



Produced by MWS and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/Canadian Libraries)









THE WALCOTT TWINS

BY

LUCILE LOVELL

ILLUSTRATED BY IDA WAUGH

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY

PHILADELPHIA MCM




Copyright 1900 by The Penn Publishing Company




CONTENTS


CHAPTER      PAGE

I  Gay and May      5

II  The First Separation      11

III  Just for Fun      16

IV  A Remarkable Household      23

V  More Confusion      30

VI  Being a Boy      37

VII  Being a Girl      44

VIII  A Scene at Rose Cottage      49

IX  Saw and Axe      56

X  A Course of Training      62

XI  The Training Begins      68

XII  A Silver-haired Lady      75

XIII  A Plan that Failed      82

XIV  The Boy Predominates      89

XV  Gay's Popularity Begins      97

XVI  A Squad of One      106

XVII  Concerning Philip      114

XVIII  Dark Days      122

XIX  The Event of the Season      130

XX  The Belle of Hazelnook      141

XXI  The Sky Brightens      151

XXII  The Dearest Girl      162

XXIII  A Great Game      172

XXIV  The Idol Totters      181

XXV  The Girls make Peace      189

XXVI  All's Right Again      194

XXVII  Happy People      199




THE WALCOTT TWINS




CHAPTER I

GAY AND MAY


The Mistress of the house lay among her pillows, her brows drawn into
the nearest semblance of a frown that her gentle countenance could
assume. Nurse—bearing a tiny, moving bundle of muslin and flannel—and
the father were at the bedside.

The father's forehead wore an unmistakable frown. It was evident that
something displeased him, but who would have dreamed that it was the
gurgling mite in the flannel blanket? Yet he pointed in that direction
as he said,—

"Take him away. He has made trouble enough."

"H'indeed, Mr. Walcott," cried nurse, "'E's the best baby h'I' ave ever
seen h'in this 'ouse! 'E's never cried before."

"Take him away!" repeated the father, still frowning. "He may be
the best baby in the world—a future President of the United States,
even,—but he can't stay in this room another minute. Do you
understand?"

"Certainly, sir," nurse replied somewhat tartly.

Nurse thought the father a great bear. Of course she could not tell
him so, but she could and she did show him that an imported English
nurse chooses her own rate of speed. She moved slowly toward the door,
holding her head with its imposing white cap well up in the air, and
looking at Baby as though he were a Crown Prince, instead of the
youngest nursling in an American flock of five. While the door was open
for nurse and her precious burden to pass through, sounds of boisterous
mirth floated into the quiet chamber. It was only the twins, Gay and
May, and little Ned—Alice was in the country—at play in the nursery,
but one would have said that half the children in New York city were
shouting together. The invalid tried to stifle a sigh which did not
escape the father's ear.

"Those torments must go, Elinor!" he exclaimed. "That is the only way
to ensure your recovery."

"Oh, Edward, how can I live without my dear little ones!" murmured the
gentle mother.

Mr. Walcott took his wife's transparent hands in his own and caressed
them tenderly. "Do you want our children's mother to have nerves as
much out of tune as a cracked bell?" said he.

"No."

"Then they must go to-morrow."

"Not Ned—he is too young to be sent away from me."

"Very well; Ned shall stay—three servants may be able to keep him in
order! Now let me see those letters."

Mrs. Walcott drew two letters from beneath her pillow and passed them
to her husband. "Read them aloud," said she; "I half-read them."

Mr. Walcott drew from one of the envelopes a single sheet of blue thin
paper covered with small precise characters traced in the blackest
of ink, with the bluntest of quills. As he moved it a gritty shower
fell, showing the writer to be of the old school which prefers sand to
blotting paper.

 "My Dear Nephew," Mr. Walcott began, "It gives me great pain to learn
 that your dear wife remains ill. Now, I have a proposition to make;
 send Gay up here for a fortnight. His presence will be inexpressibly
 grateful to me, and his absence may be a relief to you at this time.
 Wire me your decision. My compliments to Elinor, and believe me to be,

      "Yours truly,
      "HAROLD S. HAINES."

 "P. S. You may think it singular that I have not included May in
 my invitation, but, candidly, a woman child under my roof would be
 sufficient excuse for me to leave it altogether, so I trust you will
 understand and pardon my omission. Tell Elinor that Sarah will take
 the best of care of the young rascal.

      "H. S. H."

 "Cedarville, N. Y. Aug. 6, 19——."

"A characteristic postscript," laughed Mr. Walcott. "Uncle Harold's
antipathy to 'a petticoat', as he is fond of calling one of your sex,
dear, seems to increase."

"His antipathy is quite out of proportion to our little daughter's
half-yard petticoat," responded the Mistress, smiling faintly. "But go
on, please, with Auntie's letter."

The second letter was quite unlike the first; it was penned in the
most delicate handwriting, on fine white paper, ornamented with a
silver crest, and as Mr. Walcott unfolded it a faint odor of that
old-fashioned scent, lavender, was shed on the air. "A gentlewoman's
letter," one would have said at once.

 "Dear Niece Elinor," read Mr. Walcott. "We were deeply grieved to
 hear of your protracted illness, and we are sure that if you were to
 be relieved of the care of one of the children your recovery would
 be rapid. Will you not send May to us for a fortnight? You need give
 yourself no uneasiness about the dear child's welfare; it will be
 Celia's and my pleasure to take the best care of her. Let us know by
 telegram when she will leave New York and we will make arrangements
 for her to come from the railway station by the stage that passes our
 door—the driver is a most reliable person. With best wishes for your
 speedy return to health, and with kind remembrances to Edward, in
 which Celia joins, I am, my dear niece,

      "Your affectionate aunt,
      "BEULAH LINN."

 "P. S. Celia suggests that you may think it odd that we have not
 included Gay in our invitation, but the truth is, we should not know
 what to do with a lively, noisy boy. We shall enjoy May very much if
 she is like Alice, wholly without those failings of modern childhood—a
 pert tongue, boisterous manners, and slang.

      "B. L."

 "Hazelnook, N. Y., Aug. 6, 19——."

"It is rather strange, isn't it, Edward, that the aunts will have none
of Gay, while the uncle disdains May? It will break their hearts to
separate them."

"It is better so, my dear. Doting father that I am I cannot deny that
Gay and May make a team that gentle maiden ladies or a quiet old
bachelor would find difficult to manage! Shall I go out now and wire
our good relatives that they may expect the children to-morrow?"

"Yes," the Mistress replied, with a sigh of resignation. "And send Gay
and May to me, please—they will receive their sentence of banishment
best from my lips."




CHAPTER II

THE FIRST SEPARATION


They stole across the nursery floor and through the hall on tiptoe;
because they had promised father to be "as still as mice."

So far so good! Not the slyest nibbler of cheese in the house could
have moved more softly than Gay and May. It was the quietest procession
that ever marched until it reached the threshold of the Mistress's
chamber when it fell into wild confusion; Gay, in his desire to catch
the first glimpse of mother, stepped on May's heel and that made May
scream. It wasn't a loud scream, to be sure, but it was louder than the
most frantic mouse could squeak, and quite loud enough to rouse the
mother from the light slumber into which she had fallen. She opened
her eyes, then closed them again as she lay there on her couch so
motionless that her children crept to her side and touched her to see
if she slept. Then she opened her eyes once more and smiled; not her
old joyous smile, but one so faint that Gay's eyes filled with tears.
Taking his mother's pale, beautiful face between his hands he kissed it
gently—not very gently, perhaps, for a boy's kiss is rarely as light
as a fairy's, although his heart is quite as tender—and this won for
him a kiss in return.

"We meant to be very quiet, mother," said Gay, with another penitent
kiss. "But something always happens."

"Yes, something always happens," said May, who invariably echoed Gay's
sentiments and followed his example, as became a twin sister.

"Mother understands, my darlings," the Mistress softly murmured.

"It was one of our mishaps," continued Gay. "You know we can't keep out
of them, mother. When we don't go to them they just follow right round
after us, as if they were alive!"

In truth, it seemed as if this were so. Their eleven years had been
crowded with adventures; not particularly stirring nor remarkable,
but harmless and ludicrous adventures such as seem to come to some
children unsought. It must be owned, however, in their case, that had
not the adventure appeared promptly on the scene they would have gone
in search of it, Gay leading and May a close second. As they apparently
led a charmed life, emerging unscathed from their scrapes, no one was
disposed to criticise them severely. Alice once said:

"Gay and May are just like cats; no matter how badly they may be
placed, when they jump they always land on their feet!" And the entire
family regarded this as a figurative, but correct, estimate of the
luck that constantly attended the twins.

Of past pranks little need be said, since it is the purpose of this
story to relate the greatest escapade of their lives, but it may as
well be stated that many of their mishaps were due to the remarkable
resemblance existing between them.

Gay and May were much more alike than two peas; they were as identical
as two perfectly symmetrical beads. Cover knickerbockers and jacket,
skirt and bodice, and no one could tell which closely-cropped head was
May's,—which Gay's! In height they did not vary a hair's breadth. In
step and movement they were precisely the same. In voice no musician
could detect the difference of an infinitesimal part of a tone. Not a
ray of light sparkled in one pair of hazel eyes that was not reflected
in the other. Even in the wild rose of their cheeks Dame Nature was
careful to preserve the same tint. Not a dimple, not a smile; not a
look, nor a gesture in one that was not repeated in the other. If there
were mental or moral differences, these were not noticeable when they
were together; both were healthy, daring, and honest, with hearts for
any fate, providing there was fun enough in it. It is not singular,
therefore, that such striking similarity in character and appearance
produced many complications.

In their babyhood, Gay wore a pink, and May a blue ribbon for
identification, but, if by chance these distinguishing marks became
displaced, it often followed that Gay was kissed and coddled for a
girl; while poor May was bounced and tossed and trotted for a boy. When
they were put in short frocks the same mistakes were made.

"There'll be no such confusion when Gay puts on trousers," prophesied a
sage relative of the family. Alas! for prophet; when Gay became a real
boy in knickerbockers, the work of confusion still went on. Indeed,
after knickerbockers began to play their part, it was worse than ever,
for the twins were then old enough to understand the value of their
resemblance in solid fun.

No truthful chronicler of their tricks would undertake to tell how
many times the burden of Gay's misdoing was accepted by May, who lay
demurely in bed, in broad daylight, in that young worthy's place, while
he escaped to the park, there to sport in freedom. Nor how Gay took
May's dose of castor oil, the medicine of all others most abhorred
by her; nor how more than once he bore the ten strokes of the rattan
designed for her palm, on his own, both remedies being administered
by nurse, and received by the culprit or patient, as the case might
be, in a pinafore donned for the occasion. Gay and May were not model
children, but they possessed one splendid trait in common; they shared
alike the pleasure and pain that fell to their lot, for their hearts
were both loyal and generous.

Now let us return to the chamber of the Mistress. While Gay and May sat
at her bedside, trying to "make her well" by kisses and petting, you
may be sure the mother thought some time of the approaching separation
before mentioning it, but at length she told them of the invitations
they had received and of their father's wishes.

They heard her through in open-eyed amazement. Gay looked at May,
and May returned the glance; then they clasped each other and cried
together:

"Separate us, mother? It can't be done!"




CHAPTER III

JUST FOR FUN


The twins were in the nursery the next morning, when Jane told them
that their father had gone away at an early hour, on business.

"Thomas will take you to the station," said Jane.

"What dreadful luck!" sighed Gay.

"Perfectly dreadful!" echoed May.

Not that they disliked Thomas. On the contrary, they liked him very
well, but they had anticipated much pleasure in going to the station in
their father's company; to be deprived of this was to have their cup of
sorrow filled to overflowing.

"You must dress yourselves this morning," continued Jane. "Nurse is
busy with your mother and I must take care of baby. I've laid out your
clothes; when you are dressed go right down to breakfast; you've no
time to play. Mary has baked some little muffins for you, and you can
have orange marmalade and raspberry jam, both. Now, make haste." And
busy Jane hurried away.

"Muffins! Does Jane think muffins will make us happy?" cried Gay,
scornfully.

"It was good of Mary to bake them for us," said May, secretly thinking
that hot muffins and marmalade were sovereign aids to happiness, though
she did not dare to say so to Gay.

"Well, let's hurry up," said Gay, darting, with the swiftness of a
swallow, into his room.

May was more deliberate in her movements, or, rather, her method of
making her toilet differed somewhat from her brother's. With May, a
bath was a preliminary operation; with Gay, it came last and could
scarcely be called a bath at all, since he simply dipped his face and
hands in the basin, and ignored the tub altogether, except upon such
occasions as Jane enforced a thorough scrubbing. Family statistics show
this dislike to soap and water to be a chronic ailment among boys from
seven to fourteen years of age, but Gay always explained it by saying
he was "rushed for time."

May was just pattering in from the bath-room when Gay emerged from his
room fully dressed—more fully dressed, in fact, than he had been for a
number of years.

"Why, Gay Walcott, you've got on my clothes!" May cried.

"I know it," replied Gay, piroueting airily around the room. "Jane must
be crazy; she put your clothes in my room."

May ran into her room. "And yours in here," said she. "Come and get
them, and give me mine."

"Try on mine—just for fun," urged Gay. "We'll see if Jane can tell the
difference—which is which."

"There isn't time," objected May, rather faintly.

"There's lots of time," said Gay, who was never "rushed" when there was
a chance for a prank.

When May came out of her room wearing Gay's clothes they stared at each
other an instant, then ran to the mirror and stood before it, side by
side, and stared at their reflections there.

"Oh!" cried May, "I am not sure that I am I!"

"You are not you," Gay answered, "you are I, and I am you. I hear Jane
coming! What do you suppose she'll say?"

"Dear, dear!" cried Jane, bustling into the room. "Don't stand there
looking into the glass. Why won't you hurry? You should have been half
through breakfast by this time. Why, how clean your hands and face are,
Master Gay—and I declare, you've actually brushed your hair!"

Jane looked from one to the other in unfeigned amazement. May giggled,
but neither spoke.

"I'm surprised," Jane began, giving May a reproving glance. "Your sash
isn't straight, Miss May. Turn around."

The sash was somewhat awry, for Gay, unaccustomed to such fripperies,
had tied it under his left shoulder blade. He turned round and Jane
fixed it, then giving his borrowed skirt several twitches, she said:
"Seems to me you don't look quite as well as usual, Miss May. If you
get untidy while your ma's sick she'll feel awful bad. But run along,
now, to breakfast."

The twins exchanged significant glances: Jane had not detected them,
May was about to exonerate herself from the charge of untidiness when
Gay whispered: "Don't tell till we've tried it on Thomas and Mary."

"But——" May commenced.

"Let the goats butt; don't you try it, May!" said frolicsome Gay,
pulling her after him out of the nursery.

In the dining-room Thomas and breakfast awaited them.

"Good morning, Thomas," said the mock May, very glibly.

"Good morning, Miss," responded unsuspicious Thomas. "Good morning,
Master Gay."

"Good morning," replied the mock boy, not less glibly than the other
conspirator.

"How do you think we look, Thomas," Gay continued; "as well as usual?"

"You look fine, Miss, fine," Thomas answered. "As for Master Gay
there, I've never seen him look so neat."

This evidence of Thomas's mystification delighted the twins almost
beyond concealment. They would have betrayed themselves had not Mary,
the cook, appeared upon the scene. She carried two pasteboard boxes and
she gave one to each of the children, saying, "Yer luncheon, dharlin',
for ye'll be afther gettin' hungry on the cars. There's rolls, an' ham,
an' fowl, an' harrd biled eggs, an'——"

"And little cakes!" interrupted May, with a scream of delight.

"Yes,—wid icin'," Mary replied, with a broad smile, for the twins were
her especial pets. "But I niver knew that ye liked cake; I t'ought it
was Miss May what had the swate toot!"

Gay and May smiled appreciatively at Mary's mistake. They were trying
to explain to her that their gastronomical tastes were similar when
nurse sailed majestically into the room.

"Mary," said she, "h'I'll see you h'in the kitchen. Thomas, 'urry hup;
you must go h'in ten minutes. Children, Jane wants you h'in the 'all."

Before coming to America, nurse had been under-nurse-maid in an
aristocratic English family, but from her deportment one would have
supposed her to have been nurse to the Queen's own children. So
majestic, pompous, and domineering was she that no one ventured to
oppose or question her control. Therefore, when she ordered the group
in the dining-room to separate they promptly separated without murmur
or ado!

"They never suspected anything!" chuckled Gay, as he left the room with
May. "We really must try it on mother, then we'll tell."

But Jane's first words when they reached the hall destroyed all hope of
testing the mother.

"You mustn't fuss," Jane began, "you must be good and not make any
trouble, but the doctor says you can't see your ma before you go."

"Why not?" the twins demanded in one voice.

"Because the doctor says if she gets as nervous to-day as she did
yesterday that he won't answer for the consequences. She must be kept
perfectly quiet."

"If it's for mother's good——" Gay began.

"It is for her good," Jane said.

"Then we won't fuss," sighed May.

"That's a good fellow," cried Jane, patting the mock boy's head.

May made up her mouth to tell Jane the truth, when nurse and Thomas
joined them; Thomas, with Ned on his shoulder, and nurse carrying
wraps, hats, and the lunch-boxes.

"Mercy hun h'us!" nurse exclaimed, "you h'ought to be h'off now."

As she spoke she seized the real May, and, before the child could
speak, buttoned her into a jacket and set a tarpaulin sailor on her
head.

The real Gay had his turn next. Nurse shook him into a light ulster and
fastened a straw hat, trimmed with daisies, on his head by an elastic
band which snapped under his chin with a loud noise.

All this time the twins had been struggling to speak. "But, nurse,"
they began, impetuously, for this was carrying the joke too far, "we——"

"You can say good-by to Ned when you come 'ome," said nurse, who
thought they wanted to waste valuable time in farewells. "H'off with
you!"

The real May was a picture of distress, but her more volatile brother
seized her by the hand and whispered: "Never mind; it's only keeping up
the lark; I've got the worst of it, too, in these horrid skirts."




CHAPTER IV

A REMARKABLE HOUSEHOLD


Everybody in Cedarville knew and respected General Haines. His
ancestors for four generations had lived and died in the fine old
mansion which he now occupied. The General was commonly considered a
"character." He was dignified in appearance and irascible in temper; a
perfect martinet on the subject of deportment in the rising generation;
a stern enemy to cowardice and untruthfulness, while in many other
matters he was as impracticable as a babe and as timorous as an old
lady. His face was bearded and stern; his voice terrible. Whenever he
lost his temper, which was every other minute, he shouted as though
he had been at the head of an army. His heart was tender withal, and
altogether he was as remarkable a gentleman as one often meets.

He was unmarried because he had never known a woman the equal of his
mother, whose memory he adored. He had lived, since his mother's death,
a life of comparative isolation in the old Haines' mansion, which was
conducted as nearly as possible after the fashion of the last century,
for the General hated innovations. He rarely left home, and he had not
seen the Walcott twins since their babyhood.

In his housekeeper, Sarah, General Haines had a counterpart to
the full as eccentric as himself. Warm-hearted, quick-tempered,
and sharp-tongued, Sarah was the only person for whom the General
felt wholesome awe. She ruled him completely; strangely enough she
considered him the reverse of forbidding. This is not so singular,
perhaps, in the light of the fact that the General seldom made a move
without first consulting Sarah; when he did he generally regretted it!

His letter to Mr. Walcott was an instance where he had acted without
orders, and when his nephew telegraphed that Gay would arrive on
the noon train from New York, on the 8th of August, the doughty
General realized what he had done. He had bidden a guest, possibly a
troublesome one, to his house without Sarah's knowledge. No wonder he
trembled and carried Mr. Walcott's telegram crumpled in his pocket two
hours before he mentioned it!

On the eventful evening that May and Gay received their sentence of
banishment, and at about the same hour, General Haines paced back and
forth on the broad porch of his house, with the terrible telegram in
his pocket. As he walked, he called himself a coward, and declared
over and over again that he would be master in his own house!

This device for promoting courage he repeated several times, but it
would not work. At the end of a half hour he was no better prepared to
face Sarah than he had been in the beginning. Just as he was repeating
for the fiftieth time the dreadful fib that he would be master in his
own house or he would know the reason why, Sarah passed the porch. She
wore a white dimity sunbonnet, although the sun had gone down in the
west, and carried a small watering-pot. She had been giving her asters
a shower-bath by way of encouraging them to flower early. She did not
appear to notice General Haines.

"Sarah," said the General.

The sunbonneted head turned in his direction, but there was no other
evidence of interest.

"Sarah, let us take tea in the library, this evening," the General
continued, in what he believed to be a persuasive tone.

"Very well," came from the depths of the sunbonnet.

The General had intended to speak of the telegram, but there was
something ominous in the movements of that hidden head, and he