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QUICKSILVER SUE

  [Illustration: READING CLARICE'S LETTER.]


QUICKSILVER SUE

by

LAURA E. RICHARDS

Author of "Captain January," etc.

Illustrated by W. D. Stevens







New York
The Century Co.
1901




CONTENTS


     CHAPTER                                      PAGE

        I  SOMETHING EXCITING                        1

       II  THE NEW-COMER                            16

      III  MARY'S VIEW                              34

       IV  EARLY IN THE MORNING                     50

        V  THE PICNIC                               67

       VI  AT THE HOTEL                             89

      VII  THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT        105

     VIII  THE CIRCUS                              122

       IX  THE LONELY ROAD                         140

        X  ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL               158




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


     READING CLARICE'S LETTER           _Frontispiece_

                                                  PAGE

     MISS CLARICE PACKARD RUSTLED INTO HER
       FATHER'S PEW                                 27

     ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC                       63

     EACH CAME FORWARD AND SHOOK CLARICE'S
       GLOVED HAND SOLEMNLY                         79

     "MARY AND I HAVE PARTED--PARTED FOREVER"      113

     AT THE CIRCUS                                 137

     MARY STATIONED HERSELF AT THE WINDOW          145




QUICKSILVER SUE




CHAPTER I

SOMETHING EXCITING


"Mother! Mother! he has a daughter! Isn't that perfectly fine?"

Mrs. Penrose looked up wearily; her head ached, and Sue was so noisy!

"Who has a daughter?" she asked. "Can't you speak a little lower, Sue?
Your voice goes through my head like a needle. Who is it that has a
daughter?"

Sue's bright face fell for an instant, and she swung her sunbonnet
impatiently; but the next moment she started again at full speed.

"The new agent for the Pashmet Mills, Mother. Everybody is talking
about it. They are going to live at the hotel. They have taken the
best rooms, and Mr. Binns has had them all painted and papered,--the
rooms, I mean, of course,--and new curtains, and everything. Her name
is Clarice, and she is fifteen, and very pretty; and he is real
rich--"

"_Very_ rich," corrected her mother, with a little frown of pain.

"Very rich," Sue went on; "and her clothes are simply fine;
and--and--oh, Mother, isn't it elegant?"

"Sue, where have you been?" asked her mother, rousing herself. (Bad
English was one of the few things that did rouse Mrs. Penrose.) "Whom
have you been talking with, child? I am sure you never hear Mary Hart
say 'isn't it elegant'!"

"Oh! Mary is a schoolma'am, Mother. But I never did say it before, and
I won't again--truly I won't. Annie Rooney told me, and she said it,
and so I didn't think. Annie is going to be waitress at the hotel, you
know, and she's just as excited as I am about it."

"Annie Rooney is not a suitable companion for you, my daughter, and I
am not interested in hotel gossip. Besides, my head aches too much to
talk any more."

"I'll go and tell Mary!" said Sue.

"Will you hand me my medicine before you go, Sue?"

But Sue was already gone. The door banged, and the mother sank back
with a weary, fretful sigh. Why was Sue so impetuous, so unguided? Why
was she not thoughtful and considerate, like Mary Hart?

Sue whirled upstairs like a breeze, and rushed into her own room. The
room, a pleasant, sunny one, looked as if a breeze were blowing in it
all day long. A jacket was tossed on one chair, a dress on another.
The dressing-table was a cheerful litter of ribbons, photographs,
books, papers, and hats. (This made it hard to find one's brush and
comb sometimes; but then, it was convenient to have the other things
where one could get at them.) There was a writing-table, but the
squirrel lived on that; it was the best place to put the cage, because
he liked the sun. (Sue never would have thought of moving the table
somewhere else and leaving the space for the cage.) And the closet
was entirely full and running over. The walls were covered with
pictures of every variety, from the Sistine Madonna down to a splendid
four-in-hand cut out of the "Graphic." Most of them had something
hanging on the frame--a bird's nest, or a branch of barberries, or a
tangle of gray moss. Sometimes the picture could still be seen; again,
it could not, except when the wind blew the adornment aside.
Altogether, the room looked as if some one had a good time in it, and
as if that some one were always in a hurry; and this was the case.

"Shall I telephone," said Sue, "or shall I send a pigeon? Oh, I can't
stop to go out to the dove-cote; I'll telephone."

She ran to the window, where there was a curious arrangement of wires
running across the street to the opposite house. She rang a bell and
pulled a wire, and another bell jingled in the distance. Then she took
up an object which looked like (and indeed was) the half of a pair of
opera-glasses with the glass taken out. Holding this to her mouth, she
roared softly: "Hallo, Central! Hallo!"

There was a pause; then a voice across the street replied in muffled
tones: "Hallo! What number?"

"Number five hundred and seven. Miss Mary Hart."

Immediately a girl appeared at the opposite window, holding the other
barrel of the opera-glass to her lips.

"Hallo!" she shouted. "What do you want?"

"Oh, Mary, have you heard?"

"No. What?"

"Why, there's a girl coming to live at the hotel--coming to stay all
summer! Her father is agent of the Pashmet Mills. She is two years
older than we are. Isn't that perfectly fine, Mary? I'm just as
excited as I can be about it. I can't stand still a minute."

"So I see," said Mary Hart, who had a round, rosy, sensible face, and
quiet blue eyes. "But do try to stand still, Sue! People don't jump up
and down when they are telephoning, you know."

"Oh! I can't help it, Mary. My feet just seem to go of themselves.
Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? You don't seem to care one bit. I'm
sorry I told you, Mary Hart."

"Oh, no, you're not!" said Mary, good-naturedly. "But how can I tell
whether it is splendid or not, Sue, before I have seen the girl? What
is her name?"

"Oh! didn't I tell you? Clarice Packard. Isn't that a perfectly lovely
name? Oh, Mary, I just can't wait to see her; can you? It's so
exciting! I thought there was never going to be anything exciting
again, and now just see! Don't you hope she will know how to act, and
dress up, and things? I do."

"Suppose you come over and tell me more about it," Mary suggested. "I
must shell the peas now, and I'll bring them out on the door-step;
then we can sit and shell them together while you tell me."

"All right; I'll come right over."

Sue turned quickly, prepared to dash out of the room as she had dashed
into it, but caught her foot in a loop of the wire that she had
forgotten to hang up, and fell headlong over a chair. The chair and
Sue came heavily against the squirrel's cage, sending the door, which
was insecurely fastened, flying open. Before Sue could pick herself
up, Mister Cracker was out, frisking about on the dressing-table, and
dangerously near the open window.

"Oh! what shall I do?" cried Sue. "That horrid old wire! Cracker, now
be good, that's a dear fellow! Here, I know! I had some nuts
somewhere--I know I had! Wait, Cracker, do wait!"

But Cracker was not inclined to wait, and while Sue was rummaging
various pockets which she thought might contain the nuts, he slipped
quietly out of the window and scuttled up the nearest tree, chattering
triumphantly. Sue emerged from the closet, very red in the face, and
inclined to be angry at the ingratitude of her pet. "After all the
trouble I have had teaching him to eat all kinds of things he didn't
like!" she exclaimed. "Well, at any rate, I sha'n't have any more eggs
to boil hard, and Katy said I couldn't have any more, anyhow, because
I cracked the saucepans when I forgot them. And, anyhow, he wasn't
very happy, and I know I should just hate to live in a cage, even with
a whirligig--though it must be fun at first."

Consoling herself in this wise, Sue flashed down the stairs, and
almost ran over her little sister Lily, who was coming up.

"Oh, Susie," said Lily, "will you help me with my dolly's dress? I
have done all I can without some one to show me, and Mamma's head
aches so she can't, and Katy is ironing."

"Not now, Lily; don't you see I am in a terrible hurry? Go and play,
like a good little girl!"

"But I've no one to play with, Susie," said the child, piteously.

"Find some one, then, and don't bother! Perhaps I'll show you about
the dress after dinner, if I have time."

Never stopping to look at the little face clouded with disappointment,
Sue ran on. There was no cloud on her own face. She was a vision of
sunshine as she ran across the street, her fair hair flying, her hazel
eyes shining, her brown holland dress fluttering in the wind.

The opposite house looked pleasant and cheerful. The door stood open,
and one could look through the long, narrow hall and into the garden
beyond, where the tall purple phlox seemed to be nodding to the
tiger-lilies that peeped round the edge of the front door. The door
was painted green, and had a bright brass knocker; and the broad stone
step made a delightful seat when warmed through and through by the
sun, as it was now. The great horse-chestnut trees in front of the
house made just enough shade to keep one's eyes from being dazzled,
but not enough to shut out the sunbeams which twinkled down in green
and gold, and made the front dooryard almost a fairy place.

Mary came out, bringing a basket of peas and a shining tin dish; she
sat down, and made room for Sue beside her with a smile.

"This is more satisfactory than telephoning," she said. "Now, Sue,
take a long breath and tell me all about it."

Sue breathed deep, and began again the wonderful tale:

"Why, I met Annie Rooney this morning, when I went down for the mail.
You remember Annie, who used to live with us? Mamma doesn't like her
much, but she was always nice to me, and she always likes to stop and
talk when I meet her. Well! and so she told me. They may be here any
day now, Mr. Packard and his daughter. Her name is Clarice--oh! I told
you that, didn't I? Don't you think it's a perfectly lovely name,
Mary? It sounds like a book, you know, with long, golden hair, and
deep, unfathomable eyes, and--"

"I never saw a book with golden hair," said Mary, "to say nothing of
unfathomable eyes."

"Mary, now stop teasing me! You know perfectly well what I mean. I am
sure she must be beautiful with a name like that. Oh, dear! I wish I
had a name like that, instead of this stupid one. Susan! I don't see
how any one could possibly be so cruel as to name a child Susan. When
I grow up, Mary, do you know what I am going to do? I made up my mind
as soon as I heard about Clarice Packard. I'm going to appear before
the President and ask him to change my name."

"Sue, what do you mean?"

"My dear, it's true! It's what they do. I've read about it somewhere.
It has to be done by act of legislature, and of course the President
tells Congress, and they see about it. I should _like_ to have that
same name--Clarice. It's the prettiest name I ever heard of; don't you
think so, Mary? But of course I can't be a copy-cat, so I am going to
have it Faeroline--you remember that story about Faeroline? Faeroline
Medora, or else Medora Faeroline. Which do you think would be
prettiest, Mary?"

"I like Sue better than either!" said Mary, stoutly.

"Oh, Mary, you do discourage me sometimes! Well, where was I?"

"You had got as far as her name," said Mary.

"Oh, yes. Well, and her father is rich. I should think he must be
enormously rich. And she must be beautiful,--I am quite sure she must;
and--she dresses splendidly, Annie says; and--and they are coming to
live at the hotel; and she is fifteen--I told you that? And--well, I
suppose that is all I really know just yet, Mary; but I _feel_ a
great, _great_ deal more. I feel, somehow, that this is a very serious
event in my life, Mary. You know how I have been longing for something
exciting to happen. Only yesterday, don't you remember, I was saying
that I didn't believe anything would ever happen, now that we had
finished 'Ivanhoe'; and now just see!"

"I should think they would try to get a house, if they are well off,"
said practical Mary. "It must be horrid, living at a hotel."

"Oh, Mary, you have _no_ imagination! I think it would be perfectly
delightful to stay at a hotel. I've always just longed to; it has been
one of my dreams that some day we might give up housekeeping and live
at the hotel; but of course we never shall."

"For pity's sake! I should hope not, Sue, with a good home of your
own! Why, what would there be to like about it?"

"Oh, it would be so exciting! People coming and going all the time,
and bells ringing, and looking-glasses everywhere, and--and never
knowing what one is going to have for dinner, and all kinds of good
things in little covered dishes, just like 'Little Kid Milk, table
appear!' Don't you remember? And--it would be so exciting! You know I
love excitement, Mary, and I just hate to know what I am going to have
for dinner."

"I know I am going to have peas for dinner," said Mary,--"at least, I
want them. Sue, you haven't shelled a dozen peas; I shall have to go
and get Bridget to help me."

"Oh, no; I will, I truly will!" cried Sue; and she shelled with ardor
for a few minutes, the pods flying open and the peas rattling merrily
into the tin basin.

"Do you remember the three peas in the Andersen story?" she said
presently. "I always used to wish I had been one of those--the one
that grew up, you know, and made a little garden for the sick girl.
Wouldn't it be lovely, Mary, to come up out of the ground, and find
you could grow, and put out leaves, and then have flowers? Only, I
would be sweet peas,--not this kind,--and look so lovely, just like
sunset wings, and smell sweet for sick people, and--Mary! Mary Hart!
who is that?"

Sue was looking down the street eagerly. Mary looked too, and saw a
carriage coming toward them with two people in it.

"No one we know, I think," said Mary.

"They are strangers!" cried Sue, in great excitement,--"a man and a
girl. Mary Hart, I do believe it is Mr. Packard and Clarice! It must
be. They are strangers, I tell you! I never saw either of them in my
life. And look at her hat! Mary, _will_ you look at her hat?"

"I _am_ looking at it!" said Mary. "Yes, Sue; I shouldn't wonder if
you were right. Where are you going?"

"Indoors, so that I can stare. You wouldn't be so rude, Mary, as to
stare at her where she can see you? You aren't going to stare at all!
Oh, Mary, what's the use of not being _human_? You are too poky for
anything. A stranger,--and that girl, of all the world,--and not have
a good look at her? Mary, I do find you trying sometimes. Well, I am
going. Good-by."

And Sue flew into the house, and flattened herself behind the
window-curtain, where she could see without being seen. Mary was
provoked for a moment, but her vexation passed with the cracking of a
dozen pods. It was impossible to be long vexed with Sue.

As the gay carriage passed, she looked up quietly for a moment, to
meet the unwinking stare of a pair of pale blue eyes, which seemed to
be studying her as a new species in creation. A slender girl, with
very light hair and eyebrows, a pale skin, and a thin, set mouth--not
pretty, Mary thought, but with an "air," as Sue would say, and very
showily dressed. The blouse of bright changeable silk, with numberless
lace ruffles, the vast hat, like a flower-garden and bird-shop in one,
the gold chain and lace parasol, shone strangely in the peaceful
village street.

Mary returned the stare with a quiet look, then looked down at her
peas again.

     "What, oh, what shall we do,"

she said to herself, quoting a rhyme her father had once made,--

     "What, oh, what shall we do
     With our poor little Quicksilver Sue?"




CHAPTER II

THE NEW-COMER


Sue Penrose went home that day feeling, as she had said to Mary, that
something serious had happened. The advent of a stranger, and that
stranger a girl not very far from her own and Mary's age, was indeed a
wonderful thing. Hilton was a quiet village, and it happened that she
and Mary had few friends of their own age. They had never felt the
need of any, being always together from babyhood. Mary would never, it
might be, feel the need; but Sue was always a dreamer of dreams, and
always longed for something new, something different from every-day
pleasures and cares. When the schooners came up the river, in summer,
to load with ice from Mr. Hart's great ice-houses, Sue always longed
to go with them when they sailed. There were little girls on them
sometimes; she had seen them. She had gone so far as to beg Mr. Hart
to let her go as stewardess on board the "Rosy Dawn." She felt that a
voyage on a vessel with such a name must be joy indeed. But Mr. Hart
always laughed at her so, it would have been hard to have patience
with him if he were not so dear and good. She longed to go away on the
trains, too, or to have the pair of cream- horses that were the
pride of the livery-stable--to take them and the buckboard, and drive
away, quite away, to new places, where people didn't have their
dresses made over every year, and where they had new things every day
in the shop-windows. Her dreams always took her away from Hilton; for
it seemed impossible that anything new or strange should ever come
there to the sleepy home village. She and Mary had always made their
plays out of books, and so had plenty of excitement in that way; but
Hilton itself was asleep,--her mother said so