CHAPTER XIV.

A SLEIGHING PARTY.

It was after midnight when the guests departed, and, since Mrs. Rivers had matters to see to in the dining-room, and Pen had escorted home one of the beauless damsels, Persis was left alone with the doctor.

“We are those ‘who tread alone a banquet-hall deserted,’ aren’t we, doctor?” said the girl, who stood with one slender foot resting on the brass fender. “By the way, why didn’t you ask me to dance with you?”

“Because I thought you had a better match in Pen. The young scamp dances well, doesn’t he?”

“He does, indeed.”

“And so do you, I heard more than one say. You’re not a novice in that accomplishment.”

“No, and I am very fond of it. The mere pleasure of the motion, the rhythm, fascinates me, and I believe I used to enjoy dancing with the girls quite as much as I did going to the assembly in——” She paused, and the doctor supplied the word,—the name of her native city.

Persis started. “Oh, doctor!” she exclaimed; “what—how——”

“How did I know? There, my child, I don’t believe you have done anything so dreadful that you need look so scared. It is your secret just as much as it ever was. I have gathered my knowledge from what you have said at different times. A doctor has cause for the exercise of his perceptive faculties, and you have, perhaps, said more to me than you realize. Now, don’t tell me a word if you don’t want to. I saw this evening that you were very visibly moved by Pen’s talk, and I inferred that you were more than ordinarily interested in the persons of whom he spoke.”

“Yes; I know them, every one. I wish I could tell you.”

“I do not ask you to. I have thought sometimes that you ought to provide some one with the address of your friends in case of serious illness, or such trouble; but I have trusted you entirely from the first, and you know I have no wish to force your confidence.”

“Yes, I do know, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you have been so kind and considerate. I had no right to expect it.”

“Not ordinarily, perhaps; but every honest, well-intentioned person has a right to expect the recognition due him or her; and you have done nothing to win other than the entire respect of us all since you have been here.”

“Thank you. I think, doctor, in the presence of such trust in me, that I may have been wrong not to tell you more about myself. Until just before I came here I believed myself to be the own daughter of those who had taught me to call them parents. I suddenly discovered that I was an adopted child, and the name by which you know me is the one which was first mine.”

“You were legally adopted?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have a legal right to the name given you at adoption; it is, in fact, your rightful one.”

“But I cannot bear to use it. You do not know, doctor, what a dreadful, dreadful revelation it was to me. I came upon the knowledge suddenly, without warning.”

“You are sure of what you say?”

“I saw the written proof, the adoption papers, and I left home.”

“Without your parents’ knowledge or consent?”

“Yes; I could not bear the thought of seeing them, knowing they were not my real parents. Oh, doctor, I cannot bear the thought, even now.”

“And they do not know where you are?”

“No; I have let them hear from me twice. They know I am well and that I am self-supporting. I am of age, you know, and should not be dependent.”

“Do you think it was quite just to them, after their loving care of you, to leave them in that way? They must have loved you greatly to make you feel so strongly in the matter. If you never knew the difference between them and your own parents, their devotion to you must have been marked, and they must be greatly distressed at your leaving them.”

“I don’t know; I don’t know. I was too sore and hurt to think of anything but myself, I am afraid. You think I was very wrong, doctor?”

“I think you have made an error of judgment, and that it would have been better to have had a fair and clear explanation of the whole affair.”

“But nothing could have altered my position. Nothing could make them really my very own, nor change me to their flesh and blood, and—and I dread so to learn my own parentage. It is that which haunts me, which makes me fear to know more.”

“Maitland is a good name,” said the doctor, thoughtfully; “and although I cannot entirely approve of what you have done, Miss Anne, I can see, for one of your temperament, wherein the provocation lay; and since you say they know you are safe, I think they will by this time have come to understand how very strong was the feeling which prompted you to flee from their protection. I will keep your secret, my child, and we will not refer to it unless you wish. One word more. Were you their only child?”

“No, they have two other daughters.”

“And you have never known any difference?”

“Scarcely any. They are both very beautiful girls, while I, you know, am not. I used to be a little unhappy because of it, and used to think mamma preferred the elder sister and papa the younger because of their beauty, but perhaps I was over-sensitive.”

The doctor smiled. There was such an entire lack of self-consciousness in the speech, and yet, thought he, she is such a charming girl; to be sure she has not a Grecian nose, and her mouth is a trifle too small, but she is pretty, very pretty, and, what is more, she has that irresistible quality of attracting persons which is worth more than beauty.

Persis watched him wistfully. “You don’t mind my not telling you my other name? And you will still be my friend? I do need friends very much.”

“Of course I will be your friend, even if you are a runaway, and I don’t care a picayune about the other name.”

“Don’t suppose for a moment, doctor, that I don’t realize how much love and care has been lavished upon me, or that I don’t appreciate that I might, if left to the lot to which I was born, have now been—Heaven knows where or what. It is that which nearly kills me. I might have been a beggar, a criminal, or—who can tell?”

“You are morbid about it, Miss Anne. I doubt if you would, even under the different environments which you imagine, have become anything very dreadful, and, as it is, I think you were probably the child of friends or perhaps relatives.”

“Oh, do you think so?”

“It seems probable. If your adopted parents had been without children, they might have taken you from some institution; but with one daughter already they were scarcely likely to do that.”

“Oh, thank you for saying so.”

“I cannot help wishing that your people could know where you are. I think you wrong them and yourself by this secrecy.”

“I will let them know, when I can bring myself to the point. I am trying very hard to do it. I had not thought it would be so long, but it is a hard, hard struggle. I think this day has helped me, doctor; my dreadful self, which has been staring me in the face these months past, has not seemed quite so important. I am trying to think more of helping others and less of pleasing myself.”

The doctor cleared his throat and turned away. The brave look in the girl’s eyes, which, too, had a pathetic expression, moved him, and he was glad when a step on the porch announced Pen’s return.

The good old man gave the girl’s shoulder an affectionate little pat. “Never mind, child,” he said, reassuringly. “You are safe, and so is your secret; no one but ourselves shall catch an inkling of it.”

Having unburdened herself thus far, Persis felt a great sense of relief. She was no longer sailing under false colors, so far as the doctor was concerned, and he had promised to stand her friend. The next day she wrote out Mr. Holmes’s address, and, enclosing it in an envelope, she gave it to the doctor. “I have taken your advice,” she told him. “If anything happens to me, you will find the address of my adopted father in this envelope.”

“That’s right,” replied the doctor. “That makes me feel easier. We don’t want to lose our teacher, yet I wish you would go a little further and write them more fully.”

But Persis shook her head. “Not yet. I can’t just yet. I think I am getting more used to the thought each day, but I can’t bring myself to more quite now.”

“Well, well, I won’t press it. Let’s talk about that sleighing party. Are you still determined to go with the old folks?”

“Yes, I should prefer it.”

“Then Pen shall go, too, and we’ll make a compromise by taking the double sleigh. Becky and I will settle ourselves comfortably in the back seat, and Pen shall drive, with you on the front seat.”

“Doctor, you are very good,” returned Persis. “Indeed, as I think of it, there are a great many good people in the world.”

“Because I want you to ride on the front seat?” laughed the doctor.

“Yes,” returned the girl, gravely. “Not every father would encourage it, not knowing any more about me than you do.”

“Nonsense,” was the reply. “I know you are a very charming young woman, but I told you I trusted you entirely. Besides, we agreed not to mention that subject again.”

But alas! the doctor’s arrangements for the sleighing party did not meet with favor in all directions. More than one girl in the village had her eye upon the young collegian. In consequence, there were several indignant maidens who aired their views to each other, and to certain swains who thought that Pen Rivers was “getting touched up with city airs.”

“They are mighty exclusive, aren’t they?” said Sid Southall to her younger sister, Virgie. “There was a time when I was quite good enough for Pen Rivers to go sleighing with, but this city girl seems to run the whole Rivers family. Who is she, anyhow?” Sidney felt that she had more than one grievance against Persis, for not only had there been a childish affair between herself and Pendleton, but Sidney had hoped to get the school this year. She therefore regarded the new teacher with jealous eyes.

Sid Southall was thought to be quite the prettiest girl in the village, and was rather spoiled in consequence. She had not dreamed that the school would be refused her if she wanted it; but Dr. Rivers had his own views concerning Sidney’s qualifications, and had set his face against any such proposition. He knew perfectly well, too, what sort of a dance Sidney was likely to lead Pen, if she were given the opportunity, and he knew that a pretty girl was something it was hard for Pen to withstand. So the astute old doctor chuckled to himself after he had told his son what was expected of him. “You see, Pen,” said the father, “Miss Maitland is our guest, and of course it would not do for you to invite another girl.”

“Of course not, sir; I know that,” Pen had replied, readily enough.

“She’s the nicest girl I’ve seen for many a day,” continued the doctor.

“And from what Dr. Dixon tells me, you ought to be an authority on that point,” returned Pen, slyly.

“Look here, sir! tell Walt Dixon he always did talk too much. What’s he been saying to you?”

“He simply asked me if I liked the society of young ladies; and when I owned to such a weakness, he remarked that, considering whose son I was, he thought I came honestly by my taste in that direction.”

“Well, sir, suppose he did; it is nothing to be ashamed of. I’ll venture to say I’m a better man to-day by reason of the girls I knew when I was your age.”

“I never for one moment, sir, felt the smallest desire to hide my face on account of my inheritance in that or any other direction; and if the companions I choose make me as good a man as my father, I shall be mighty well satisfied with myself.”

The doctor gave a queer twist of a smile, but he was pleased at the pride his boy took in him, although his only answer was, “Then we’ll consider that our sleighing party is all arranged.”

“So far as I am concerned, yes, sir. I shall be delighted to be paired off with Miss Maitland. By the way, dad, has any one seen about our having music at the Inn? And how about supper?”

“That’s all settled. I sent word to the colonel yesterday. We’ll have our supper and you’ll have your dance all right. The colonel won’t be there himself, but he’ll arrange it for us.”

And therefore, an evening or two later, a dozen sleighs dashed out of the village towards the Bridge. It was bright moonlight; the snow was crisp and well packed, and Persis, cuddled down under a pile of buffalo-robes, her fur shoes on her feet, and hot bricks in the sleigh as additional warmth, felt something of her old love of fun returning, and made herself very entertaining. Persis at her best was no mean companion, and the doctor thought he had never heard her laugh so merrily. “I never thought to ask where we are going,” she said.

“There is only one place to go,” replied Pendleton, “and that is the Bridge. It will be a fine sight to-night. We are to have supper at the old Inn and have a dance.”

“The Inn?” Persis echoed.

“Yes. Has no one driven you over there? I say, father, that’s too bad. Here Miss Maitland has been within ten miles of the bridge all this time, and no one has taken the trouble to show it to her.”

“I have seen it,” replied Persis, faintly. “I was there one summer.”

“Oh, that’s all right, then; but I really believe it is finer in winter.”

“Can we see it plainly from the road?”

“In this moonlight, yes. There is just one point where it stands out finely.”

The merriment was hard to force for a while after this. The Inn! How many associations it brought up! Suppose some one should recognize her there. She gave a little shiver, which Pen attributed to the cold. Attention to the comfort of a lady under his charge had been taught him from the time he could walk. Gallantry of the real old-fashioned sort was made his by precept and example, and he tucked the robes closer around the girl by his side, and asked, solicitously, if she were comfortable.

“I couldn’t be more so,” she replied, determined to shake off the chilling fear which had taken possession of her. “With only the tip of my nose visible, and in this nest of furs, I couldn’t be cold.”

“There, we can see the bridge,” Pen announced, and Persis looked. It was beautiful, like, yet unlike, the place as she remembered it, and she was thankful for the snowy wreathing which took away the too familiar look. She breathed a sigh of relief as she gazed around at the landscape wearing its winter face. “It is very beautiful,” she said, quietly. “I think I never saw so beautiful a sight. It is worth a much colder ride than this.”

The absence of the genial colonel was a second source of congratulation to the girl, who had dreaded to see the kind old host, for he would be sure to recognize her; and therefore, with no haunting fears, she resolved to throw care to the winds, and to enjoy herself, and show her appreciation to those good friends who so desired her pleasure.

Pen Rivers found Persis too good a dancer not to lead her out oftener than Sid Southall thought necessary; and Persis, finding that Pendleton’s step matched hers so well, and that the doctor and Mrs. Rivers were evidently pleased that she should dance often with their boy, consented to be his partner as often as he desired.

But at the last she insisted on the doctor’s dancing the Virginia reel with her, but he laughingly protested. “I know you were a dancer in your college days; wasn’t he, Mrs. Rivers?” persisted the girl.

“I should think so.”

“So were you, mother,” put in Pen. “Haven’t I heard how you captured father’s heart at the White Sulphur, and how you wore—what was it? Come, come, you must dance. Will you compel a lady to ask you twice, father? Where is your gallantry?” And thus beset, the doctor laughingly gave his arm to Persis, while Pen bowed low before his mother.

After a bountiful supper of chicken, waffles, ham, biscuits, sandwiches, salads, cake, and coffee, the sleighs were brought out and the return journey was begun, every one being in the best of spirits.

During a lull in the gay talk, in which Persis managed to do her part, Pen started up a college song, and the girl beside him could not resist joining in. Then, as they struck into some old ballads, the doctor’s bass was heard, and they kept up the music for the greater part of the remaining way home.

“Where did you learn all the college songs, Miss Maitland?” asked Pen.

“I have had a number of college friends,” she replied. “Do you belong to the Glee Club, Mr. Rivers?”

“No, but I go out with the boys serenading once in a while. The last time that we serenaded the girls was in the summer. I didn’t know the girls, but it was all the same. What was that girl’s name where we went? Black? White? No, Greene; that was it. Hetty—no; that’s the rich woman. Nettie; that’s it,—Nettie Greene.”

Persis, under her buffalo-robes, smiled. Pen Rivers had been one of the boys who serenaded “The Cheerful Three.”

[Illustration: '[Fleuron]’]