"Oh, Cousin Julia, how perfectly gorgeous!" cried Elsie, "but oh, I
don't need it, and--oh, please take it back. You just shower things on
me, and I feel so wicked to have you spend so much on me."
"Elsie, child, don't you understand yet how happy I am to have you to
spend it on?" returned Miss Pritchard.
It was quite true that the latter was constantly bestowing not only
small, but rich and costly gifts upon the girl who had come to live
with her and for whom she had come to live. In this instance it was an
opera-cloak of rose-colored broadcloth, wadded, and lined with white
brocaded satin, soft and light and warm. The two went often to the
theatre, and it would be useful, though Miss Pritchard herself had
never owned such a garment, and it was certainly rather elegant for a
girl of sixteen.
"Now, Elsie," Miss Pritchard went on, "I want to ask you something--I
have more money than I know what to do with. Whom should I spend it on
if not on you?"
Elsie winced. Her little face grew wistful. "Then it's because I'm a
Pritchard you do it?" she demanded.
Miss Pritchard laughed. "My dear, how you pin one to cold facts. If
you must know, then, it's because you aren't a Pritchard. It's because
you're yourself, through and through, and haven't a trace nor a look of
the Pritchards that I love you so and long to have you happy here with
me, who am not a Pritchard either. No doubt your family rubbed that
fact in sufficiently, so you didn't expect me to be. To tell the
truth, I could never abide the Pritchards. I was such a misfit when I
visited Aunt Ellen's years ago, that I rather dreaded your coming,
though I did feel that being so young you might not be inveterate, and
that we might manage to hit it off, as they say."
Immensely cheered, Elsie kissed her warmly. Miss Pritchard threw the
cloak over her shoulders, produced a rosy silk scarf to tie over her
bobbed hair, and they were off.
The conversation came back to Miss Pritchard next day as she sat at her
desk near a great window whence the streets below were like canyons.
"Dear me, how little Elsie must have had in her life to be so absurdly
grateful as she is," she said to herself. "And what a life those women
must have led her to make her so ready to refuse what meant so much to
her if it came to her as to a Pritchard."
Which suddenly reminded her of the Pritchard family lawyer and a letter
she had found on her plate that morning with the name of the firm Bliss
& Waterman on the envelope. Not caring to open it before Elsie, she
had brought it to the office.
Breaking the seal, she was amazed to learn that the lawyer wished to
consult her in regard to a request for five hundred dollars Elsie
Marley had recently made. He would not, of course, hand over a
comparatively large sum like that without her guardian's sanction, and
he felt constrained to add that certain outstanding obligations against
the residue of the property had recently come to light which might
curtail the income for a year. He still felt that if Miss Pritchard
remained willing to pay Elsie's general expenses, that the allowance
which they had agreed upon and which he had sent regularly ought to
cover pin-money and something more. Elsie had made no explanations.
Of course, if the money were for educational purposes, he would arrange
to send it. If Miss Pritchard would kindly make the situation clear to
him, he would follow her instructions, but he awaited her reply before
acting upon her ward's request.
Miss Pritchard felt absolutely at sea. She was as puzzled as she was
troubled. Elsie had seemed so frank and open, and, despite her
generous nature, had seemed so frugal in her expenditure, making a
little go much further than Miss Pritchard herself could do, that she
couldn't imagine her demanding this sum without consulting her in
regard to it. She knew exactly what Elsie paid at the school--she had
insisted upon paying her own expenses out of five hundred dollars she
had brought with her and deposited. She knew, too, practically every
penny she spent in other ways, the total of which was always far below
the amount of her allowance; she knew her associates, and could have
accounted for every hour of her time. She could almost believe that
Mr. Bliss had made a blunder.
After pondering upon the subject all day, she telegraphed him not to
send the money, and decided to question Elsie that night.
She had no opportunity that evening, however. A certain Madame
Valentini, a former prima donna who had been a famous soprano in the
early days of "Pinafore," and who came to Miss Peacock's each year for
opera, had arrived during the day, and she and Miss Pritchard being old
friends, the evening was devoted to her. Madame Valentini was
white-haired now, and very stout, with chin upon chin; and the real
Elsie Marley would have thought her vulgar, for she rouged her cheeks,
laughed out heartily and frequently, and wore colors and fashions
ill-suited to her age and size, with jewels enough for a court-ball.
But she was full of life and spirit, warm-hearted, invariably cheerful,
an amusing and fluent talker, and musical to the ends of her be-ringed
fingers and the satin tips of her shoes.
Like every one else at Miss Peacock's, she took to Elsie at once. She
understood that the girl was studying for the stage, but recognized in
a twinkling that she had a singing voice, and finally prevailed upon
her to try it. She herself played the accompaniment with a skill that
was a revelation to Elsie, who had never enjoyed singing as she enjoyed
it that night.
When she had done, the prima donna threw her arms about the girl and
drew her to her bosom. Elsie Marley must have shuddered, but her
namesake, thrilled with singing to the sympathetic accompaniment,
kissed her warmly on her unnaturally pink cheek.
"Oh, my angel, what a voice, what a voice!" cried madame. "Entrancing!
marvellous! It's simply perfect in tone and quality, and correct
practice would increase its range. And when you put on a little more
flesh (here, even Elsie Moss groaned silently) you'll get volume, too.
Stop everything, child, and cultivate it. It's worth millions."
Elsie flushed. She couldn't help being pleased by the extravagant
praise, but she couldn't bear to be advised to give up the dramatic
stage.
The older singer turned to Miss Pritchard. "My dear Miss Pritchard,
why do you let this charming child waste her time learning to do
vaudeville stunts that any limber-jointed, pretty-faced chit could do,
with a glorious voice like that?"
"It seemed wonderful to me, and Charley Graham confirmed me in the
belief," Miss Pritchard owned, "and Elsie herself confesses that people
have always advised her to study singing rather than acting."
"Only because they thought it was more respectable," protested Elsie,
pouting.
"But, foolish child, wouldn't you far and away rather be a singer--a
famous singer?" demanded madame. "You'd get into grand opera, you
know. You'd be lovely as Juliet or Butterfly even now."
"I'd rather be an actress," pleaded the girl so sweetly deprecating
that Madame Valentini hardly wondered that Julia Pritchard should give
her her way.
So long as she remained at Miss Peacock's, madame devoted much time,
very happily, to Elsie's musical education. She made the girl sing for
her every day, giving her assistance that was really invaluable. She
took her to the opera twice a week, where she was a wonderful
companion, calling attention to fine points that all but a connoisseur
must have missed, and discussing all sorts of pertinent musical topics
between the acts. And she rejoiced with Miss Pritchard because of
Elsie's obvious enjoyment.
Meantime, Miss Pritchard found occasion to speak to Elsie on the
subject of Mr. Bliss's letter. She handed it to her; the girl read it
quietly and passed it back without speaking, yet meeting her eyes
frankly.
"I confess, Elsie, I can't conceive how you should want so large a sum
at this time," Miss Pritchard began. "I trust you so thoroughly that I
believe it must be for something worth while--at least you think it is,
child. And I feel that you so trust me that you will explain to me if
you can. In any event, I have decided to give it to you out of my own
pocket. I know that you are careful and economical and think it must
be for your education in some manner, and don't feel that I am foolish
in doing it. How will you have it, check or cash?"
Elsie had been growing weak after the first surprise. She had already
cashed three huge checks (as they seemed to her), and sent them in
money-orders to Enderby: and she had forwarded a letter some time
before that Elsie had explained to be a request for money. But she was
aghast at the sum. She couldn't imagine what the other girl could want
it for.
The tradition had always been in her family, who were always poor, that
Uncle John was rich; and though she had learned with some surprise that
he had only one servant, she had heard nothing to indicate that he did
not live in the "style" she had always imagined. She felt troubled if
it was in order to keep up with that style that Elsie Marley wanted the
money; but though she was reluctant to take it from Miss Pritchard, she
by no means hesitated as she had in the case of the opera-cloak. For
this was a legitimate case of Pritchard to Pritchard.
"A check?" repeated Miss Pritchard.
"Cash, please, Cousin Julia," returned the girl, her dimples almost
visible. Then she looked straight into Miss Pritchard's eyes.
"Please tell me--are you doing this, too, because I'm not a Pritchard,
or as my guardian?"
And whether it was because the girl's heart was so set upon that
particular answer, or because Julia Pritchard was so staunch and true,
with such a keen instinct for the real and right--in any event she
returned promptly: "As your guardian, Elsie, Pritchard to Pritchard."
Elsie embraced her warmly, whispering that she couldn't explain, but it
was truly all right. The next day she got a post-office order and sent
the money to Elsie Marley without saying that it hadn't come from the
lawyer in California as the other sums she had forwarded had done.
Consequently, when a letter came from Mr. Bliss saying that he couldn't
let Elsie Marley have the five hundred dollars she had asked for
without an order from her guardian, she felt obliged to withhold it
entirely.
It troubled her to do so, and weighed upon her mind afterward. She
told herself that she would, of course, explain when she saw Elsie
Marley, and meantime--it was, after all, nothing but a formal business
communication, not a real letter, and of no account in that the
business itself had gone through. Still, it seemed a great pity that
there should be any concealment between herself and the other Elsie.
As things stood, she was sufficiently involved in concealment, to give
it no worse name, without that. It had been understood that she should
read all the letters that came before sending them on to Enderby; but
to keep one and never mention it, necessary though it was, and demanded
by circumstances, seemed somehow almost like stealing.
And the worst was that circumstances might go on making demands, and
she might have to do yet more reprehensible things--things that weren't
merely _almost_ like wrong-doing. Some day she might have to lie right
out.
Well, as to that, what had it been when she said that her mother's name
was Pritchard? That had been acting--a part of her rôle. And then, of
course she constantly deceived Miss Pritchard, in a way, though not
dishonestly. That was acting, too. She and Elsie Marley had entered
into a contract, indeed, each to act the part of the other. They
weren't hurting any one: each fitted into the wrong place as she
couldn't have into the right. And yet in very truth it was very much
like plain lying!
Elsie Moss flinched. Then she recollected how once at home some of the
girls of her class at school had been discussing a subject given in the
rhetoric they studied under "Argumentation"--"Is a lie ever
justifiable?" These girls of the "Per aspera ad astra" motto had
decided the question in the affirmative. They had agreed that lying to
a burglar wasn't wrong--it might prevent him from robbing a widow or
one's own mother--the same with regard to a murderer, an insane person,
or one sick unto death. And one and all had declared with spirit that
if they lived in England and a hunting-party should come along with
their cruel hounds and ask which way the fox or hare had gone, they
would point in exactly the wrong direction. Elsie herself had declared
that she would have said that the little creature hadn't come this way
at all.
Not that that was exactly similar. The girl owned that however she
might please Miss Pritchard, and Elsie Marley might gratify Uncle John,
in each case it was the girl herself who benefited chiefly by the
scheme, and for whom it had been arranged and carried through.
Pleasing Uncle John and Cousin Julia was what is called in chemistry a
by-product.
Furthermore, there was the question as to whether Cousin Julia, in any
event, would value satisfaction secured thus by indirection?
Absolutely straight-forward, as she was, mightn't she judge their
action severely, label it plain deceit, and--oh, no! she couldn't
refuse to have anything further to do with her! It began to seem as if
even failure in what she had always considered her life-work wouldn't
be so terrible as that. The girl didn't put it into so many words, but
as the days passed she seemed to have a vague sense of another
life-work which might consist in growing up toward Miss Pritchard's
standards of what is fine and good and worth while. But Elsie wouldn't
dwell upon it, for she couldn't, of course, begin to approach any such
goal--she couldn't even make a start--without confession. And
confession wouldn't mean only the loss of her chance to realize her
ambition; it would mean the loss of Cousin Julia herself.