How fine it would be if one could foresee the result of every action!
Hester Alden's slight prevarication to Robert Vail, when she told him
that her father had been Miss Debby's brother, carried with it a long
series of misunderstandings. Had Robert Vail known the facts--but he did
not.
Hester, bearing within her heart the consciousness of her own fault,
spent not a few unhappy moments with herself. To it, she attributed the
former entanglement, between herself and Helen. She reached this
conclusion because she knew of nothing else on account of which Helen
might have misjudged her. Several times, she decided to speak of the
matter to Helen and confess that she had misrepresented matters when she
had declared that she belonged to the Alden family; but each time, her
courage failed her, and her pride prevented. It is not an easy matter
for one to confess that she has, in her statements, deviated from the
truth.
The morning following the coming of the girls to Valehurst, Robert Vail
left home early and by a hard drive over the mountains at length reached
the junction where railroad communication had not been cut off.
Mrs. Perkins expected him to return with his mother the following day;
but they were detained by business. So Valehurst was left without a host
or hostess. Mrs. Perkins exerted herself to make the guests comfortable
and the servants, with which the home was well provided, vied with each
other in their attendance upon the young ladies. The girls were
thoroughly enjoying their experience, Hester, perhaps most of all, for
such a household was new to her. She liked to play lady of the manor.
"Don't you wish you and I could live this way?" she said to Debby Alden,
during the second day of the enforced visit. Debby Alden looked at the
questioner and then asked, "Are you not satisfied, Hester, with your own
little home?"
"Yes, I am!" cried the girl impulsively. "A little house with Aunt Debby
is better than a mansion without her. I am really satisfied. Yet it does
seem nice to be here. I feel quite at home."
"I presume a lady feels at home in any cultivated environment," was the
rejoinder. Debby paused a moment. She was not one to repeat the tales
which came to her ears; but when, as in this instance, her sympathies
were touched and she felt that her story might bear with it a moral, it
might be really worth her while to repeat it to Hester.
"Valehurst is very beautiful, Hester. We recognize that; but it cannot
bring happiness to those who dwell in it. Mrs. Vail has a great sorrow.
What it is, I do not know. I did not care to inquire. Robert told me
that his mother, years ago, had a bereavement from which she has never
recovered, and to which she has never become reconciled. The servants
speak as though she were a woman saddened by some dreadful experience."
"But Helen says she is very cheerful and can never do enough to make
others happy."
"Outwardly, perhaps. From what I have learned, she is one who has
strength of character enough to keep her sorrows to herself and not
burden others. Of course, she would try to make Helen and every one else
happy, even though she were most miserable herself. I would not have
spoken of the matter, had I not thought you were estimating one's
happiness by the amount of material wealth one possessed.
"Poor Mrs. Vail! I am a happier woman than she. I have just my little
home and my girl, but I am very content."
"So am I, Aunt Debby." She pressed Debby Alden's arm closer within her
hand. Then she added, "Wasn't it a good thing that I was left to you.
Wouldn't it have been dreadful if I had been taken somewhere else and
you would have been left alone. Just think how lonely we would have
been."
"Yes, it would have been hard; but it didn't happen that way. It was
intended that you should be my girl."
"You mustn't think that I was discontented because I wished that you and
I lived in a mansion. I am not one bit discontented. I was just
wishing."
"Learn to be contented. Folks are miserable otherwise. The Aldens,
taking them as a family, were not complainers or grumblers--except Ezra,
and how he ever came by it, I do not know. He was never contented. He
wouldn't go to school, and he wouldn't farm, and he wouldn't be
satisfied anywhere or with anything."
"Ezra? Who was he, Aunt Debby? I never heard you mention his name
before."
"He was my oldest brother. He would be a man of sixty if he were living
now. I never mentioned him, because he is more of a memory than anything
else. He was only sixteen when he ran off west. He wrote a few times.
The letters were two or three years apart, and always from different
sections. At one time he was on a ranch, another time in the gold
fields. He could not be contented long anywhere."
"Where is he now, Aunt Debby?"
"Dead, Hester. Dead long ago. At least we think so. For years, no
letters have come from him. When father died, we sent word everywhere,
but he never replied. We said then that he was dead."
"If he had lived, I'd have had an uncle. I should like an uncle. From
what I've read, they are very jolly."
"You can not always believe what you read," was the sententious
rejoinder.
The guests remained at Valehurst three days, during which time neither
Mrs. Vail nor Robert appeared, although the latter sent many messages to
the girls, through the medium of his cousin or the housekeeper.
Thursday morning, word came from Doctor Weldon that the students must
return to school and make ready their belongings to go home.
Commencement was not to be considered. The graduates would receive their
diplomas, but there could be no festivities.
The students had been taken care of in the country houses which stood on
the hills back of Flemington. These were the only places for miles about
which had not been flooded. As soon as communication with other places
had been made, Doctor Weldon was kept busy sending and receiving
telegrams. Each father and mother was distracted when news of the
flooding of Lockport came.
By Thursday evening, the students had returned. The drift and dirt had
been removed from the Seminary building, and the campus had been freed
from logs and driftwood. But some things could never be replaced. The
old apple trees had been uprooted; the grassy slope which had lain close
to the river front had been washed out to gravel bottom. The gray bricks
of the building showed the water mark and at the corner a few misplaced
ones told the story of how the old lamp post had saved the building.
The once beautiful halls were water-stained; hard-wood floors were
warped until they stood in little hollows and hills; and the polished
wood of the doors and balustrades had lost all semblance of beauty.
The girls rushed into one another's arms. They could talk now of the
flood for the danger had passed from them. The dormitories were a babel
of voices. A score of girls talked at once and not one listened to
another.
Miss Burkham from the hall below heard the confusion and retired to her
own apartments. She had no thought of interfering with the chatter. She
explained her lack of discipline to Doctor Weldon later. "This will
never happen again in all their lives. As long as they were talking,
they were forgetful that the opportunity for the banquet, the play, and
commencement had been taken from them. I thought it wise to put up with
the noise, rather than have them feel depressed."
The girls were discussing the play and banquet even then. There were
confessions on all sides.
"We intended feasting on the senior banquet," cried Erma. "We had bribed
Belva. He was to lead the caterers up to our third floor. You seniors
would have sat waiting in the Philo Hall below."
"No, indeed. You reckoned without considering that the senior class were
not all dullards. We had heard of your plans. Doctor Weldon gave us
permission to hold the banquet at a hotel in the city. Miss Burkham and
the Fraulein were to go with us. So while you girls would have been
sitting in the attic waiting for the banquet, we would have been
whirling away in cabs to the city." Helen had a smile of triumph as she
told the story. If the seniors had been robbed of their opportunity to
outwit the juniors, they at least would not miss the chance of boasting
of it.
Erma looked at her quizzingly. "Was that really true?" she asked. "Well,
I have this much to say. If the seniors had outwitted us, we in turn
outwitted the freshmen. They were gloating over the fact that they had a
copy of our play."
"We did," cried Hester. "And we had the parts almost learned."
"Yes, I was to be the queen," said Emma. "I knew my part. I was to--."
"You the queen!" said Edna Bucher, with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.
"I could not possibly conceive of you taking such a part."
"Well, you never did have much imagination. You should cultivate it,"
was Emma's quick rejoinder.
"Please do not quarrel," said Josephine as she raised her soulful eyes
and let them rest upon each girl in turn. "This may be our last time
together. It would be so sweet to carry with us pleasant memories. Let
us have sweet--."
"Not too much, though," said Emma. "You always were a great girl for
caramels and fudge, Jo; but you must remember some of the rest of us
liked olives and pickles."
"Emma's speech in plain English, means that she prefers some wit to too
much sentiment," said Hester.
"I most assuredly do," was the rejoinder, as Emma sat down on top of the
trunk which had been brought in ready for packing.
The group of girls had gathered in Sixty-two. During the winter and
spring terms, this room had been the general gathering place; for Hester
and Helen were popular with the other students.
"I wish I might finish about the play," cried Erma. "Those miserable
little freshmen thought they had our play. Yes, I know you took a copy
from my study-table drawer. It was one I put in there for you to take.
While you were busy learning that, we had another. So while you girls
were gloating over the 'East Indian Queen,' we went on in peace and
practised 'A Roumanian Princess.'"
"Really? Erma Thomas, do you mean it?"
"Do I mean it? I surely do. Oh, wasn't it fun to hear you practise and
see you slip about with your mysterious airs!"
The door opened and Renee came in. She was robed in a full-length
kimona.
"You girls sitting here doing nothing! I am packing. I do not intend
letting it go until morning and then hurrying. My trunk is locked and I
cannot find the keys. Will you lend me yours, Helen?"
Helen arose to get them from a drawer. Emma sighed as she looked at
Renee.
"When I go to heaven," she said, "and meet Renee there, I know what she
will say to me the very first thing."
The girls looked their queries and Emma concluded, "'Emma, please lend
me your crown. I've mislaid mine.'"
"And Emma will be finding fault with everything. She'll feel dreadful
because she is forced to be in heaven all the time," said Sara slowly.
This was a hit direct at the little Dutch doll, for all through the
year she had been complaining at the restrictions of school, and could
not understand why Doctor Weldon did not allow the girls to go down to
the city when they pleased.
During this conversation, Mame Cross had been sitting apart. Now
Josephine turned to her, and assuming an attitude and expression of
great solicitation and interest said, "Mame is the only one who feels
what this evening means to us. Perhaps never again shall we talk
together. No one knows what the summer will bring. Mame is overcome by
the thought--."
"I am not. I was not thinking of that at all," Mame replied. "It came to
me while the girls were talking of the banquet and play and commencement
that I was almost glad that we were not having any of them."
"Mame Cross, what heresy! The flood has made her mad," cried the girls.
"I have reasons for thinking so. I simply could not have gone to one
thing. What could I have worn if I had gone? I made up my mind when we
had our last reception that I would never go to another unless I had
something decent to wear."
"When I meet Mame in heaven," said Emma, trying to look serious, "the
very first thing she will say is, 'My robe doesn't hang as well as
yours, and my harp isn't so bright.'"
"Are you not getting a little irreverent?" said Helen gently. "There are
so many common things to jest about. Is it not better to use them as the
butt of our wit, instead of matters beyond our comprehension?"
"Yes, I suppose so, Helen," said Emma. "But, you know I never consider.
I blurt out just what I wish to say."
The half-hour bell sounded and the girls went to their rooms to make
ready to appear at the dining-table. The lower halls were yet damp
although they had been open to the air and sun since the previous
Sabbath. Doctor Weldon, not wishing to risk the health of the pupils,
had converted a class-room on the second floor into a dining-hall. Here
dinner was served informally; the students attending to their own wants,
for the servants were kept busy carrying the trays from the floor
below.
At the bringing-in of the last course, Doctor Weldon arose to make the
announcements. She asked the young ladies to attend to their packing at
once. Belva and Marshall had already brought down trunks and boxes from
the store-room. Immediately after breakfast, the following morning, each
young lady should call at the office when arrangements would be made for
her going home.
There was too much to be done after dinner to permit of any visiting.
The girls went to their rooms and began to dismantle them. Hester and
Helen had much to do, but they contrived to carry on a steady flow of
talk while they worked.
"Perhaps, we'll never be together again," said Hester, from the depths
of the closet whither she had gone in search of shoes. "You will not be
here next year. We may never meet again."
"I think we shall," said Helen. "The world is not a very large place.
You are to visit me, you know. I shall ask your Aunt Debby when I see
her."
"And you'll come to visit me. Couldn't you come this summer? You'd like
Jane Orr and Ralph. He is the nicest boy I ever knew, except Robert
Vail."
"Rob _is_ nice. Yes, I think I can come. We could have a fine time."
Hester grew eloquent about the walks, picnics and drives they could
have. Helen was accustomed to life in a mansion with a retinue of
servants. Hester knew this. She knew also that at her home, Aunt Debby
and she would perform all the household work and that Aunt Debby would
set out her own flowers and plant a garden of radishes and lettuce with
their kindred small garden truck. Helen would have no servants to wait
upon her. Hester gave no thought to the difference in the household. To
her, friendship was above all material conditions. As she felt
concerning such matters, she took it for granted that all right-minded
people must feel. She could not conceive the thought that Helen, as her
friend, could be critical of the plain old-fashioned home where she and
Aunt Debby were the home-makers. It was not training alone which gave
Hester such impressions. She had within her the instinct of true
nobility. She gave the best of what was hers without apology or
explanation. She took it for granted that her offerings would be
received in the same spirit. They were, for Helen Loraine valued a
friend higher than the friend's possessions.
"I am very glad I asked you to forgive me, last Saturday," continued
Helen. She was bending over the drawer of the chiffonier while she
robbed it of its contents. "I could not have been happy had I gone home
and not have made friends with you. It was my fault, Hester, that you
did not play as a substitute on the first team. I thought something, and
I told Miss Watson that I did not care to have you play. You do not know
how sorry I have been since."
"Yes, I do. There, I think I have all my shoes ready to pack. Those old
gym shoes I might as well throw out as rubbish. Yes, I do know, Helen. I
felt dreadfully about it myself; but I thought you had a good reason. I
myself despise a girl who prevaricates even a little."
Helen raised her head from her work to look at Hester. She could not
fully grasp this last remark.
Hester, catching the peculiar expression of her friend's face continued,
"You did not tell me why you were hurt with me. Of course I knew. It was
what I said about my father being Aunt Debby's brother. That was it, was
it not?"
"What an idea, you silly little Hester! Why should I be angry with you
for saying that? What was it to me whether he was Miss Alden's brother
or not?"
"I thought you knew and despised me for telling what was not true. I am
not one bit an Alden. I do not belong to Aunt Debby except through love.
My mother died at the Alden home. Somehow, I never could quite grasp all
the story, for no one will tell me all. Somehow, Aunt Debby felt herself
responsible and she took me and gave me her mother's name. Don't you
think that very sweet of her? To Aunt Debby, Hester Palmer Alden was the
name she loved the most and she gave it to me."
"Yes, she must have loved you, too, or she would never have given you
that name. It was not what you said that caused me to be displeased with
you. Shall I tell you?"
Hester shook her head slowly. She was yet sitting on the floor near the
door of the closet. All about her, were odds and ends of her
possessions.
"No, do not tell me. I know I did not do anything else to make you
despise me. So please don't tell me what it was. Whatever it was, I did
not do it and I might feel hurt if I knew that you suspected me of
anything very bad."
"Very well, little roommate. We'll never talk about the matter. We'll
clean off our slates and make them clean for the next lesson," said
Helen. "That is what Miss Mary used to tell us when we went to primary
grade."
"I always liked to hear you say 'little roommate.' Next year, Helen, you
will not be here to say it. I wonder who will call me that." The tears
were near Hester's eyes, but she forced them back and smiled.
"Perhaps, someone nicer than I and someone you will love better."
"That will never be. It couldn't be. But you'll come back to visit?"
"I do not think it will be possible. Father says I may go to an eastern
college. That will take me far from here. I do not wish to go four
years. I intend taking special work; for I mean to be a settlement
worker."
Hester nodded. Just then she could not have said a word if her life had
depended upon it. She thought that Helen's giving up a life of ease and
luxury to work among the people of the slums, was a glorious thing;
although she herself could not have done such a thing and had no desires
in that direction.
"It will be lovely, Helen," she said at last. "Perhaps when you are
working somewhere I shall come to visit you."
"Perhaps you may be working with me. Who knows?"
"I know I shall never be that kind of a worker. I intend to be a
novelist. Perhaps, I shall find a great deal of material when I come
down to visit you. I think being a great novelist would be glorious."
"Yes, if one could be great and could write life as it is and make
people better by the writing."
"That is the kind I intend being," said Hester with conviction, and yet
not conceit. "I shall be a great one or none at all. I never should like
mere commonplace writing. I should like to imagine; to look at people
and describe them as they were, and to see even their thoughts."
Helen laughed. Hester had already won a reputation in
character-description. She had the faculty of describing her friends in
a few pertinent words which meant as much as an entire paragraph from
some people.
"I think your character-drawing will be excellent," said Helen. "You
have a way with you, you know."
"Do you really think so? Aunt Debby says I am critical, but I do not
mean to be that. People just naturally make me think of different
things. I see a likeness. I cannot help it that it is there. Aunt Debby
was once quite indignant when I was telling her about the different
girls at school. I said Josephine made me think of soft-A sugar. Aunt
Debby did not like it. But that is what she made me think of. I
couldn't help it."
Hester was quite serious. Although the remark concerning Josephine was
her own, she did not fully appreciate her own wit in the application.
Hester arose slowly. "That closet is cleared, thank goodness. I'll see
to the trifles on the dressing-table. I'd rather pack big things than
such trifles as hairpins, handkerchiefs, and stockings."
"I am ready to put mine in the trunk," said Helen. As she spoke, she
drew the trunk from against the wall and lifted out the tray. She gave
an exclamation as her eyes fell on a quantity of lawn and lace.
"I've hunted everywhere for those waists," she said. "I went to the
laundry several times to ask Mrs. Pellesee if they had been mislaid. I
was confident that they had not come back from the laundry."
She made a dive into the depths of the trunk and brought forth the
shirtwaists.
"I remember now when I put them there. When I got my new one-piece suit
to wear to dinner, I put these away. It was the night I lost my pin."
"Yes," said Hester without turning her head. Her mind was upon putting
the contents of her dressing-table in order. She scarcely heard what
Helen was saying.
Helen gave a second exclamation as her hands seized the fluff of lace
about one waist; for the pin which she had missed months before was
fastened to the lace.
"I found my pin!" she exclaimed. "I am glad--so glad! Look, Hester!"
Hester gave a quick indifferent glance toward Helen's upraised hand in
which this stone glittered like a star.
"I'm glad," she said. "I thought it was very strange what became of it.
I couldn't understand how it would disappear from the room. I have a pin
something like that--but mine is just a cheap imitation. Aunt Debby says
it is the kind one buys at a five-and-ten-cent store."
For a moment, Helen stood silent. She was abashed and ashamed of the
suspicion which she had long held in her mind. She had done wrong; but
on the other hand, she had done what she could to make matters right. It
pleased her even now to know that she had asked Hester's forgiveness and
had believed in her, before the proofs of her innocence came to hand. It
is a worthless sort of faith and a poor friendship which needs evidence
at hand. Faith is faith only when it believes without proof, or against
proof. These thoughts came to Helen while she stood with the pin in her
hand. Then she crossed to where Hester stood and laying her hand on
Hester's shoulder, said, "Little roommate, to-night will be our last
night together in school. Will you try to think with kindness of the
roommate who was unjust to you? You have taught me one great big lesson,
Hester, and that is that one cannot even believe her eyes. Will you
forget all the unpleasant part of the year, and remember only that I
really loved you with it all?"
"That will be easy. It will be but thinking kindly of myself. For every
one says that you are my counterpart."
"A poor imitation, I am afraid. If I predict rightly the years will
prove me but the reflection of a great and a brighter body. You'll be
the sun, Hester. The best I'll ever be is a pale little moon." She bent
to kiss Hester's lips. With that caress all the suspicion and doubt
vanished and Hester Alden's year at school had closed.
THE END
DOROTHY BROWN
By NINA RHOADES
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