ALMA MAKES COMPLICATIONS
Charlotte was sitting in the easy chair which she had imported to her
new lodging with the rest of her belongings, munching peanuts. Her
bushy brown hair was pinned up into a droll little "nubbin" on top of
her head, her goggles had slipped down almost to the tip of her nose,
and altogether her attitude, when Nancy burst in upon her late on
Sunday afternoon, gave evidence that she was in a thoughtful mood. She
had often said that peanuts always disposed her to meditation. With
her feet on the window-seat she gazed out upon a rather dreary scene of
fog and rain, hardly blinking her big, heavy-lidded eyes, and devouring
peanuts like an automaton. But the unchanging gravity of her face, as
she turned around to greet her prodigal roommate, told Nancy that there
was really some serious matter on her friend's mind.
"Hello! Have a good time?" was her only greeting.
"Very. Did you like the play yesterday? I--I hope you understood why
I--I mean after I had told you that I had to stay here----"
"Nancy, you know you don't have to explain anything to me. If you
couldn't go with me, don't you suppose that I knew that you had your
own reasons for not going?" interrupted Charlotte warmly. "My idea of
real 'bosom friends,' as they call 'em, is of two people who know when
not to bother each other with questions.
"The reason why most of these ardent school-girl friendships come to
violent deaths is because they _will_ insist on telling each other
everything, and demanding an explanation for every why and wherefore.
And that's that. Take off your things and have a peanut--or even two,
if you like."
Nancy tossed her hat on the bed and began to take off her heavy clothes.
"You seemed sort of grave, Charlotte, when I came in. Has anything
happened?" she asked, as she slipped into her dressing-gown and shook
down her hair.
"Well, in a way, yes," replied Charlotte. "Nothing to worry you
really, and it's really not my affair, except that it concerns you and
Alma. It's only that I'm afraid that that donkey Mildred Lloyd got
Alma into rather a scrape yesterday. Oh, don't look so scared--it's
all fixed up. Only, if I were you, I'd have a good talk with Alma
about Mildred."
"But what happened?" cried Nancy, who had turned quite pale, in spite
of Charlotte's hasty reassurances.
"Well, the chief trouble was that they overstayed their time in town
yesterday. Ten o'clock is the very latest that any of us can come in
on a holiday, As you know, and as they knew, and as that little
pinhead, Mademoiselle, knew. It seems that one of the boys persuaded
them to stay in for dinner and to go to the theatre again afterwards.
So they didn't get in until after twelve. Well, as you can imagine,
Amelia went on a regular rampage. And I've a notion that she was a
good deal harder on poor Alma than she was on Mildred. Amelia is more
afraid of angering Mildred than Mildred is of angering her. Mildred
always takes Mademoiselle as her chaperone because she is quite sure of
being able to make that little poodle do anything she wants. And
Mildred, being the daughter of Marshall Lloyd, is _persona grata_ here,
and can wriggle out of any scrape. I know Mildred down to the ground.
I've roomed with her for a year. For some reason or other she never
tried to coax me into any rule breaking--probably because we were never
intimate at all, and because she knew that I don't think there's any
fun or sense in that sort of thing. It doesn't take any great
cleverness to break a rule, and you don't get anything much by doing
so. If you want my opinion, I think that Mildred is a very unsafe sort
of friend for a girl like Alma. I don't believe that Alma honestly
likes her--Mildred is more than inclined to be a bully, and extremely
capricious--but somehow a lot of girls feel flattered when Mildred
'takes them up,' and will do anything she tells them to, without using
their own common sense for a minute. I'm saying all this to you,
Nancy, when I wouldn't say it to anyone else. I don't like the idea of
picking to pieces a girl whom you roomed with for a year, but I think
that both of us ought to try to make Alma open her eyes before Mildred
gets her into any more mischief."
Nancy sat silent for a time, staring out of the window, and biting her
finger thoughtfully. She longed to ask Charlotte's advice, but she
hesitated to discuss her own sister even with this very close and
sincere friend. She hated to admit Alma's weaknesses even to herself,
and she could not bring herself to speak of them to anyone else. But
she felt very uncertain as to how she was going to approach Alma on the
subject of her friendship with Mildred; for in spite of their
reconciliation, she knew that Alma was not ready to take any warnings,
without flying up with a lot of notions about the nobility of
friendship and so on; true and idealistic notions in themselves, but so
unwisely applied that she stood in danger of losing them altogether
through disillusionment.
"I think Alma's alone now. Have you seen her?" said Charlotte. "The
poor little creature has been awfully unhappy about the scolding Miss
Leland gave her--Mildred wasn't at all cast down and goes around
looking as if she had done something very smart. The very fact that
Alma is feeling so blue about it all, while Mildred is perfectly
unconcerned, shows the difference in the sort of stuff they are made
of. And we must take care that Alma doesn't change under Mildred's
influence so that she, too, will think it very smart to get into silly
scrapes just for the fun of getting out of them."
Nancy sprang up, and without a word left the room.
There was no light in her sister's room, but in the gray twilight that
shone in forlornly she made out a pathetic little heap on the bed. She
felt a lump of pity and motherly tenderness rise in her throat; not a
particle of blame was in her heart--only a desire to cuddle and comfort
her thoughtless little sister.
"Alma," she called softly. A tousled head was lifted from the pillow,
and even in the dim light she could see how Alma's rosy, childlike face
was stained and swollen with tears.
"Oh, Nancy! I _am_ so glad you're back! Oh, don't be angry with me.
You aren't angry, are you?" sobbed Alma.
"Angry!" echoed Nancy, laughing tremulously. "Oh, you poor little
darling--don't be so unhappy about it all." She hugged Alma tightly
and kissed her hot cheek, feeling the tears on it.
"Then you _do_ know about it. It wasn't my fault, Nancy--that is, it
wasn't Milly's, either. Don't think I'm trying to shift the blame.
Oh, I have been so _miserable_."
"Why, dearest, it wasn't anything very bad--it was only foolish. Cheer
up!"
"You see,--you see--Frank was there, and another boy--and they hated to
go back to Cambridge--and it all seemed perfectly harmless--and Milly
said it was perfectly all right, and that Miss Leland wouldn't care a
bit--and that she had often done it. I hadn't any idea--until I
thought about you, and I knew you wouldn't like it. But I didn't think
about that until we were coming home. But Milly just laughed."
"What did Miss Leland say to you?"
"She--she was furious. She said that she was ashamed of me, and that
she was going to write to Mother--and that it was a cheap, common thing
to do."
Nancy's eyes blazed. For a moment she sat perfectly still, breathing
sharply, evidently trying to conquer her temper. Then she said in a
quiet tone:
"She had no business to say that to you. I'm going to speak to her
after dinner."
"Oh, don't, Nancy," implored Alma, timidly. "It's all right now. I--I
don't want you to say anything to Miss Leland."
"Well, she should have been ashamed of herself to say that to you. She
is nothing but a horrid old snob--I'll wager she thought twice over
everything she said to Mildred." Nancy's eyes were still fiery. She
was beginning to taste the humiliation of having to submit to the
tyranny of snobs. If she went to Miss Leland it would end most likely
by their having, for the sake of their pride, to pack up and go home.
And she felt that she had no right to do anything that would so wound
her mother.
"Alma, dearest, I want to say something to you--please don't you be
angry with me now. Please, dearest. You know that I haven't a single
thought that isn't for your interest--and that I wouldn't for anything
on earth try to take away from you anything that was really for your
good." She paused, waiting for Alma to say something, but her sister
was silent, and the room was too dim now for her to read the expression
on Alma's face.
"I think that you have already seen for yourself that there is danger
in a friendship where one person lacks a--well, a very keen sense of
honor, and the other lacks judgment. I know you don't want to make any
more mistakes--you have been very unhappy over a small one, and unless
you are wise, big ones may follow."
"You mean--you want me to--to not be friends with Mildred?"
"I want you only to be independent, dear, so that you won't be afraid
to do what you know is right and wise, even if she laughs at you and
coaxes you. I don't like to criticize Mildred to you if you are very
fond of her; but you know that I have never trusted her, and this
affair ought to show you, too, that she isn't to be trusted. She has
always had her own way, and she isn't a wise girl. She hasn't been a
very good influence for you, as you must have seen. Partly because of
her influence we quarrelled, you know. She has laughed you out of
doing many things that you know well you should have done. I am not
blaming you, Alma. It is only because I know that in time Mildred
would make you very, very unhappy that I'm telling you not to make her
your closest friend."
"She--she--I mean that in many ways she should be a very _good_ friend
to have," began Alma, in a low voice.
"Oh, Alma darling, you mustn't think that simply because a girl has
money and position and influence that she is, on the face of that, a
valuable friend. A girl like Mildred is very fickle, anyway. To-day
she may want to do everything in the world for you, and to-morrow she
may hardly speak to you. So long as you follow her blindly, she may
show a great fancy for you, but if you were to follow your own ideas,
contrary to her, she would quarrel with you in a minute."
"I don't believe that of Mildred," exclaimed Alma, with sudden
defiance. "You have no idea how generous she is, and--and how
broad-minded. I'm sure that you are prejudiced against her, Nancy. I
know that she often appears to be rather a snob, but in reality she
isn't one at all. Yesterday was no more her fault than it was mine. I
was just as wrong as she was."
"Yes, but you were unhappy because you had done it, and Mildred isn't
unhappy about it at all--as a matter of fact, she thinks that it was
quite a clever thing to do."
Alma was silent. Then she said, presently:
"I can't quarrel with her."
"You don't have to quarrel with her. I never asked you to do that. I
said only to think and act as you know to be right. Certainly, then,
if she grows cool with you, she will respect you more. I--I hate to
see my sister so absolutely a--a--I mean I hate to see you doing
blindly everything Mildred does. Because she thinks it silly and
'high-brow' to study hard, you don't study. I hate to see you so
afraid to lose a friend that you will go against your own conscience
and judgment just to keep her good-will. It's just--snobbery,
Alma--and it's worse than even Mildred's snobbery, because it's
cowardly, while hers is just--impudent."
"I won't let you say such things, Nancy," cried Alma, shaking off her
sister's hand. "I--I couldn't go on rooming with Mildred if I believed
what you say of her, and I won't listen to you."
"Oh, Alma--don't, _don't_ let us quarrel again," pleaded Nancy. "Why
can't you believe that it's almost unbearably hard for me to say these
things to you? I am a coward, too, because I'm so afraid of losing one
little jot of your affection, that I would rather a thousand times hold
my tongue than say anything to make you angry. But I can't be silent."
"You've made me more unhappy now than I was before," said Alma,
sullenly. "Do you want me to be a hypocrite, and pretend to be fond of
Mildred still, while I'm believing what you want me to believe of her?"
Nancy got up, feeling quite desperate about the failure of her attempts
to show Alma her danger. While she was thinking of something to say
she walked over to the door and switched on the light. Just as she
turned, she saw Alma make a quick movement--but Alma was not quick
enough to grasp a handsome fur neck-piece off the chair and whisk it
behind the pillow before Nancy saw her. Alma blushed crimson. If it
had not been for that swift action and the guilty blush, Nancy would
not even have noticed the scarf--or, if she had, she would simply have
thought that it was one of Mildred's. For some reason she flushed
herself, and Stood staring blankly at Alma, curiously ashamed of Alma's
own guilty expression. Then Alma slowly drew the scarf from its
hiding-place, and tried to laugh.
"You're going to scold me for my extravagance now, Nancy. I--I got
this to-day. I was hiding it, because I didn't--I mean I was afraid
you might read me a lecture." She attempted an air of playful
penitence, but it was rather a failure. It was a very expensive fur,
long and fluffy, and beautifully lined with frilled chiffon.
"But--Alma," remonstrated Nancy, weakly, "how did you get it? It must
have cost at least a hundred dollars. Why----" She broke off quite
dazed and frightened at the thought of such a sum, and stared at her
sister as if she thought that Alma had taken leave of her senses.
"Well, you see--don't worry, Nancy," stammered Alma, evidently finding
the greatest difficulty in explaining. "You see--it was this way.
Milly--oh, Nancy,"--she stopped and looked at her sister
beseechingly,--"Milly wanted me to get it. And she offered to lend me
the money--she begged me to let her lend it to me, and I can pay her
back whenever I please; she said she didn't care whether I paid her
back at all. And I felt so shabby in that old suit of mine, and I
hated to look badly when Frank was going to be there--he knows ever so
much about girls' clothes, and I _did_ look positively poor beside
Mildred. I knew Mother wouldn't mind--in fact, I knew that it would
hurt her pride dreadfully if I didn't look respectable with those sort
of people--and the fur made everything else look just right. Oh,
Nancy, if you only knew how it _hurts_ me to be with girls who have
everything, who look so much nicer than I do just because they have
prettier clothes. I know it was wrong of me, but _I couldn't resist
it_! I just simply couldn't."
Nancy bit her lip. It seemed as if she were always being thrust into a
position where she must needs be forever preaching to Alma. It made
her feel old, and uncomfortably burdened. With Alma she always felt
somewhat as a staid and wise old duenna must feel with a pretty and
charmingly unpractical and mischievous charge. For a moment she was on
the point of shrugging her shoulders and determining to let Alma go
ahead as she pleased. She had no desire to blame Alma; she understood
too well the force of the temptations that surrounded a girl like Alma
in such an environment as Miss Leland's school; and she was touched by
Alma's, "If you knew how it _hurts_ me!" She had foreseen just that
when she had urged her mother not to send them to Miss Leland's. She
herself had felt that very same sharp flick of wounded feminine pride
when she compared her own small possessions with those of the other
girls and realized that in spite of the neatness of her clothes they
must often appear plain to the point of poorness in comparison with
Mildred's or Kay's. Somehow with Charlotte, in spite of Charlotte's
pretty things, she had not been so conscious of the contrast.
"I--I wish you hadn't tried to hide it from me, Alma," she said gently.
"Are you _afraid_ of me? Am I always scolding you?"
"Nancy! Of course not," cried Alma, in distress. "I didn't mean to
hide it--that was horribly cowardly--I _knew_ that it was weak of me to
get it, and that I had no right to borrow the money from Mildred; and
you have a perfect right to blame me awfully."
"But, dear, however are we going to manage to pay her back? How much
was it?"
Alma looked uncomfortable.
"It really was a bargain, Nancy. A--a hundred and ten, marked down
from a hundred and forty. It'll last me forever."
"A hundred and ten!" Nancy gasped, and then tried to compose her
features so as not to scare Alma with her own breathless dismay.
"I--I don't have to pay her until I get ready," murmured Alma. "I know
Milly won't even think of it again."
"You can't possibly accept it as a present, Alma," said Nancy sternly.
"We must manage to pay Mildred back somehow--soon. She is the last
person in the world whom I'd want to owe anything to. I mean to say,
that people in our position _can't_ put themselves under obligations to
a girl like Mildred Lloyd. It's different if you can return it in some
other way. For instance, it would be all right for Kay Leonard to
accept an expensive present from Mildred, because she could so easily
return it, but for one of us to is like accepting a charity."
Alma looked at her repentantly out of two large, grave blue eyes.
"I--I'm afraid I rather made a mess of everything yesterday, Nancy,"
she said, hanging her head and picking at the soft fur, which somehow
had lost a good deal of its charm for her; then, all at once, evidently
touched by the droll naivete of the sad remark, Nancy burst out
laughing.
"You poor, funny lamb! I'm always worrying you to death," she said.
"Don't bother any more, Alma. I'm sick of bothering, myself. We'll
manage to solve the problem somehow. Only, dearest," she grew sober
again, "please--please don't--I don't want to say it again,--but think
over what I said to you. I'm sure that you will see that I'm very
nearly right. Come, now--you'd better tidy yourself. I'm going to
dress." She bent over Alma and kissed her lightly. As she went toward
the door Mildred met her. They looked at each other coolly, Mildred
barely giving her a nonchalant nod, and then ignoring her altogether.
"Hello, honey-pie. Don't tell me you've been weeping briny tears all
afternoon over what Leland said to you," she cried gaily to Alma.
"Goodness, what a penitent! What's the point in having a good time if
you're going to regret it like that? I have the right idea--I make it
a point never to regret anything."
Nancy walked slowly back to her own room, and dressed for dinner in
silence. It seemed to her that she might indeed be "sick of
bothering," but that did not prevent there being a good deal for her to
bother about.