THE MOST SELFISH GIRL
The girls who had been inseparable friends during the four years at the
fashionable Highacres Seminary parted at the Battery to go in as many
different directions.
Marion Starr's home was far up on Riverside Drive, while Barbara Morris'
millionaire father had an extensive estate on Long Island. Esther
Ballard, the only daughter of devoted parents, resided in the house of
her grandfather, Colonel Ballard, on Washington Square, while Jane
Abbott's family of four lived in the same rambling, picturesque wooden
house that Mr. Abbott's father had built for his bride long before his
name had become so well known on Wall Street. Edgemere, a pretty little
town among the Jersey hills, Mr. Abbott deemed a good place to bring up
his younger girl and boy, and so, although Jane often pleaded that they
move to a more fashionable suburb, in Edgemere they had remained. Nor
would her father tear down the old home to replace it with one finer, for
his beloved wife, who had died at the birth of little Julie, had planned
it and had chosen all of the furnishings. "Some day you will have a home
of your own, Jane," he had told his proud older daughter, "and then you
may have it as fine as you wish."
But in all other things, Mr. Abbott humored her, for she was so like her
mother in appearance. It was with sorrow that the father had to confess
in his heart that there the resemblance ceased, for the mother, who had
been equally beautiful, had been neither proud nor selfish. Little Julie,
though not so beautiful, was far more like the mother in nature, and so,
too, was Daniel, the nineteen-year-old lad upon whom the father placed so
much reliance.
Regrettable as it may seem, Jane Abbott, as she stood on the deck of the
ferry that was to convey her to the Jersey shore, was actually dreading
the two weeks that she would have to spend in her own home. Marion had
suggested that they plan going to Newport by the middle of July and it
was now the first.
It was late afternoon, and there were many working girls on the huge
ferry, who were returning to their Jersey homes after a long hot day in
the New York offices. As they crowded against her, Jane drew herself away
from them haughtily, thankful, indeed, that her father was so wealthy
that she would never have to earn her own way in the world, nor wear such
unattractive ready-made dresses. Unconsciously her lips curled scornfully
until she chanced to catch a glimpse of her own trim tailored figure in
one of the panel mirrors; then she smiled complacently and seated herself
somewhat apart from the working girls, who, from time to time, glanced at
her, as she supposed, with admiration. But she was disabused of this
satisfying thought when one of them spoke loud enough for her to hear.
"See that stiff-necked snob! She thinks she's made of different clay from
the rest of us. I wish her pa'd lose his money, so she'd have to scrub
for a living."
This remark merely caused Jane to sneer slightly, but what she heard next
filled her heart with terrified foreboding, for another girl had turned
to look at her and replied:
"Well, if she's who I think she is, her father's already gone bankrupt,
and she's poor enough, all right."
The working girls then moved to another part of the ferry and Jane was
left alone. It was ridiculous, of course. Her father could not lose his
vast fortune. Jane determined to think no more about it. The ferry had
reached its destination, and the proud girl hurried away. Never before
had she so longed to reach her home.
"Of course it is not true," her panicky thought kept repeating. "But what
could it mean? What could it mean?"
* * * * * * * *
Jane vowed to herself that she would not again think of what the spiteful
working girl had said, for how could she, a mere nobody, have information
concerning the affairs of a man of her father's standing, which Jane, his
own daughter, did not have?
But a disquieting thought reminded her that the working girl's face had
been familiar, and then memory recalled that she had seen her in the very
building on Wall Street where Mr. Abbott's offices were located.
Jane's troubled reverie was interrupted by a joyous exclamation, and her
brother, who was three years her senior and a head taller, leaped from
the crowd and held out both hands. His greeting was so enthusiastic, his
expression so radiant, that the girl was convinced that all was well with
their father, and so she said nothing of what she had heard.
It was not until they were seated on the train and had started for
Edgemere that Jane noticed how pale and thin was her brother's face, and,
when his eager flow of conversation was interrupted by a severe coughing
spell, the girl exclaimed with real concern, "Why, Brother Dan, what a
terrible cold you have! You ought to be in bed."
The boy's smile was reassuring. "Don't worry about that cough, sis," he
said lightly. "Now the grind is over, it will let up, I'm thinking. But
it surely has stuck closer than a postage stamp. Caught it weeks ago, but
I've been so busy, well, doing things, that I haven't had time to coddle
myself."
Suddenly the lad's expression became very serious, and turning, he placed
a thin hand, that was far too white, lovingly on his sister's as he said:
"Jane, dear, some changes have taken place in our home since you went
back to Highacres last Christmas. For Dad's sake try to bear them
bravely."
Then it was true, true, all that this dreadful working girl had said. For
a moment the girl's whole being surged with self-pity, then she felt cold
and hard. What right had their father to lose his fortune and bring
disgrace and privation upon his family? In a voice that sounded most
unfeeling, she asked, "And just what may those changes be?"
It was hard, so hard for Dan to tell the whole truth to a girl whom he
knew, with sorrow, thought only of herself. He had believed that trouble
might awaken the true Jane, whom he had always felt must be somewhere
deep under all the adamant of selfishness, but as yet there was no
evidence of it.
He removed his hand, as from something that hurt him, and folding his
arms, he began: "Our father is in great trouble, Jane, and he needs our
aid, but at present all we can do is to bear cheerfully the
inconveniences that are not nearly as severe as many others have to
endure."
But the girl was impatient. "For goodness sakes, Dan, don't preach! Now
is no time to moralize. If our father has done some idiotic speculating
and has lost his money, tell me so squarely."
A red spot burned in each pale cheek of the lad and a light of momentary
indignation flashed in his eyes, but he replied calmly enough: "Remember,
Jane, that you are speaking of our father, one of the noblest men who
ever trod on this earth. You know as well as I do that Dad never did any
wildcat speculating."
"Well, then, stop beating around the bush and tell me just what has
happened."