The Madigans | Page 9

slim,
straight leg, disarranged an elaborate scheme for "putting horses in the
stable," and once when there was a strategic sortie from Sissy, which
failed to catch the enemy napping.
It was Split who finally yielded, as, with rage in her heart, she had
known from the very beginning would be the case. But no Madigan
ever laid down her arms and surrendered formally.
Split threw open the door with a bang. "Go out, then, miss! go out!" she
commanded.
Calmly and skilfully Sissy finished the "devil on a stump," the last of
those ornamental additions the complexities of which appeal to experts
in the game; then she gathered up her beloved jackstones and got to her
feet. But dignity forbade that she should leave the room just when her
foe had ordered her to go. So she ignored the invitation, and going to
the piano, sat down in an ostentatiously correct position, requiring
many adjustments and readjustments, and began to play "The Gazelle."
She played prettily, did this young person, who seemed to Split
specially designed to infuriate her. And to-day she played "with
expression," soft-pedaling and lingering upon certain passages in a way

which the Madigans considered shameless.
"Oh, the affected thing! Just listen to her! How she does put on!"
sneered Split to the world at large.
Sissy's lips opened, then closed tightly. She had almost answered, for
no Madigan may be accused of sentimentality and live unavenged.
Only a moment, though, was she at a loss. Then calmly, prettily, she
glided into Split's own particular "piece." She knew this would draw
blood. And it did.
"You sha'n't play it now! You sha'n't!" Split cried, her ungovernable
temper aroused. She dashed impetuously for the piano and tore the
sheet of music from the rack.
It was the thing for which she had suffered so many lessons; for which
she had sat feeling like a mean-spirited imbecile with Sissy's
impertinent finger under her wrist, while all outdoors was calling to her;
for which she had forborne often and often during the week, only to be
more thoroughly bullied on Saturdays. Yet she tore it across and
recklessly trampled it underfoot. Then with her hands over her ears, lest
she hear the imperturbable and maddeningly excellent Sissy play "In
Sweet Dreams" without the notes, Split fled.
Sissy played on till the very last bar; she had an idea that Split might be
ambushed out in the hall. But when she got to the end and heard no
sound from there, she decided that the enemy was indeed vanquished,
and she rose to close the piano. As she did so she got a view of an
elegantly stout and very upright lady coming up the front steps, with a
fair, pale boy by her side.
[Illustration: "'Go and shake hands properly, like a little gentleman,'
bullied Mrs. Pemberton"]
With an agility commendable in one so round, Sissy dropped beneath
the piano, and, whipping off her apron, proceeded to wipe the dust from
the back legs of the instrument with it. This done, she rammed the
apron up between the wall and the piano, and was seated, breathless,

but with a bit of very dirty white embroidery in her hands, when the
lady entered.
"Ah, Cecilia, busy as usual," she said in an important, throaty voice.
"Yes, Mrs. Pemberton," said Sissy, softly.
"You see, Crosby, that even a child may make use of spare moments.
Why don't you say how-d'-ye-do to Cecilia? Where're your manners?"
demanded the lady.
"Yes, 'm. How-do, Sissy?" asked the boy, uncomfortably. He was a
very prim child, immaculately dressed, his smooth hair plastered neatly
down over his forehead; and he sat bolt upright on the edge of his chair,
for he knew well his mother's views about lounging.
"Go and shake hands properly, like a little gentleman," bullied Mrs.
Pemberton.
With a sickly smile Crosby walked over to Sissy and grasped her hand.
He let it go with an "Ouch!" that made Mrs. Pemberton turn
majestically and glare at him.
"I'm so sorry I stuck you, Crosby," said Sissy, softly, smoothing out her
embroidery. "I forgot there was a needle in my work."
Crosby looked at her; he knew just how sorry she was.
"The thing to say, Crosby," thundered his mama, "is, 'Not at all, not at
all, Cecilia!'"
"Not at all--not at all, Cecilia," squeaked the boy, his thin voice like a
faint echo of his mother's heavy contralto.
Sissy yearned to beat him; she always did. That she did not invariably
yield to her desire to express her resentment of so awfully mothered a
person, was due solely to a sentiment of chivalry: he was so weak and
so devoted to herself, and it took some courage to be devoted to Sissy.

"I'm ashamed of my