TROUBLE FOR TWO.
For several days Basil appeared pre-occupied and went about with an
anxious look on his face, while Porter seemed keeping out of the way as
much as possible. Persis, with her quick sympathies, saw that something
was wrong, and, following Basil’s hint, did keep her eyes open. It was
only by accident, however, that she made the discovery of what was
affecting the two brothers.
One cold day in January she and Mellicent were sitting in the cosey
corner Persis called her very own. This was a tiny place hardly larger
than a closet. It had been used by Mrs. Estabrook as a store-room for
certain of her belongings, but as it had long been evident to her that
Persis had no special quarters, Lisa assuming the proprietorship of
the room Persis shared with her, and Mellicent’s room being too small
for two, the good grandmother set herself to work to provide a little
retreat for her favorite. She busied herself all one morning stowing
away sundry bags and boxes, and by the time the girls came home from
school, with the help of the housemaid, the place had been made as
clean as a new pin.
There appeared to be a closer affinity than before between grandma
and Persis, these days, and to the former’s question, “How would you
like to have a little snuggery of your very own?” Persis looked up in
pleased surprise.
“Why, grandma, what do you mean?” she asked.
“Come here, and I will show you,” was the reply, as grandma opened the
door leading into the small packing-room. “I cleared this out to-day,
for it occurred to me that it was high time you had some sort of a room
of your own. You know, dear, I love you all, but I think you and Lisa
might be more loving if you were not so constantly together, and this
place, tiny as it is, will be a nest to which you can fly when your
feathers are ruffled.”
“Oh, you dear, dear grandma!” cried Persis, ecstatically. “If you only
knew how I have longed for a spot of my very own. Now that the boys are
here, we have less space than ever; and oh, how cunning it will be!
That little window is so high up that I shall not be tempted to look
out, and yet I shall have plenty of light. How would you furnish it,
grandma? It will not hold much.”
“I thought you could have two big boxes, set side by side, along that
wall; they will hold some of your books and papers. Some denims or
cretonne will do to cover your boxes, and they will form a sort of
divan for you. A few pillows piled up on them will make that end of the
room quite a comfortable lounging-place and about fill it up. You will
still have space for a small table and a couple of chairs; then some
hanging-shelves and a few pictures will look well on your walls, and
that will be about all you can crowd in. You know the place can only
be entered by going through my room, and you shall have entire right
of way. No one else shall be admitted to your sanctum, except by your
express invitation.”
Persis looked up gratefully. Perhaps she did not quite appreciate
the sacrifice her grandmother was making, for to give up her entire
seclusion, not knowing what moment a lively girl might bounce in upon
her, meant more than Persis realized. Mrs. Estabrook had thought it all
over, however, and with her usual unselfish spirit had told herself
that she was getting too self-indulgent and too dependent upon small
things. “That is the way we are too apt to do as we grow older,” she
thought, “and thereby we encourage old age to take a firm grasp of us.
I never used to mind having my room open to the family when my own
children were small.” So, sweetly setting aside her own comfort, she
gave up one of her most valued privileges. Nevertheless she felt that
Persis’s delight was compensation, and before many days the little
corner was as pretty a place as need be. Here Mellicent came to be
helped with her lessons; here Annis repaired to talk over all sorts
of things with her friend. It must be confessed that Persis triumphed
rather too visibly over Lisa, who was quite indignant that the room
had not been offered to her. She did not admit this, but she carefully
avoided the spot, and professed herself greatly relieved that Persis’s
possessions no longer crowded _her_ room.
The question of the reduction of Mrs. Estabrook’s income, of course,
was discussed by the sisters, and they were gradually beginning to
adapt themselves to the changed condition of affairs. “It doesn’t
make so much difference to us,” Persis said to Mellicent. “Papa still
gives us our allowance just the same, and we really can get used to
going without the extras. If we want anything very much we can buy it
ourselves. I always have some money ahead after the holidays. I still
have the five dollars Aunt Esther gave me and last month’s allowance
besides. Oh, Mell, I’ll tell you what let’s do! Let’s buy the material
for our own bicycle suits. We really need them, and it will save mamma
that much. Let’s tell her now that we mean to do it. Go get your money
and we’ll give it to her to-day. Don’t you want to?”
Mellicent hung her head. “Yes, I’d like to. I think it is a lovely
plan; but—but—I—I haven’t—haven’t got the money just now.”
“Why, Mellicent Holmes! You haven’t spent nine dollars since Christmas?”
“No. I—I haven’t spent any, hardly. I got some peanut taffy one day and
some pencils and things.”
“Then where in the world is it?”
“Oh, don’t ask me!” And Mellicent looked troubled.
“If you have given it for charity it’s all right, and you needn’t
inform your left hand, if that’s what you mean.”
Mellicent was silent, but she lifted a pair of appealing eyes to her
sister. She opened her lips as if to speak, then evidently concluded
to keep silence. Persis was watching her narrowly. “I’d like to tell
you, but I have promised not to,” said the younger girl, helplessly,
shrinking from her sister’s penetrating gaze.
“Does mamma know? Tell me that, Mell, and I’ll not say another word,”
ventured Persis.
Mellicent shook her head.
“Then it isn’t all right. You know perfectly well, Melly, that a thing
is not right if we cannot tell mamma about it. You know we never, never
promise to do anything without saying that mamma must know.”
Mellicent was looking very miserable. “Oh, Perse,” she said, her eyes
filling with tears, “it isn’t all gone; it’s just loaned. I couldn’t
help it; indeed I couldn’t. He was in such a trouble.”
“Who are you talking about, Mell? Tell me,” said Persis. “Was it
Porter?”
“Oh, dear,” began Mellicent, breaking down, “I didn’t mean to say that.
Oh, what have I done? I’ll be despised for not keeping it to myself.”
“Goodness, child! You have kept it to yourself. I’m firmly convinced
that Porter is at the bottom of it, and that is what has been bothering
Basil. Never mind, Mell, he’s a mean-spirited little wretch. Don’t
worry about it. If you’ve only been loaning money the only harm is in
not telling mamma.”
“That isn’t all; and if I’m not found out it will be all right,”
wailed Mellicent. “I wish I had minded mamma.”
“Then it isn’t all right,” returned Persis, clearly and decidedly. “It
is not the getting found out that makes a thing wrong; it’s the doing
something that you’re afraid to tell about.”
Many years before, when these two were scarcely more than babies, a
similar experience had taken place, which Mrs. Holmes had recounted to
her mother as showing the difference between the characters of Persis
and Mellicent. A large and handsome doll had been sent to the little
Mellicent, who had viewed it with tenderness and admiration, begging to
take the beautiful Geraldine out on the street to walk. But mamma said,
“No, you will be very likely to break her, dear.” At last, however, the
temptation was too great, and as Persis was waiting at the gate for her
little sister, she saw her appear with Geraldine in her arms. In her
haste to reach the gate, Mellicent’s uncertain feet tripped and down
she went, breaking poor Geraldine’s head beyond repair.
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” sobbed the child. “I wiss I had minded mamma. I
is so sowwy I didn’t mind mamma.”
“No, ’ittle sister,” came in Persis’s earnest voice, listened to by
the mother at a window above, “’oo isn’t sowwy ’cause ’oo didn’t mind
mamma, ’oo is only sowwy ’cause ’oo bwoke Gewaldine.” And so it was
with poor little Mellicent this time: she was grieving because of the
prospect of censure.
Persis, after her reproof, felt so sorry for her sister that she
began to comfort her by saying it might be made all right if she would
tell her mother the whole story; and leaving her in penitent tears she
sought Basil, whom she heard softly twanging his guitar. In response to
her knock he appeared at the door of his room.
“Come down in the library, Basil,” said Persis. “I have something to
tell you.”
“What’s up?” he asked as he followed her down-stairs.
“Why, I think I can tell you something about Porter. I hate to be a
tell-tale, but I am pretty sure he borrowed some money from Mellicent.
She had nine or ten dollars after Christmas, and now she only has a few
cents. You know they both looked sort of confused, the other day, when
you said wrong was wrong whether any one knew it or not.”
“Yes, I noticed that. My goodness, Persis, I hope Porter hasn’t done
a mean thing like that. Of all contemptible things, to borrow from a
girl! My father used to say that when a man was willing to borrow money
from a woman it was pretty good evidence of where he stood with men,
and the very fact of his taking advantage of a woman’s soft-heartedness
made him the more censurable; that if men couldn’t trust him, women
ought not to.” And Basil looked much perturbed.
“Oh, don’t think that way,” returned Persis, comfortingly. “He is only
a little boy, and very likely it was only thoughtlessness.”
“I’ve got to find out about it,” responded Basil. “Don’t say anything
more about it till you hear further; not that I would have you keep
anything from your mother, but don’t tell any one else. It will be best
to get at the root of the matter, and then Porter must make a clean
breast of it.”
But the very next day something occurred to throw light on the affair,
and to show Mellicent’s part in it as well as Porter’s. An acquaintance
calling upon Mrs. Holmes said, sweetly, “I saw your little girl at the
theatre not long ago,—the youngest one I think, with the golden hair.
What a pretty child she is! And I suppose the nice-looking lad with her
was one of the Phillips boys.”
Mrs. Holmes was puzzled, but discreetly managed the subject without
showing her ignorance. But when Mellicent was summoned to her mother’s
room, a half-hour later, the grave face that met her told that
something was wrong.
“Have you nothing to tell me, daughter,” began Mrs. Holmes, “which you
should have told me before this?”
Mellicent burst into tears. “Oh, mamma, I have been so miserable. I
wanted to tell, but I promised—I promised not to. It was a secret,
and you know you have so often told us it was dishonorable to tell a
secret.”
Mrs. Holmes drew the weeping child gently to her. “My dearie, are you
sure it was a secret you should have kept? I think it would have been
better if you had gone to the person who shared the secret with you,
saying to him, I must tell my mother. Your conscience, my darling,
has been overstrained, and your judgment at fault. I know that you and
Porter were at a matinée not long ago. Mrs. Ward saw you there.”
Mellicent’s tears fell afresh.
“Now, you see, dear,” continued Mrs. Holmes, “I know all about it; tell
me how it happened.”
“I wanted to go so much,” sobbed Mellicent, “and Porter said if—if I
would loan him some money he would take me. It was a very exciting
play, and I was afraid you wouldn’t let me go if I asked.”
“No, I should very likely have refused. How did you find out about the
play?”
Poor Mellicent felt herself deeper and deeper in the mire. “I read the
book it was taken from,” she confessed. “Oh, mamma, I see now how wrong
I was.”
“I thought I could trust my girls,” said Mrs. Holmes, sadly. “You know,
my child, you are too young to exercise a right judgment in the matter
of selecting books or plays.”
“Audrey read the book.”
“With her mother’s approval?”
“I don’t know. She said it was lovely, and she loaned it to me.”
“You knew you were doing wrong not to show it to me before reading it.”
“Yes,” faintly.
“And you knew that you should not have loaned Porter your money without
permission.”
“I didn’t think about that, mamma,—I really didn’t,—and I can’t bear to
hurt any one’s feelings by refusing to do a favor.”
“My dear little child,” Mrs. Holmes said, “that is one of your greatest
dangers, that wanting to have persons think well of you; and in the
fear of being censured very often you consent to do what you know to be
wrong. Doesn’t it seem to you a much worse thing to disobey and grieve
your mother, and to injure yourself by doing wrong, than to yield to
the persuasions of any one who is tempting you to do what is not right?”
Mellicent nodded assent.
“A very wise old Roman philosopher has said, ‘He who does wrong does
wrong against himself. He who acts unjustly acts unjustly against
himself, because he makes himself bad.’ And,” continued Mrs. Holmes,
“there is another side of it. You are really hurting a person much
more by yielding to his bad suggestion than by bravely standing up for
the right, for your good example would probably help him, and your
consenting to join in misdoing would injure him.”
Mellicent gave a long sigh.
“This is a real lecture, I know,” said Mrs. Holmes, “but I want you to
take it to heart. Compliance can get us into all sorts of trouble, and
it is my little daughter’s weakest point. Struggle against it, dear.
Make up your mind that to say ‘No,’ when it is right to do so, will win
you more respect than a consent which is given because you don’t want
to hurt another’s feelings. A much deeper hurt sometimes comes from a
yes than a no. Now tell me about the play.”
“It was very sentimental and had all sorts of things in it,—villains
and murders and, oh, such a lovely heroine!”
Mrs. Holmes smiled. “You saw the romantic side only, I see; but you
know your parents are exceedingly particular about the kind of plays
you see. We think you too young to go often to the theatre, and there
are very few plays suitable for little girls to witness.”
“I know, mamma. I was uncomfortable all the time. I am so sorry—I
really am sorry I didn’t mind you. Please give me some punishment to
make me remember. I really am sorry.”
“I think you are, dear. Now leave me, for I am ‘so sorry’ too.” And
mamma’s sad eyes were almost more than Mellicent could bear.
Persis waited in vain for her little sister that evening. Porter looked
very uncomfortable, and Basil was as grave as a judge.
Pleading lessons as an excuse for a hasty flight, Porter left the
dinner-table abruptly, and Basil, finding a chance for a word with
Persis, told her all that he had discovered.
Having spent his pocket-money very freely, Porter found himself without
the means to contribute toward a grand oyster supper some of his school
friends had planned to have during the holidays. It was to be a most
elaborate affair, and five dollars from each of those who meant to
enjoy it was demanded. “I wasn’t going to have those fellows leave me
out,” said Porter, in defence of himself. “You’re always so particular
and preach so about going in debt that I knew you wouldn’t help me
out.”
“I’d rather have given it to you outright than to have had you borrow
from a little, gentle, generous-hearted girl.”
Porter flushed up. “I took her to the theatre,” he retorted, “and a
silly, stupid sort of a play I saw, too. I didn’t enjoy it a bit.”
Basil frowned. “You’re not helping matters much,” he remarked. “Now
look here, you’ve got that little girl into a nice peck of trouble, and
you’ve got to do one of two things. You’ve either got to go to Mrs.
Holmes and tell her the whole truth and return the money to Mellicent
or write to mother about it. If you don’t I’ll tell the professor the
whole business.”
“I haven’t got the money,” said Porter, sullenly.
“You shall have it to-morrow. I’ll see to that. You’re not such a
cad as to stand by and see that little girl punished while you go
scot-free. You were seen at the theatre, anyhow, so you’d better accept
my terms.”
“I’ll do it,” consented Porter. He had never seen Basil so angry, and
was half afraid of him in this mood.
“He is going to tell your mother,” Basil informed Persis. “I wish you’d
put in a word for him. I’d hate to have your father know. I haven’t the
money for Mellicent now, but she shall have it to-morrow.”
“Oh, never mind! I can loan it to you,” offered Persis.
Basil turned a reproachful glance upon her. “Do you think I’m going to
follow Porter’s example and be such a sponge as to take your money?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” Persis hastened to explain.
“I know you didn’t,” returned Basil, in a different tone. “It was just
a generous impulse. Thank you for the offer; but I can manage.” And he
did, although the twang of a guitar was not heard in his room for many
a day, while one of his class-mates wondered why Basil Phillips was so
ready to part with his pet instrument at such a moderate price. “He
used to be so fond of it, too,” said Rob Van Dyke.
Mrs. Holmes kept the secret; so did Persis. Even Lisa did not hear of
it, although she wondered why Mellicent did not go to Audrey Vane’s for
a whole month, a punishment the little girl felt sorely, but which she
accepted meekly. “I suppose they’ve had some fuss,” Lisa concluded.
Persis brooded in a motherly way over Mellicent in her period of
penitence, and Basil dealt so unsparingly with his brother that the
younger boy felt ashamed of himself, and began to see, even though
dimly, a glimmering of higher principle and finer honor than had yet
appeared to him.
[Illustration: Decoration]