied vigorously, but they were not quick enough for the children, and presently abandoning them, they rolled in delight over the soft sandy mass.

“There is no doubt that our park will be a success,” said Berty, with a smile.

“By the way,” asked the Mayor, shrewdly, “who is to look after these children? If you turn all the hoodlums of the neighbourhood in, there will be scrapping.”

“I was thinking of that,” said Berty, wrinkling her brows. “We ought to have some man or woman here. But we have no money to pay any one.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t take such a position,” said the Mayor.

“I!” exclaimed Berty, “why, I’d love it.”

“You wouldn’t need to stay all the time,” said Mr. Jimson. “You could get a woman to help you.”

“All the women about here are pretty busy.”

“You’d pay her, of course. There’d have to be a salary—not a heavy one—but I could fix up something with the city council. They’ve built the park. They’re bound to provide for it.”

“I should love to earn some money,” said Berty, eagerly, “but, Mr. Jimson, perhaps people would talk and say I had just had the park made to create a position for myself.”

“Suppose they did—what would you care?”

“Why, I’d care because I didn’t.”

“And no one would think you had. Don’t worry about that. Now I must get back to town.”

“Mind you’re to make the first speech to-morrow at the opening of this place,” said Berty.

“Yes, I remember.”

“And,” she went on, hesitatingly, “don’t you think you’d better commit your speech to paper? Then you’d know when to stop.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, hopelessly. “Something would prompt me to make a few oral remarks after I’d laid down the paper.”

“I should like you to make a good speech, because Miss Everest will be here.”

“Will she? Then I must try to fix myself. How shall I do it?”

“I might have a pile of boards arranged at the back of the park,” said Berty, “and as soon as you laid down the paper, I’d give a signal to a boy to topple them over. In the crash you could sit down.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, drearily. “I’d wait till the fuss was over, then I’d go on.”

“And that wouldn’t be a good plan, either,” said Berty, “because some one might get hurt. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You give me a sheet of paper just the size of that on which you write your speech. Mind, now, and write it. Don’t commit it. And don’t look at this last sheet till you stand on the platform and your speech is finished.”

“What will be on it?” asked Mr. Jimson, eagerly.

“The most awful hobgoblin you ever saw. I used to draw beauties at school. When you see this hobgoblin you won’t be able to think of anything else. Just fix your eyes on his terrible eyes, and you will sit down in the most natural way possible.”

“Maybe I will,” he said, with a sigh, “but I doubt it—you’re a good girl, anyway.”

“Oh, no. I’m not, Mr. Mayor, begging your pardon. I’m only trying to be one.”

“Well, I’ve got to go,” said her companion, reluctantly. “I wish I could skip that stived-up office and go out on the river with you.”

“I wish you could,” said Berty, frankly. “But I’ve got work to do, too. I want every clergyman in the town to be present to-morrow. Have your speech short, will you, for it will probably be a hot day.”

“All right,” said the Mayor. “Good-bye,” and he trotted away.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE OPENING OF THE PARK

The next afternoon had come, and was nearly gone. There had been a crowd of people at the opening of the Milligan Wharf Park. Ragged children, sailors, day-labourers, and poor women of the neighbourhood had stood shoulder to shoulder with some of the first citizens of the town—citizens who in the whole course of their lives had never been on this street before.

The well-dressed spectators had looked about them with interest. This fad of Mrs. Travers’s young granddaughter had excited much attention. She had carried her scheme through, and many curious glances had been sent in the direction of the suddenly shy, smiling girl, trying to hide behind the stately little grandmother, who sat looking as if the opening of parks for poor children were a daily occurrence in her life.

There had been room for some of the audience in the long, low shed erected for a playroom for the children on rainy days; however, many persons had been obliged to sit on benches placed in the hot sunlight, therefore the opening exercises had been arranged to be exceedingly short.

The Mayor, unfortunately, had transgressed, as he had prophesied he would do. However, in his speech he had, to Berty’s delight, carefully abstained from mentioning the part she had taken in procuring the park for the children of River Street. But succeeding speakers had so eulogized the self-sacrificing and public-spirited girl, that finally she had slipped away into one of the summer-houses, where, now that all was over, she was talking with her grandmother.

They had the park to themselves as far as grown persons were concerned. The rich and well-to-do people had filed away. The poor men and women of the neighbourhood had gone to their homes for their early evening meal.

“They say every rose has a thorn,” exclaimed Berty. “Where is the thorn in this?” and she waved her hand about the huge playground where scores of children were disporting themselves.

“It is here,” said Grandma. “Don’t lose heart when you see it.”

“Do you see it?” asked Berty, pointedly.

“Yes, dear.”

“And what is it?”

“That there must be some one here every minute of the time to see that the big children do not impose on the little ones. There’s a big hulking boy slapping a little one now. I’ll go settle him,” and Grandma nimbly walked away.

“That is no thorn,” said Berty, when she came back. “Mr. Jimson has arranged for it. He has just told me that the city council voted me last evening five hundred dollars as park supervisor.”

“My dear!” said Grandma, in surprise.

“Isn’t it lovely?” murmured Berty, with flushed cheeks. “Now I can pay all the household expenses. With my annuity we shall be quite prosperous.”

“The city appreciates what you are doing,” said Grandma, softly, “and the Mayor has been a good friend to you.”

“Hasn’t he?” said Berty. “I must not scold him for that awful speech.”

“The opening was good,” said Grandma, mildly.

“Yes, but the middle and the ending,” replied Berty, with a groan.

“Oh, how I suffered—not for myself. I could endure to hear him speak for a year. But I do so want him to make a good impression on others. His tongue is just like a spool of silk. It unwinds and unwinds and unwinds, and never breaks off. Talk about women’s tongues!”

“He is new to public speaking. He will get over it.”

“And I made him such a thrilling hobgoblin,” continued Berty, in an aggrieved voice. “Why, I had nightmare last night just in dreaming about it.”

“A hobgoblin?” said Grandma, questioningly.

“Yes—to stop him. It was on the last page of his manuscript. You remember when he came to the end of his paper, he just stopped a minute, smiled a sickly smile, and went on. Why, that hobgoblin didn’t frighten him a bit. It inspired him. What was he talking about? What do people talk about when they ramble on and on? I can never remember.”

“Berty,” said Mrs. Travers, shrewdly, “you are tired and excited. You would better come home. There is Mrs. Provis looking in the gate. She will keep an eye on the children.”

“Oh, Mrs. Provis,” said Berty, hurrying to the gate, “won’t you come in and sit awhile till I go home and get something to eat? I’ll come back presently and lock up.”

“Yes, miss,” said the woman, readily. “That’s a little thing to do for you. I guess this street takes store of what you’ve done for our young ones.”

“They’re my young ones, too,” said Berty, proudly. “I live on the street—we’re all neighbours. Now I’ll go. I won’t be long. Your eldest girl can get the supper ready for your husband, can’t she?”

“That she can, miss.”

Berty walked away with her grandmother, and the woman, gazing after her, said, “Bless your black head. I’d like to hear any one say anything agin you in River Street.”

In an hour Berty was back again, part of her supper in her pocket.

Contentedly eating her bread and butter, she sat on a bench watching the children, most of whom absolutely refused to go home, while others ran merely for a few mouthfuls of something to eat.

This intoxication of play in a roomy place was a new experience to them, and Berty, with an intensely thankful face, watched them until a heavy footstep made her turn her head.

The Mayor stood before her, two red spots on his cheeks, and a strange light in his eye. “I’ve just been to your house,” he said, “and your grandmother sent me here.”

“Did she?” said Berty; then she added, promptly, “What has happened?”

Mr. Jimson heaved a deep, contented sigh, and seated himself beside her. “I’m a happy man, Miss Berty.”

“What are you happy about?” she asked, briskly. “It isn’t—it isn’t Miss Everest?”

“Yes, it is Miss Everest,” said Mr. Jimson. “Something took place this afternoon.”

“Oh, what?—why don’t you tell me? You’re terribly slow.”

“I’m as fast as I can be. I’m not a flash of lightning.”

“No, indeed.”

“Well, I’ve met Miss Everest—she’s talked with me!”

“She has!” cried Berty, joyfully.

“Yes, she has. You know, after the affair this afternoon some of the people went to town. Miss Everest was shopping.”

“She always does her shopping in the morning,” interrupted Berty. “All the smart set do.”

“Well, I guess she found herself down-town,” said Mr. Jimson, good-naturedly, “and couldn’t get by the shops. Anyway, she was coming out of that fol-de-rol place where you women buy dolls and ribbons.”

“Oh, you mean Smilax & Wiley’s.”

“Yes, that’s the place. She came out of the door, and, turning her head to speak to some one passing her, she almost ran into me. I stopped short, you may be sure, and I know you’ll be mad with me when I tell you that I forgot to take my hat off.”

“Perhaps I won’t,” said Berty, guardedly. “It depends on what follows.”

“I just stood rooted to the spot, and staring with all my might. She grew kind of pink and bowed. I said, ‘Miss Everest,’ then I stopped. I guess she was sorry for my dumbness, for she said, in a kind of confused way, ‘What a stupid place this is. I’ve been all over it trying to match some silk, and I can’t find a scrap.’ And still I never said a word. For the life of me I couldn’t think of anything. Then she said, ‘That was a very good speech of yours this afternoon.’”

“Now surely you said something in response to that,” interjected Berty, “such a gracious thing for her to say.”

“Never a word,” replied the Mayor, seriously, “and, seeing that I couldn’t or wouldn’t speak, she went away. After she left, words came to me, and I babbled on to myself, till the people began to look at me as if they thought I’d gone crazy, then I moved on.”

“Well,” said Berty, with badly suppressed scorn, “this is a great tale. Where have you distinguished yourself, pray?”

“Wait a bit,” said Mr. Jimson, soberly. “I haven’t finished. Before I left the spot I cast my eyes to the pavement. What did I see but the bit of silk she had dropped there.”

“Well,” observed Berty, in a mystified way, when he paused.

“I thought of what you said,” continued the Mayor. “I called up your hint about small things. I picked up the bit of silk.”

“And, for goodness’ sake, what did you do with it?” queried Berty, in distress. “Some fantastic thing, I’ll be bound.”

“I took it away to my office,” Mr. Jimson went on, solemnly, and with the air of keeping back some item of information that when communicated would cover him with glory. “I’ve got an office-boy as sharp as a needle. I gave him the piece of silk. I said, ‘You hold on to that as if it were a fifty-dollar greenback. You take the seven-thirty train for Boston. You match that silk, and get back here as quick as you can.’”

“Oh! oh!” cried Berty, “how much did you send for?”

“For a pound,” said the Mayor, tragically. “She said she had a peóny to work, and they’re pretty big flowers.”

“Péony, not pe-ó-ny,” said Berty, peevishly. Then she thought awhile, and the Mayor, losing his deeply satisfied air, sat regarding her in bewilderment.

At last she delivered her opinion sibyl-like. “I don’t know whether you’ve done a good thing or not. Only time can tell. But I think you have.”

“I’ve done just what you told me,” said the astonished man. “You said to look out for little things.”

“Yes, but the question is, have you the right yet to look out for little things,” said Berty, with some dissatisfaction in her tone. “When grandma was married she forgot her wedding-bouquet, and her newly made husband had a special train leave here to take it to Bangor, but he had the right.”

“Look here,” said the Mayor, and the red spots on his cheeks deepened, “you’re criticizing too much. I guess you’d better not interfere between Miss Everest and me.”

“You’ll want me to give her that silk when it comes,” said Berty, defiantly.

“I did—that’s just what I came to speak to you about, but now I’ll give it to her myself.”

“She may not like it.”

“She can like it, or lump it,” said Mr. Jimson, inelegantly; “when that parcel comes, I am going to take it to her.”

“Suppose the boy can’t match the silk?”

“He’s got to,” said Mr. Jimson, obstinately.

“But perhaps he can’t; then how will she ever know you sent for it, if I don’t tell her. You would like me to in that case, wouldn’t you?”

“I’m no violet,” said Mr. Jimson, disagreeably. “I want to get in with Miss Everest, and how can I if I blush unseen?”

“I’ll tell her of your blushes,” said Berty, generously. “Come, now, let us be friends again. From my standpoint, I think you have done nobly and magnificently.”

“But you were just blaming me.”

“That was from Miss Everest’s standpoint.”

“I’m blessed if I know how to take you,” muttered the confused man. “One minute you’re yourself, and the next you’re another woman.”

“That’s feminine reversibility,” said Berty, graciously. “You don’t understand us yet. That is the punishment our Creator inflicts upon you, for not having studied us more. A pity I hadn’t known you five years ago—come, it’s time to lock up here. Oh, Mr. Mayor, can’t we have electric lights for this playground?”

With an effort he called back his wandering thoughts which were on the way to Boston with his office-boy, and looked round the darkening park. “What do you want lights for?”

“Why, these children play till all hours. It’s mean to keep them here till dark, then turn them on the streets. A few lights would make the place as light as day.”

The Mayor stared about him in silence.

“I’ve just been thinking about the electric light people,” continued Berty. “They’re a big, rich company, aren’t they?”

“So, so.”

“Well, would it be wrong for me to go to them and ask to have a few lights put in?”

“Wrong, no—”

“But would they do it?”

“Well, I guess if you went to them with your mind made up that they ought to, they would do it quick enough.”

“I’ll go,” said Berty, with satisfaction. “Thank you so much. I’ll say you advised me.”

The Mayor sighed, but said nothing.

“Come, children,” called Berty, in her clear voice, “it’s time to go home. Gates open at eight-thirty to-morrow morning.”

She huddled them out into the street like a flock of unwilling sheep, then walked home beside her suddenly silent companion.

“Selina Everest sat beside Grandma to-day,” said Berty, recurring to what she knew was now his favourite topic of conversation.

“I saw her there,” said her companion, eagerly. “Do you suppose your grandmother—”

“Yes, she did,” and Berty finished his sentence for him. “Trust Grandma to slip a good word in Miss Everest’s ear about you. I saw her blush, so perhaps she is beginning to care.”

“Perhaps your grandmother had better take her the silk,” said the Mayor, generously.

“No, I think I’ll attend to that myself,” said Berty, “but come in and see Grandma,” and she paused; “we’ll have a nice talk about the Everests.”

“By the way,” she said, ushering him out to the veranda, and lingering for a minute before she went to find her grandmother, “I want to thank you again for getting me that salary for looking after the playground. I’m just delighted—but I think I’ll have to get a helper, for Grandma doesn’t want me to stay there all the time.”

“That’s square—just what I recommended,” said Mr. Jimson. “Get any one you like, and give him or her ten or twelve dollars a month to assist you.”

“But suppose he or she does half my work?”

“That don’t count. Skilled labour, you know, takes the cake.”

“But if any one does half my work, they must have half my pay.”

“Nonsense,” said the Mayor, abruptly.

“I sha’n’t grind the face of any poor person,” said Berty, doggedly.

“All right—have it your own way, but if you won’t mind me, consult your grandmother before you pledge yourself.”

CHAPTER XV.

UP THE RIVER

Berty and her grandmother were having a quiet little picnic together. They had gone away up the river to Cloverdale, and, landing among the green meadows, had followed a path leading to a small hill crowned by a grove of elm-trees.

Here Berty had established her grandmother on a rug with cushions, magazines, and a new book, and the ever-present knitting.

Thinking that the little old lady wished to have a nap, Berty left her, and, accompanied by a mongrel dog who had come from River Street with them, roamed somewhat disconsolately along the river bank.

This proceeding on her part just suited the occupant of a second boat, who, unknown to Berty, had watched her pink and white one all the way from the city.

With strong, steady strokes he pulled near the bank where the girl stood knee-deep in the high meadow-grass, then, with a hypocritical start, pretended to recognize her for the first time, just as he was rowing by.

“How de do, Berty—what are you doing here?”

“Grandma and I are having a picnic,” she said, in a lugubrious voice.

“A picnic,” he repeated, incredulously, “you mean a funeral.”

“I mean what I say,” she replied, crossly.

“Might a fellow land?” he asked, his eyes dancing mischievously.

“A fellow can land, or move on, or swim, or fly, for aught I care,” she responded, ungraciously.

He jumped up, sprang out of his boat, and fastened it to the same stake where Berty’s was moored.

“You’ve been looking cross-eyed at the sun,” he said, taking off his hat and fanning himself.

“Take care that you don’t do the same thing,” said Berty.

He looked at her sharply. She was cross, pure and simple, and with a satisfied smile he went on, “Might a fellow sit down on this grass? It looks uncommonly comfortable.”

“Oh, yes,” said Berty, seating herself near him. “One might as well sit as stand.”

“This is pleasant,” said Tom, happily, leaning on one elbow with his hat over his eyes, and gazing dreamily at the river.

“It is the prettiest river in the world,” remarked Berty, decidedly.

“Come now—how many rivers have you seen?” inquired Tom.

“Lots of them.”

“And you have never been out of your native State.”

“I have been to Boston, and New York, and New Orleans. How strange that you should forget it,” replied Berty, wrathfully.

“What’s made you mad, Berty?” inquired Tom, with a brotherly air.

“You know,” she said, sulkily, “you’re dying to tease me.”

“Poor little girl,” murmured Tom, under his breath. Then he said, aloud, “Peter Jimson is in our house morning, noon, and night now.”

“Don’t I know it!” exclaimed Berty, indignantly, “and you are encouraging him, and you can’t bear him.”

“Come now, Berty,” said Tom, protestingly. “‘Can’t bear’ is a strong expression. I never thought much about him till he began sending business my way. I tell you that makes a lot of difference. It isn’t in human nature to look critically at a man who gives you a helping hand in the struggle for existence. Unless he’s a monster, which Jimson isn’t.”

“And he has helped you?” asked Berty, curiously.

“Lots—he has a big influence in the city. Don’t you know about it?”

“About his influence?”

“No—about his favouring me.”

“He tells me nothing now,” and her tone was bitter.

“You’ve been a good friend to him, Berty. He is never tired of singing your praises.”

“To whom does he sing? To Selina?”

“I don’t know. I’m not with them much.”

“Then he sings them to you?”

“Yes, just as soon as I pitch him the tune.”

“I should think you’d know enough of me,” said Berty, peevishly. “I’m sure you’re one of the earliest objects I remember seeing in life.”

“Come now, Berty,” he replied, good-naturedly, “you needn’t be flinging my age up to me. I’m only six years older than you, anyway.”

“Well, that is an age.”

“How did you and Jimson fall out?” asked Tom, curiously. “I’d give considerable to know.”

“You’ll never know, now that I see you want to,” replied Berty, vigorously.

Tom meditatively chewed a piece of meadow-grass, then said, easily, “I spoke in the language of exaggeration. We all do it. Of course, I guess that you had a quarrel. Jimson was dancing about you morning, noon, and night, till he took a fancy to Selina. Then you were jealous.”

“It wasn’t that at all,” said Berty, unguardedly. “I wouldn’t be so silly. He broke his word about a package of silk.”

“Oh,” replied Tom, coolly, “that was the silk Selina was so delighted to get. He sent a boy to Boston for it.”

“Yes, and the arrangement, the very last arrangement, was for me to present it when it came. Several days went by; and I thought it queer I didn’t hear from him. Then I met him in the street. ‘Couldn’t the boy match the silk?’ I asked.

“‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘he brought it fast enough.’

“‘And where is it?’ I asked.

“‘Miss Everest has it.’

“‘Miss Everest?’ I said. ‘How did she get it?’

“‘Well,’ he said, ‘when it came, I just couldn’t resist. I caught it from the boy. I took a carriage to her house—she was just at breakfast, but she came out, and I gave it to her.’

“‘And what did she say?’ I asked. Now this is where I blame him, Tom. Just think, after all my kindness to him, and coaching him as to the ways of women, he just said, coolly, ‘I can’t tell you.’

“‘Can’t tell me?’ I repeated. ‘You’ve got to. I’m more interested in this affair than you are.’

“‘I—I can’t,’ he stammered. ‘I’ve seen Miss Everest several times since, and she says you’re only a child—not to tell everything to you.’

“‘Only a child!’ I said. ‘Very well!’ and I stalked away. He sent me a bouquet of carnations and maidenhair that evening, but of course flowers had no effect on me.”

“Selina is jealous of you,” said Tom, promptly.

“I’m not jealous of her,” returned Berty, sweetly. “I wish her every happiness, but I do think the Mayor might have been more open.”

“If he’s got to dance after Selina, his work’s cut out,” said Tom.

“Do you think she will marry him?” asked Berty, eagerly.

“Marry him—of course she will. I never saw her so pleased over anything as she was over that silk affair. Jimson is a good-hearted fellow, Berty.”