Elsie Moss's school was quite unlike her expectations, and her
companions not at all like those of her eager dreams. Just as at art
school one begins, she knew, with the study and copying of the antique,
so the girl had supposed that in studying for the stage, one would
approach it through the masterpieces of the drama. On the contrary,
she didn't so much as hear the name of Shakespeare or of any other dead
or classic dramatist during the first two months; and though she had to
work as hard as she had expected to do, it sometimes seemed as if it
were practice that didn't really count. The drill seemed to be all in
the way of suppleness of limb and facility of facial expression without
intellectual stimulus; indeed, it almost seemed as if the whole
tendency of the school was rather narcotic than stimulating.
Further, the girls with whom she came in contact shared her ideals as
little as their pasts had anything in common with hers. Many of them
were not older in years, but one and all were incomparably older in
other ways and painfully sophisticated. Pretty in a coarse way,
painted and powdered, bold and often vulgar, they were almost without
exception girls whose whole lives had been spent in the atmosphere of
the stage, and that in its cheaper and poorer aspects. One or both
parents, brother, sister, aunt, or uncle had figured in shows or
exhibitions of some sort, and they had fallen into the profession in
that manner. None had, like Elsie, chosen it as a calling.
Disappointed as she was, disheartened utterly at moments, the girl
hugged her class motto to her breast and struggled on. So deep was her
purpose, so strong her interest, that she not only pressed doggedly on,
but forced a certain amount of satisfaction out of the struggle. How
it might have been had she not possessed in Miss Pritchard a solace and
refuge, it would be difficult to say. Elsie herself hardly knew how
much courage and strength she gained during the evenings and other
fragments of time spent with her. Looking forward to that
companionship gave her patience to endure many a difficult hour which
perchance she had not endured otherwise. But with that always before
her, despite the hardships that were so different from those for which
she had been prepared, she was nevertheless wonderfully happy--perhaps,
happier than she had ever been before.
Sometimes, when the day had been unusually trying, she would greet Miss
Pritchard at night with a warmth that almost frightened the latter,
clinging to her as if she would never let her go. But she never
confessed any of her troubles connected with the school. She talked
much of it, but it was always of the most interesting occurrences and
of amusing incidents. For her heart was in the matter as much as ever,
and Miss Pritchard wasn't so favorably inclined toward it as to make it
prudent to let her know of the disadvantages.
But it was terribly hard for one of her nature to have no one in whom
to confide, and she longed for Elsie Marley. If she could have talked
things over with Elsie Marley it would have made it easier. Simply to
unburden her heart would mean much. Ever since she had been in New
York she had longed to see Elsie again; and with this added reason, and
a desire to learn more of her life in Enderby than she could gather
from her stiff and rather non-committal letters, she began to feel,
about the time that she forwarded a letter to Elsie's lawyer in San
Francisco, that she must induce her to come to New York for a visit.
A letter from her stepmother seemed to render it almost imperative.
Mrs. Moss, who was devoted to Elsie and missed her sadly, was greatly
troubled by the irregularity of the girl's letters and hurt by their
want of frankness. Knowing that John Middleton had not approved of
Elsie's father marrying her, she began to fear lest he be trying to
turn his niece against her. Now she had written to protest against the
perfunctory letters, which, instead of allowing her to share in any way
in Elsie's life, shut her out.
Elsie was deeply moved and full of compunction. She loved her
stepmother dearly and thought of her constantly, faithful soul that she
really was. She was always wondering how _auntie_ would take this or
view that; but the very topics she was moved to enlarge upon in her
letters were those which circumstances forbade her to mention. All her
interests were connected with Miss Pritchard, of whose very existence
Mrs. Moss was unaware, with the school, and less directly with Elsie
Marley, whose name she was masquerading under. Leaving all these out
of consideration, and depending almost wholly upon the fragments she
received concerning life in the parsonage at Enderby, a brief letter
once in three or four weeks was the utmost the girl could compass.
Immediately upon receipt of her stepmother's letter, she determined to
ask Miss Pritchard if she might invite her friend Elsie Moss to come on
for a week or a fortnight. As she waited for Miss Pritchard to come
from the office that night, however, it suddenly occurred to her to
wonder if it would be quite safe. Despite her enthusiastic admiration
of Elsie Marley, which had not in the least abated, and despite the
unfavorable impression she had of the Pritchards, which only deepened
as the days passed, she had come to feel that in personal appearance
and somewhat in manner her friend must resemble her kinsfolk.
In which case it would be as dangerous for the well-being of the one as
of the other for her to be brought in contact with Miss Pritchard.
For, stiff as were her letters and non-committal, Elsie knew that there
was little difference in the strength of attachment that held the wrong
Elsie to the place she had usurped in either instance. Whatever she
might do, therefore, she mustn't bungle or err in that respect.
The Pritchard estate was not yet settled. The house had been sold and
such personal effects and heirlooms as were to be kept for Elsie Marley
put in storage for the time in San Francisco. Elsie Moss understood
this, and knew that Miss Pritchard did so; but she felt that the latter
wondered that she had no relics or keepsakes with her. She had had to
confess one day that she had no photographs of her family she would be
willing to show, leaving Miss Pritchard to make such inference as she
would.
That evening at the dinner-table--she felt it would be easier to
approach the matter in semi-public--Elsie asked her if she happened to
have any old Pritchard photographs.
"Yes, dear, I have an old album in the chest by the window that has
pictures of Aunt Ellen, Cousin Ellen, and Cousin Augusta. There are
half a dozen, I think, of Cousin Ellen, and three or four of your
mother, but no baby picture of you, nor any other, if that's what
you're looking for. After my father died we began to lose connection
with one another, and after that visit I made when you were a baby, all
communication ceased. So I got no photographs after that."
"No, I wasn't thinking of my kid pictures, Cousin Julia. I was
just--wondering," the girl returned. "Would it be an awful bother to
get out the album?"
"No bother at all, child. To tell the truth, I love to get it out, for
there are a lot of other pictures besides the Pritchards that I like to
look over. There's a picture of my Cousin Arthur Moore, who fell in
the battle of Lookout Mountain, that I'd like you to see."
When the old-fashioned, velvet-bound, nickel-clasped book was produced,
Elsie almost forgot her immediate purpose in her interest in the
likenesses. But one of Ellen Pritchard at fourteen, Miss Pritchard's
cousin and supposedly _her_ aunt, brought her up sharply. For Elsie
Marley was the very image of it. Rearrange her hair, put her into the
beruffled skirt and polonaise, and she might have sat for it. Or part
this girl's hair and gather it loosely back, dress her in a tailored
suit and correct blouse, and she would be Elsie Marley. What a
frightful thing this family resemblance was! Elsie stifled a sigh.
Her cake was dough, sure enough!
Partly to ease her dismay and postpone considering her problem until
she should be alone, the girl gave herself up to the study of the other
pictures. It wasn't difficult to lose herself, for she found them of
absorbing interest.
Among the Pritchards, Elsie's grandmother was the most striking
personage. The strength and sagacity of her handsome face, which the
expression of pride could not conceal, related her to Miss Pritchard
unmistakably. Pride, mingled with frailty and general lack of other
expression, characterized the invalid daughter; and pride that was
arrogance, the bored face of Augusta Pritchard, who was supposed to be
her mother.
It was late when the girl finally closed the album.
"Many thanks, Cousin Julia," she murmured rather absently, a far-away
look in her dark eyes.
After a little she rose and began to wander about the room.
"Cousin Julia," she said presently, "I can't help wondering--honestly,
don't you ever wish I looked more--I mean that I looked any like them?
They're mighty aristocratic-looking guys after all."
"My dear, when you talk like that you know as well as I that you're
fishing," insisted Miss Pritchard. "I have told you that I'm too
well-satisfied. I have to watch out for flaws."
"Well, don't you ever think, anyhow, that such _whopping_ dimples
are--almost vulgar?"
"I adore them," responded Miss Pritchard calmly. "But anyhow, you
know, they are supposed to be Pritchard. Didn't you tell that
what's-his-name boy you got them from your mother?"
Elsie colored.
"I loathed that gump," she said.
Miss Pritchard did not press the matter, though she wished very much
Elsie had explained or made other amends.