"Your _old_ muslin, isn't it?"
"Yes," was Mattie's giggling rejoinder. "She hadn't anything of her
own."
A contemptuous "Humph!" from Bob's sister followed.
My cheeks flamed. Could I get away? No; the speeches were beginning. How
it went on for an hour I do not know. It was a dreadful period for me,
and Mattie vainly tried to rouse me. Finally I managed to say:
"Mattie, I see the Sydneys," and to my horror she answered, promptly:
"Oh, what fun! I do want to know them. Come, Cecy, after all I've done
for you, you'll have to introduce me."
"But, Mattie," I faltered, "how can I--I--"
"Nonsense!" was the retort. "Here, now, we have an intermission. Come
along, Kate, Bob; we're going over to see some friends."
[Illustration: "I STOOD BACK, ASHAMED OF MY POSITION AMONG THEM ALL."]
How it was done I never knew, but in a few moments I was following
Mattie along a corridor, ashamed of everything about me, the more so
when we got into the side room, where she knew the Sydneys were to be
found, and I saw Laura's startled recognition of me, and Philip's
evident surprise. Mattie pushed me forward. I managed the introductions;
and, oh! what a contrast there was between the two girls! Laura's
pretty, gentle manner, Mattie's boisterous, dashing one, and Bob and
Philip looking at each other with nothing to say, while I stood back,
ashamed of my position among them all.
"We went to the school for you," Laura said, presently, "and Miss
Harding was out."
Mattie said nothing for an instant; then, with a blush, she said,
looking straight into Laura's honest face:
"Miss Harding made an exception in our favor. She refused the general
invitation."
In the silence which followed this audacious speech I turned away, not
daring to meet the look Philip gave me. I stood by the window, looking
out, and while Mattie chatted on, I tried to see how this day would end.
Not that I feared Miss Harding, but that I felt I never should know how
to shake myself free of the vulgar associations in which my dear Laura
had found me; nor could I ever forget I had so placed myself that a lie
was told for my benefit. Benefit! If you could have seen me, a
miserable, unhappy little girl in borrowed clothes, standing in that
window, with a forlorn expression and tightly clasped hands, you would
not have thought there was much "fun" in this escapade, nor much
"benefit" in its results; I heard the voices in a dreamy sort of way; I
heard Philip and Laura saying they were going to take tea at Professor
Patton's--the big brick house next the academy. Then, to my surprise, I
heard Mattie say _we_ were to stay all night at the Riverses'. There was
to be a sort of party. I felt desperate. Laura and Philip said good-by
pleasantly, and I could only look at them with a piteous air of appeal.
They were gone; we were again in the lecture-room, and I had not
recovered my wits, or at least my sense of what I ought to do, until I
found myself, with the same boisterous party, driving to Mrs. Rivers's
house, half a mile from the academy.
The Riverses had a large showy house; and on entering I was received by
an overdressed stout lady, to whom all the young people talked with the
sort of rough freedom which is sometimes called "Young America," and
which so completely does away with the sacredness of "Mother."
We went upstairs to lay aside our wraps; and remembering I had left
something I needed in the hall, I ran down for it while Mattie and Kate
were busy washing their hands in the dressing-closet, chattering all the
time. As I passed a hall window I saw it had grown suddenly dark, and
that rain-drops were pattering against the pane. It was a sudden summer
storm, and I began to think of my particular dread--thunder and
lightning.
I found what I wanted, and sped back; but on entering the room, I heard
my name spoken by Mattie, and stood still in a sort of nameless wonder
or dread.
"I _had_ to bring her," Mattie was saying; "I wanted to put her under an
obligation to me, don't you see, so that she wouldn't tell of different
things. I can always hold this over her. Doesn't she look horrid in my
clothes?"
A laugh from Kate was the answer.
"Little goose," Mattie went on, "I wish we could get rid of her. She'd
spoil any fun. I've taken to her at school because all the girls told me
she was Miss Harding's favorite, it's a good thing for me, you see."
For a moment the revelation of Mattie's real character overpowered me. I
do not remember that at first I thought of anything but that she was not
what I had believed her to be. Then mortification, fright,
tears--everything--seemed to follow, and then, in a sort of dream, I
turned and ran down-stairs and out into the rain, thinking only that I
must find Laura and ask her to help me.
I knew the way to Professor Patton's house; but long before I reached it
I was drenched through, Mattie's thin muslin being draggled and soaked
when I stumbled up against the big doorway, within which lights were
shining, and voices sounding of laughter and happy cheer.
I wondered, long afterward, what the servant thought of me, standing
there in my soaked finery. Whatever she thought, little was said. In a
moment Laura appeared from a side door, coming out with a look that went
to my heart. I tried to speak. I began to cry; then I remember moving a
little toward her, and darkness seemed to close in about me.
* * * * *
Laura Sydney was--and is--one of those people who always know just what
to do on every occasion. So it was no surprise to me to find myself, on
coming to consciousness, warm and snug in a comfortable bed, with a tray
of tea and toast at my side, and curtains drawn about the windows, on
which the rain was beating. It took only a few words to make Laura
understand everything. She sent a message to Mattie and one to Miss
Harding, and the next day brought that kind lady to Professor Patton's
house. I was ill with a feverish cold: perhaps that is why they were all
so good to me. At all events, when I had freely confessed all of my
wrong-doing there seemed no more to be said, and the only reference made
to it was when I went home and Aunt Anna reminded me I had spoiled
Mattie's dress.
"I think, dear," she said, one morning, when we were in the garden, "you
had better send her a new one. Perhaps it would be a good idea to save
some of your pocket-money for this purpose." And very gladly I consented
to this little discipline.
Laura, who is opposite me as I write, teaching my little girl to
pronounce _f_, has just asked me if I remember how long ago all this
happened.
"Can it be fifteen years?" she says--and in my heart it seems only
yesterday, although never since have I forgotten the lesson that day
taught: that false colors never help us to be happy, and that "fun"
built up on wrong-doing never can be honest enjoyment.