Part 2 — MISS SOPHONISBA SYLVIA PLANTAGENET TUDOR.
Reading edition
BY LILLIAS C. DAVIDSON.
Far away, across, the blue Atlantic, lies an island—not a very big island, but a wonderful one, for all that. Its name is England. Who knows what is the capital? London? quite right; I see the Young People are well up in their geography. Well, in this London there is a great square called Portland Place, and before one of its big tall houses there was standing a carriage one bright afternoon.
Presently the house door was flung wide open by a most gentlemanly butler in black, and down the steps there came an imposing procession.
First, Lady Ponsonby, in silks and laces, very stately and very beautiful; then little Ethel; and last, but not least—oh no, indeed! by no means least—Miss Sophonisba Sylvia Plantagenet Tudor, closely clasped in the arms of her doting mother, Miss Ethel.
"What, only a doll?"
My dear Young People, can it be possible that I hear you say "only"? Miss Sophonisba Sylvia Plantagenet Tudor was by far the most important member of the present party—at all events, Ethel would have told you so, for so she firmly believed. Never was there so lovely a doll. Eyes like violets; real golden hair, cut with a Gainsborough fringe (what you American little girls called "banged," although why, I don't know, I am sure); complexion as beautiful as wax and paint could make it; and a costume which was the admiration and envy of every one of Ethel's particular friends. Muriel Brabazon, who lived in Park Lane, had actually shed tears when she saw Miss S. S. P. Tudor's new black satin jacket with its jet fringe; but then poor Muriel had no mamma, and was not as well brought up as might be desired.
All the same, Miss Sophonisba was a pride and joy to any possessor, and Ethel felt a thrill of calm happiness at every fresh glance that was cast at their carriage as they drove quickly through the busy streets toward the Park. Hyde Park, you must know, is to London what the Central Park is to New York; and in it there is a long drive called Rotten Row, where London people go in crowds, and on this afternoon it was a perfect crush of carriages of every description.
The Ponsonby carriage had to go at a slow and stately pace, and all the throngs of people who walked by the side of the Row, or sat on the green chairs under the trees, had a fine opportunity of gazing their fill at Miss Plantagenet Tudor's glories.
All at once there was a little stir and flutter among the crowd, and murmurs ran about from one to another of "The Princess! the Princess!" Ethel clapped her hands, and nearly danced upon her seat, for this was almost too delightful; and in another minute there came in sight a very plain, neat carriage, with dark horses, and servants in sober liveries, and there, smiling and bowing, sat the sweet and gracious lady who will probably one day be Queen of England. She is so good and so charming that the English people love her dearly; and all the gentlemen's hats came off in a minute, and all the ladies bowed, and everybody looked as pleased as possible. As for Ethel, she bowed so hard that she looked like a little Chinese Mandarin, and even jumped up to get another glimpse as they passed, for their own carriage was just turning out of the great Park gates to go home to Portland Place. Actually, for five minutes, she had forgotten her beloved doll; but what may not happen in five minutes?
"Sophonisba Sylvia, my precious," she murmured, turning to take her in her motherly arms, "did you see the Princess? Isn't she loverly?—almost as beautiful as you?" But here she stopped quite short.
Alas! it is almost too dreadful to go on writing about. How can I tell you? There was no Miss Sophonisba S. P. Tudor! She had totally vanished.
Oh, poor, poor Ethel! Nine years old, and beginning to learn German verbs, and yet her tears rained down like an April shower.
"Oh, my Sophonisba! The best, the dearest, of my twenty-three dolls! Oh, mamma! mamma! can I go on living without her?"
"Ethel, my own," cried her distracted mother, clasping her in her arms, "don't cry, my pet, don't cry. We'll advertise for her; we'll offer rewards; we'll go to Creamer's this moment, and buy you another; we'll send to Paris, Vienna, anywhere."
But oh! you among my readers who are mothers of dolls yourselves, you can fancy how Ethel rejected this last consolation. Another doll! Could there be another Sophonisba? Never! oh, never! And should her place be taken by another, even if there were?
"Please, mamma," she murmured, burying her tear-stained face in Lady Ponsonby's best silk mantle, "I would so much rather not. I don't want another. I couldn't love any one else like her. Oh, Sophy Sylvia!"
No use to look for the dear lost one. They drove back the whole way they had come, and asked five policemen, but not a trace was to be found.
But where, all this time, was Miss Plantagenet Tudor? Scarcely had she recovered her senses from the shock of her violent fall upon the wood pavement at Hyde Park Corner, when she was seized by the waist, and a rich Irish brogue greeted her ears.
"Arrah, thin, what an illigant doll! Sure and it's wild wid joy Norah'll be to get it. Come along, me darlint."
Then perhaps she fainted with horror, for the next thing she was aware of was being clasped in the arms of a little girl, nearly the same age as her beloved little mistress, but ah! how different in all but age!—a little red-haired girl, clean and tidy, to be sure, but with what patched and faded clothes, what little red rough hands, what a loud voice, and what an accent! Neither Miss Tudor's nerves nor her temper could stand it. She made her back far stiffer than nature and Mr. Creamer had ever intended it to be, and refused all comfort. In fact, did what in a less distinguished and high-bred doll would have been called sulking; and little Norah at last left her in despair, with a sorrowful sigh.
It really was not for three days after this that she came out of her—well, yes, sulks; and that was because she was disturbed by a terrible noise of sobbing and crying.
"Och, thin, don't ye now, Norah—don't ye. It's no mortal use, I tell ye; we'll have to go to prison, and that's the blessed truth. My lady's grand lace handkerchief, and it's worth three guineas or more; and the housekeeper says as it's never come home, and I'll swear I sint it; and how iver are we to pay at all, at all?"
Now Miss Plantagenet Tudor had by no means a bad heart; she felt really sorry to see such distress. However, it was no business of hers, and she was just going off into her dignified gloom again, when her blue eyes spied something thin, white, and lace-like under the edge of the big chest in the corner.
There was the missing handkerchief, the cause of all this woe. Should she show it to them, and make the poor things happy? Yes, she would; she knew Ethel would, if she were there. And so, with the lofty grace which was all her own, Miss Sophonisba Sylvia Plantagenet Tudor fell flat, face downward, upon the floor, with one stiff arm stuck out straight before her.
Norah rushed to pick her up, and as she stooped she too saw the handkerchief, and clutched at it.
"La, Miss Ethel," said the little school-room maid, "there's such a funny tale Mrs. O'Flannigan's been telling in the kitchen. I know you'd like to hear it—it's about a doll."
"Oh, Susan, I don't think I can bear to hear about dolls to-night. Who's Mrs. O'Flannigan?"
"The washer-woman, miss; and she lost your ma's best pocket-handkerchief, and very likely would have had to gone to prison, and been hung" (oh, Susan! Susan! that was a dreadful stretch of imagination on your part), "only her little girl Norah's doll fell down, and when they picked it up it was a-pointing in the corner, and there was the pocket-handkerchief; and Norah she says she's sure she done it a purpose."
"Why, of course she must have. What a dear delightful doll! I think, Susan, really, that I should like to see her. May I?"
"La, miss, of course you may. I'll tell Mrs. O'Flannigan to bring her."
Ah, little did Sophonisba Sylvia guess where she was going that evening when Norah wrapped her carefully in a corner of her shawl, and trotted off by Mrs. O'Flannigan's side through the gas-lit streets! They went in by the kitchen steps—a way Miss Tudor had never been before; but somehow the great tiled hall looked strangely familiar; and who was that coming a little timidly out of a door held open by a tall and powdered footman?
Ah, dear Young People, it is as hard to write of joy as of sorrow. Ethel's shriek rang through the house, and brought her papa, Sir Edward, from his billiards, and Lady Ponsonby from her drawing-room, in a tremendous hurry.
Norah went home happy in the possession of five dolls out of Ethel's twenty-three, and her good fortune did not stop there. Indeed, she had the greatest reason to bless the day when Miss Sophonisba Sylvia Plantagenet Tudor had her eventful fall from the Ponsonby carriage at Hyde Park Corner.