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Brenda's Bargain
_A Story for Girls_
BY HELEN LEAH REED
AUTHOR OF "BRENDA, HER SCHOOL AND HER CLUB" "BRENDA'S SUMMER AT
ROCKLEY," "BRENDA'S COUSIN AT RADCLIFFE"
ILLUSTRATED BY ELLEN BERNARD THOMPSON
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1903
_Copyright, 1903,_
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published October, 1903
UNIVERSITY PRESS
JOHN WILSON AND SON
CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
[Illustration: But what startled Brenda was the sight of a girl sunk in
a heap beside the broken glass]
CONTENTS
I. THE BROKEN VASE 1
II. A FAMILY COUNCIL 14
III. BRENDA AT THE MANSION 26
IV. AN EXPLORING TOUR 40
V. PHILIP'S LECTURE 51
VI. IN THE STUDIO 62
VII. IN DIFFICULTIES 73
VIII. THE FRINGED GENTIAN LEAGUE 86
IX. NORA'S WORK--AND POLLY 97
X. ARTHUR'S ABSENCE 107
XI. SEEDS OF JEALOUSY 120
XII. DOUBTS AND DUTIES 126
XIII. THE VALENTINE PARTY 139
XIV. CONCILIATION 147
XV. WAR AT HAND 158
XVI. THE ARTISTS' FESTIVAL 168
XVII. IDEAL HOMES 180
XVIII. WHERE HONOR CALLS 193
XIX. THEY STAND AND WAIT 204
XX. WEARY WAITING 215
XXI. AN OCTOBER WEDDING 227
XXII. THE WINNER 239
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"But what startled Brenda was the sight of a girl sunk in
a heap beside the broken glass" _Frontispiece_
"Waiting for a car they had sat down on a wayside seat" 62
"'I think I hear some one coming upstairs'" 77
"They walked through the long galleries" 136
"She seemed to take but a languid interest in the world
around her" 224
"Brenda had never looked so well" 235
BRENDA'S BARGAIN
I
THE BROKEN VASE
One fine October afternoon Brenda Barlow walked leisurely across the
Common by one of the diagonal paths from Beacon Street to the shopping
district. It was an ideal day, and as she neared the shops she half
begrudged the time that she must spend indoors. "Now or never," she
thought philosophically; "I can't send a present that I haven't picked
out myself, and I cannot very well order it by mail. But it needn't take
me very long, especially as I know just what I want."
Usually Brenda was fond of buying, and it merely was an evidence of the
charm of the day that she now felt more inclined toward a country walk
than a tour of the shops.
Once inside the large building crowded with shoppers, she found a
certain pleasure in looking at the new goods displayed on the counters.
It was only a passing glance, however, that she gave them, and she
hastened to get the special thing that she had in mind that she might be
at home in season to keep an appointment. Her errand was to choose a
wedding present for a former schoolmate, and she had set her heart on a
cut-glass rose-bowl. Yet as she wandered past counters laden with
pretty, fragile things she began to waver in her choice.
"Rose-bowls!" the salesman shrugged his shoulders expressively; "they
are going out of fashion." And Brenda wondered that she had thought of a
thing that was not really up to date; for, recalling Ruth's wedding
presents, she remembered that among them there were not many pieces of
cut-glass, and not a single rose-bowl.
At last after some indecision she chose a delicate iridescent vase,
beautiful in design, but of no use as a flower holder. Its slender stem
looked as if a touch would snap it in two. It cost twice as much as she
had meant to spend for this particular thing, and had she thought longer
she would have realized that so fragile a gift would be a care to its
owner. Self-examination would have shown that she had made her choice
chiefly to reflect credit on her own liberality and good taste. But her
conscience had not begun to prick her as she drew from her purse the
twenty-dollar bill to pay for the purchase.
A moment later, as Brenda walked away, a crash made her turn her head. A
second glance assured her that the glittering fragments on the floor
were the remains of her beautiful vase. But what startled Brenda more
than the shattered vase was the sight of a girl sunk in a heap beside
the broken glass. She recognized her as the cash-girl whom the clerk had
told to pack her purchase. Evidently she had let the vase fall from her
hands, and as evidently she was overcome by what had happened.
Had she fainted? Brenda, bending over her, laid her hand on the girl's
head. Aroused by the touch, the child raised her head, showing a face
that was a picture of misery. Sobs shook her slight frame, and she
allowed a kind-looking saleswoman who came from behind a counter to lead
her away from the gaze of the curious. Meanwhile the salesman who had
served Brenda brushed the bits of glass into a pasteboard-box cover.
"I'm very sorry," he said politely, "but we cannot replace that vase. As
I told you, it was in every way unique. However, there are other pieces
similar to it--a little higher-priced, perhaps--but we will make a
discount, to compensate--"
"But who pays for this?" Brenda interrupted, inclining her head toward
the broken glass.
"Oh, do not concern yourself about that, it is entirely our loss. Of
course, if you prefer, we can return you your money, but still--"
"Will they make that poor little girl pay for the glass?"
"Well, of course she broke it; it was entirely her fault; she let it
slip from her fingers. She is always very careless."
"But I paid for it, didn't I?" asked Brenda. "That is my money, is it
not?" for he still held a bill between his fingers.
"Why, yes; as I told you, you can have your money back."
"I have not asked for my money, but I should like to have the vase that
I bought to take home with me. It will go into a small box now."
"Do you mean these pieces?" The salesman was almost too bewildered to
speak.
"Why, of course, they belong to me, do they not?" and a smile twinkled
around the corners of Brenda's mouth. At last the salesman understood.
"It's very kind of you," he said, emptying the pieces from the cover
into a small pasteboard box. "Mayn't we send it home?"
"Yes, after all, you may send it. Please have it packed carefully;" and
this time both Brenda and the salesman smiled outright.
"It's the second thing," said the latter, "that Maggie has broken
lately. She's bound to lose her place. It took a week's wages to pay for
the cup, and I don't know what she could have done about this. It would
have taken more than six weeks' pay."
"I should like to see her," said Brenda. "Can I go where she is?"
"Certainly, she's in the waiting-room, just over there."
"Come, come, Maggie," said Brenda gently, when she found the girl still
in tears; "stop crying, you won't have to pay for the glass vase. You
know I bought it, and I'm having the pieces sent home."
As the girl gazed at Brenda in astonishment her tears ceased to flow
from her red-rimmed eyes. But the young lady's words seemed so
improbable that in a moment sobs again shook her frame.
"It cost twenty dollars," she said; "I heard him say it. I can't ever
pay it in the world, and I don't want to go to prison."
"Hush, hush, child!" cried a saleswoman who had stayed with her. "You
must stop crying, for I have to go back to my place."
She looked inquiringly at Brenda, and Brenda in a few words explained
what she had done.
"You are an angel," said the kind-hearted woman; "and if you can make
Maggie understand, perhaps she will stop crying."
Now at last the truth had entered Maggie's not very quick brain. Jumping
to her feet she seized Brenda by the hand.
"You mean it, you mean it, and I won't have to pay! But I'll pay you
some time. Oh, how good you are! How good you are!"
"There, Maggie, you'll frighten the young lady, and you're not fit to go
back to the store. Your eyes would scare customers away. I'll take word
that you're sick, so's you can go home now; and, Miss, I hope Maggie'll
always remember how kind you've been."
As the woman departed Brenda had a new idea, and when the message came
that Maggie might go home she asked the little girl to meet her at the
side door downstairs when she had put on her hat. "I want to talk with
you," she said, "and will walk with you a little way."
Such condescension on the part of a beautiful young lady was enough to
turn the head of almost any little cash-girl, and Maggie could hardly
believe her ears, yet she hastened toward the side door where Brenda was
waiting. The latter glanced down at a forlorn little figure in the
scant, green plaid gown, which, although faded, was clean and whole. Her
dingy drab jacket was short-waisted, and her red woollen Tam o' Shanter
made her look very childish.
As the two stood there in the doorway two young men whom Brenda knew
passed by. They were among the most supercilious of the younger set, and
as they raised their hats they looked curiously at Brenda's companion.
Brenda, though undisturbed, realized that she and Maggie were standing
in a very conspicuous place.
"Come, Maggie," she said, "wouldn't you like a cup of chocolate? I'm
going to get one for myself."
The little girl meekly followed her to a restaurant across the street,
and when they were seated at an upstairs table near a window Maggie felt
as if in some way she had been carried to a palace. There was really
nothing palatial in the room, though it was bright and cheerful, with a
red carpet that deadened all footfalls. But Maggie herself had never
before sat at a little round table in a pleasant room, with a waitress
attentive to her. A lunch counter was the only restaurant that she had
known, and this was certainly very different. The hot chocolate with
whipped cream, and the other dainties ordered for the two, made her half
forget her grief for her carelessness. Gradually she lost a little of
her shyness, and told Brenda about her work, and about the aunt with
whom she lived.
"She wants me to keep that place, for it's one of the best shops in
town. But she's awful cross sometimes, and I'm terribly afraid of losing
it. You see," she continued, "my fingers seem buttered, and I don't run
quick enough when they call. I feel all confused like, for there's so
much coming and going. Ah, I wish that I had something else I could do!"
"When did you leave school, Maggie?"
"Oh, I'm a graduate; I'm fifteen past, and I got my diploma last spring.
My aunt was good; she thinks girls ought to go to school until they get
through the grammar school. She says my mother and me, we've been a
great expense, and the funeral cost a lot, so she needs every cent I
earn."
Gradually Brenda understood about Maggie, and it seemed to her that she
would like to talk with her aunt. Glancing at the little enamelled watch
pinned to her coat, she saw that it was nearly four o'clock, and this
reminded her that at four she was to walk with Arthur Weston. Hurrying
her utmost, she could not keep the appointment. She would much prefer to
go home with Maggie.
To think with Brenda was usually to act. So, finding her way to a
telephone in the office downstairs, she called up her own house, and was
surprised to have Arthur himself answer the call.
"But where are you?" he asked; "why can't you come home?"
"I've something very important to do, and I can walk with you any day."
"Really!"
"Yes, indeed."
"But you shouldn't treat me in this way. I shall rush out to find you."
"You can't do it, so you might as well give it up."
In spite of Arthur's slight protest his voice had its usual jesting
tone, but before he could remonstrate further he was cut off, and Brenda
had turned back to Maggie.
Though it was but a few months since the announcement of Brenda's
engagement to Arthur Weston, these two young people had known each other
long enough to have a thorough understanding of each other's character.
Brenda knew that Arthur hated to be mystified, and Arthur knew that
Brenda was wilful. Yet each at times would cross the other along what
might be called the line of greatest resistance.
If Maggie was surprised that her new friend wished to accompany her home
she did not show her feeling, and Brenda soon found herself in a car
travelling to an unfamiliar part of the city. Near the corner where they
left the car was a large building, which Maggie explained was a very
popular theatre.
"I love to look at those pictures," said the girl, pointing to the gaudy
bill-boards leaning against the wall. "I've only been there once, but
I'm going Thanksgiving,--if I don't lose my place."
Her face darkened as she remembered that her prospect for having money
to spare at Thanksgiving had greatly lessened this afternoon. Brenda did
not like the neighborhood through which they now hastened toward
Maggie's home in Turquoise Street. It had not the antiquity of the North
End, nor the picturesqueness of the West End. There were too many liquor
shops, and the narrow street into which they turned was unattractive.
She did not like the appearance of many of the people whom she met, and
she felt like clinging to Maggie's hand.
Still, the house itself which Maggie pointed out as the one where she
lived looked like a comfortable private house. Indeed, it once had been
the dwelling of a well-to-do private family. But inside, its halls were
bare of carpets, and not over clean. Evidently it had become a mere
tenement-house.
"I wonder what my aunt will say," said Maggie timidly, as they stood at
the door of her aunt's rooms.
"We'll know soon;" and even as Brenda spoke Maggie had opened the door,
and they stood face to face with a small, sharp-featured woman.
"Goodness me! Maggie, are you sick? What did you come home for? Oh, a
lady! Please take a seat, ma'am," and Mrs. McSorley showed her
nervousness by vigorously dusting the seat of a chair with the end of
her blue-checked apron.
Brenda thanked her for the proffered chair, for she had just climbed two
rather steep flights of stairs. She felt a little faint from the effort,
and from the odors that she had inhaled on the way up. One tenant had
evidently had cabbage for dinner, and another was frying onions for
tea. Although Brenda herself could not have told what these strange
odors were, they made her uncomfortable. While Maggie was explaining why
she had returned home so early, Brenda glanced with interest around the
room. It seemed to be a combination of kitchen and sitting-room. Above
the large cooking-stove was a shelf of pots and pans, and there was an
upholstered rocking-chair in one corner. There were plants in the
windows, and a shelf on the wall between them with a loud-ticking clock.
Under the shelf stood a table with a red-and-white plaid cotton
table-cover. A glass sugar-bowl, a crockery pitcher, and a pile of
plates showed that the table was for use as well as for ornament.
Through a half-open door Brenda had a glimpse of a bedroom that looked
equally neat and clean.
"I'm sure, Miss," said Mrs. McSorley when Brenda had finished her story,
"I'm very much obliged to you. Maggie's a dreadful careless girl, and a
great trial to me. She'll make it her duty to pay that money back to
you."
"Oh, no, indeed, I couldn't think of such a thing; if any one was to
blame it was I for buying so delicate a vase. Besides, they shouldn't
have a small girl carry things about."
"Oh, no, Miss, it was just Maggie's fault. Her fingers are buttered, and
sometimes I don't know what her end will be. I suppose I'll have to put
her somewhere so's she can't do no mischief."
At these ominous words Maggie's tears fell again, and Brenda, as she
afterward said to Arthur, felt her "heart in her mouth." For Mrs.
McSorley, with her arms akimbo, and her high cheek-bones and determined
expression looked indeed rather formidable, and Brenda hesitated to
suggest what she had in mind for Maggie's benefit.
"I've tried to do my duty by her," continued Mrs. McSorley, "just as I
did by her mother, and we gave her a funeral with three carriages after
she'd been sick on my hands for two years, and her only my
sister-in-law; and I kept Maggie at school till she graduated, and she's
got a place in one of the best stores in town on account of that. If she
had any faculty she might have kept her place, but if people haven't
faculty they haven't anything."
While her aunt was talking Maggie had hung up her things,--the Tam o'
Shanter on a hook on the bedroom door and the coat on another hook in
the corner. Brenda, watching her, thought that her orderliness might
prove an offset for her buttered fingers.
Though there was little emotion on Mrs. McSorley's rather hard-featured
face, she looked at her visitor with curiosity. She was so pretty, with
her slight, graceful figure, waving dark hair, and the friendly
expression in her bright eyes was likely to win even so stolid a person
as Mrs. McSorley.
"She dresses plain and neat," said Maggie, after Brenda had left; "but
she must be awful rich to wear a diamond pin to fasten her watch to the
outside of her coat, and there was about a dozen silver things dangling
from her belt."
Yet though Brenda made a good impression on Mrs. McSorley, the latter
would not commit herself to say just what she would have Maggie do if
she should lose her place. She'd set her mind on having the girl rise
through the different grades. "I hate to have to switch my mind
round--I'm that set," she had explained, adding, "Maggie thinks me
stingy because I take all her earnings instead of letting her spend
money for fine feathers and theatres like the rest of the girls
hereabouts. But some time she'll be grateful." Then came Brenda's
opportunity for saying a little about her plan for Maggie,--a plan so
quickly made, so likely to be set aside by the grim aunt.
While Mrs. McSorley listened she moved around the room, filling the
tea-kettle, lighting the lamp. At last, when Brenda had finished, her
reply gave only a slight hope that she would agree to the plan. Yet
Brenda felt that she had gained a point when Mrs. McSorley promised to
go with Maggie in a few days to visit the school.
The lighted lamp reminded Brenda that outside it must be dusk. It would
trouble her to find her way to the cars through unfamiliar streets, and
she was only too glad to accept Maggie's offer to guide her, and Maggie
was more than delighted to have this last chance for a little talk with
"the kind young lady."
"You'll not cry," said Brenda, "even if they won't take you back;
remember that you have a new friend."
"Oh, Miss, you're so good, and to think that you have nothing for your
twenty dollars but those pieces of broken glass."
"Ah! it's very pretty glass," responded Brenda, "and I'm going to keep
the pieces as a reminder."
What she meant was that she would keep the pieces as a reminder not to
be extravagant, and as she looked at the little silver mesh purse
hanging at her belt she smiled to think that since she left home in the
early afternoon it had been emptied of more than twenty dollars, while
she had nothing to show for the money,--nothing, indeed, except her new
acquaintance with Mrs. McSorley and Maggie, and some fragments of
glass.
II
A FAMILY COUNCIL
Brenda had to change from the surface car to one that would take her
home through the subway. It was so late that she involuntarily stepped
toward a cab standing on the corner opposite the Common. On second
thought she decided to economize, since she had already had an expensive
afternoon. After depositing her subway ticket she had to wait a few
minutes for her car in a crowd, and some one scrambling for a car pushed
some one else against her. Brenda, looking around, saw a handsome
black-eyed girl with a dark kerchief pinned over her head.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, with a foreign accent, fumbling in a
basket that she carried on her arm.
Later, as the car was emerging into the light of the open space near the
Public Garden Brenda's hand went instinctively toward the silver-mesh
purse that she wore at her belt. It was not there, though she remembered
having taken a coin from it as she bought her car ticket. Though
accustomed to losing her little personal possessions, Brenda especially
valued this purse, and she set her wits at work to trace the loss. She
remembered the little girl with the basket, and recalled that the moment
before the child had begged her pardon she had felt something jerk her
belt. Had she only put the two things together earlier she might have
recovered the purse; for of course the child had taken it. Yet to prove
this would have been difficult. She would never have had the courage to
call a policeman, and remembering the little girl's large, soft eyes,
she found it hard to believe her a thief. "An expensive afternoon!" she
said to herself. "My twenty dollars gone in one crash, and then that
pretty purse with two or three dollars more. What will they say when I
tell them at home?"
Then she decided to say nothing about losing the purse. This was the
kind of thing that they expected her to do, and her brother-in-law would
tease her unmercifully. But Brenda was not secretive, and it was easy
enough to speak about Maggie and the broken vase. The story did not lose
by her telling, especially as the box with the broken pieces arrived
when she was in the midst of her tale. The family was seated in the
library after dinner, and each one begged for a little piece of the
iridescent glass as a souvenir. But Brenda refused the request, on the
plea that for the present she wished to have something to show for her
money.
"Although even without the vase I feel that I've gained something," she
concluded.
"Experience?" queried her father; "I always hoped you'd feel that
experience is a treasure."
"Of course," responded Brenda, "but I was thinking of Maggie McSorley;
she may prove of more worth than twenty dollars if she becomes my
candidate for Julia's school,--a perfect bargain, in fact."
"If she keeps her promise--"
"If! why, Mamma, I am sure that she will."
"Speaking of losing," interposed Agnes, Brenda's sister, "Arthur lost
his temper to-day when he found that you were so ready to break your
appointment."
"Oh, he'll find it soon enough; besides, he can't expect me always to be
ready to do just what he wishes."
"Well, this involved some one else. He had promised young Halstead to
take you to his studio to see a picture, and he was greatly
disappointed, for the picture is to be sent away to-morrow."
"There!" exclaimed Brenda, "why didn't I remember? I thought that we
were simply going for a walk to Brookline, but they shut off the
telephone, or cut me off, and that was why he couldn't remind me. I'm
awfully sorry."
"You won't have a chance to tell him so this evening. What shall I say
when I see him?"
"You needn't take the trouble, Ralph," replied Brenda; "we're to ride
to-morrow, and I can explain."
"It will be his turn to forget."
But Brenda did not heed Ralph's teasing, for already at the sound of
three sharp peals of the door-bell she had rushed out to meet her cousin
Julia.
"Oh, Julia, I have found _just_ the girl for your school; she is an
orphan and hates study, and--"
"Well, upon my word!" exclaimed Ralph, "those are certainly fine
qualifications,--'an orphan and hates study'!"
"I understand what she means, or thinks she means," responded Julia, as
she laughingly advanced to the centre of the room, greeting the family
cordially, while Agnes helped her remove her hat and coat.
"You've come for a week, I hope," exclaimed her uncle, kissing her.
"Oh, I shall be here several times in the course of the week, and I
shall stay now overnight. But a whole week away from my work! Ah! Uncle
Robert, you're a good business man, to suggest such a thing!" And,
seating herself on the arm of Mr. Barlow's chair, Julia shook her finger
playfully in his face.
"When do you have your house-warming?" asked Agnes, taking up the bit of
sewing that she had dropped on Julia's entrance.
"We are not to have a house-warming, but later we shall invite you one
by one, or perhaps two by two, to see the house."
"I suppose you've taken out all the good furniture, and in a certain way
the Du Launy Mansion must be greatly changed."
"Don't speak so sadly, Aunt Anna; it is changed, and yet it is not
changed. But I did not know that you were attached to the old house?"
"Hardly attached, Julia, for I was there only once, when I called on
Madame Du Launy the year before her death. But in its style of
architecture and its furnishings it seemed so completely an old-time
house that I regret that it has had to be changed into an institution."
"Oh, no, please, Aunt Anna, not an institution; anything but that. Why,
we mean to make it a real home, so that girls who haven't homes of their
own will feel perfectly happy. Of course we have had to make some
changes in the house itself, and remove some of the furniture, but when
you visit us you will see that it is far removed from an institution."
"How many nationalities have you now, Julia? You had a dozen or two
waiting admittance when you were last here, had you not?"
"There are to be only ten girls in the home, and there are still some
vacancies. Indeed you are a tease, Uncle Robert."
Yet, although her uncle and aunt had teased her a little, Julia was not
disconcerted, and when Agnes asked her to tell them something about the
girls already in residence, she entered upon the task with great
good-will.
"Well, first of all, Concetta. It's fair to speak of her first, because
she's Miss South's protegee. She is the genuine Italian type, with the
most perfectly oval cheeks, and a kind of peach bloom showing through
the brown, and her hair closely plaited and wound round and round, and
the largest brown eyes. Miss South became interested in her last year
when she was visiting schools. She found that her father meant to take
her out of school this year to become a chocolate dipper."
"A chocolate dipper! I've heard of tin dippers,--but--"
"Hush, Ralph, you are too literal."
"Yes," continued Julia, "a chocolate dipper. You know there's an
enormous candy factory there on the water front, and most of the girls
think their fortunes made when they can work in it. But after Miss South
had visited Concetta a few times she thought her capable of something
better, and so she is to have her chance at the Mansion. But her uncle
Luigi was determined to make Concetta a wage-earner as soon as possible.
She did not need more schooling, he said.
"Fortunately, however, Concetta has a godmother who, although a
working-woman, dingily clad, and apparently hardly able to support
herself, is supposed to have money hidden away somewhere. On this
account she has much influence in the Zanetti family, and a word from
her accomplished more than all our arguments. Concetta is now freed from
the dirty, crowded tenement, and I feel that we may be able to make
something of her. Then there is Edith's nominee, Gretchen Rosenbaum,
whose grandfather is the Blairs' gardener. She's pale and thin, and not
at all the typical German maiden. She has a diploma from school of which
she is very proud, and she says that she wants to be a housekeeper. The
family are very thankful for the chance offered her by the Mansion."
"The Germans know a good thing when they see it, especially if it isn't
going to cost them much," said Ralph.
"Then," continued Julia, "there are my two little Portuguese cousins,
Luisa and Inez, as alike as two peas in a pod. Angelina told me about
them, and their teacher confirmed my opinion that it would be a charity
to save them from the slop-work sewing to which their old aunt had
destined them."
"How much of an annuity do you have to pay the aunt?" asked Ralph.
Julia blushed, for in fact, in order to give the girls the opportunity
that she thought they ought to have at the Mansion, she had had to
promise the aunt two dollars a week, which the latter had estimated as
her share of their earnings for the next two years. Julia did not wholly
approve of the arrangement, although she knew that only in this way
could she help the two little girls.
"Hasn't Nora contributed to your household?"
"Oh, yes, the dearest little Irish girl; we can hardly understand a word
Nellie says, though she thinks she talks English. Nora ran across her
and a party of other immigrants one day when she had gone over to the
Cunard wharf to meet some friends. Nellie and a half-dozen others had
become separated from the guide who was to take them to their
lodging-place in East Boston. They were near the dock, and Nora became
very much interested in Nellie. She took her name and destination, and
later went to see her, and the result is one of our most promising
pupils; that is, we have a chance to teach her more than almost any of
the others. But there! I'm ashamed of talking so much shop."
"Oh, no, it's most interesting. You haven't finished?"
"Well, there are two or three other girls, of whom I will tell you more
some other time, and there are one or two vacancies. I wish, Brenda,
that you could send us a pupil. I'm afraid that you won't have much
interest in the school unless you have a girl of your own there."
"But I have--I will--that is--can't you see that I have something very
important to tell you?" and thereupon Brenda launched into a glowing
account of Maggie McSorley and the prospect of her going to the Mansion.
"I just jumped at the idea when it came to me," concluded Brenda, "for I
have had so many things on my mind this summer that I didn't make the
effort that I had intended to find a girl for you. But now I shall do my
utmost to persuade that cross-grained aunt, and I am bound to succeed."
"I wouldn't discourage you, but evidently you made little headway this
afternoon," said her mother, "in spite of the pretty high price that you
have paid for the pleasure of Maggie's acquaintance."
"Just wait, Mamma; just wait. When I really set out to do a thing I
generally succeed. I found out to-day that Mrs. McSorley rather
begrudges Maggie her home, although she feels it her duty to keep her.
She says that Maggie has a way of upsetting things that is very trying,
and she's had to give up to her the little room that she used to keep
for a sitting-room. Oh, I'm certain that I can persuade her to spare
Maggie."
Then the conversation drifted on to other sides of the work, and Julia's
enthusiasm half reconciled Mr. and Mrs. Barlow to the fact that she was
to be away from them.
"Home is a career, and we need you more than any group of strange girls
possibly can," Mr. Barlow had protested, when Julia had shown him the
impossibility of her settling down quietly at home.
"You have Brenda and Agnes. Suppose that I had gone to Europe for two or
three years after leaving college. I am sure that then you would not
have complained, for you would have thought this a thing for my especial
profit and pleasure. Now when I shall be so near that you will see me at
least once a week, you are not altogether pleased, because you think
that I am likely to work too hard."
"Oh, papa needn't worry," cried Brenda; "I shall see that you have
enough frivolity. You shall not overwork the poor little girls either. I
feel sorry for them now, with you and Pamela and Miss South egging them
on. But I have various frivolities in mind, and you must encourage me."
"I never knew you to need encouragement in frivolity. A little
discouragement would be more likely to have a wholesome effect."
Thus they chatted, and Mr. Barlow, looking up from his evening paper
from time to time, was convinced that Julia's new interests had
certainly not yet taken away her taste for the lighter side of life.
Indeed, on the whole, he had no decided objection to the scheme that
Julia and Miss South had started to carry out. As his niece's tastes so
evidently ran in philanthropic directions, he knew that in the end she
must be happiest when following her bent.
Miss South herself would have been the last to claim originality for the
much-discussed school. There were other social settlements in the city,
and one or two other domestic science schools in which girls had a good
chance to learn cooking and other branches of household work. Yet the
school at the Mansion had an object all its own. Miss South felt that
each year many young girls drifted into shop or factory who might be
encouraged to a higher ambition. For many of them evidently thought
first of the money they could immediately earn, and there was no one to
suggest that if they prepared themselves for something better they would
later have more money as well as greater honor. So she tried to find
girls willing to spend two years at the Mansion, while she watched them
and advised them and guided them into what she believed would be the
best avenue of employment for them. Some people thought that she meant
to train all the girls to be domestics; others thought she aimed to keep
them out of this occupation. She meant to train them all in housework so
thoroughly, that, whether they entered service or had homes of their
own, they should be able to do their work properly. She meant, if any of
these girls showed special talents, to encourage them to pursue their
natural bent.
"Would you let them study art or music?" some one had asked in
surprise.
"Yes; why not?"
"Why, girls from the tenement districts!--it doesn't seem right to
encourage them in this way."
"Oughtn't any young thing to be encouraged to follow its natural bent?
It's a case of individuals, not of sections of the city."
"I've always been sorry," explained Miss South, "for the bright girls
who drop out of school at fourteen that their ablebodied parents may
snatch the little wages they can earn in the factories. The ten or
twelve girls we may have here at the Mansion are very few compared with
the hundreds who need the same kind of chance. But I am hoping that
through these a broader influence may be exerted."
Although many critics naturally thought that Miss South did wrong in
giving girls of a certain class ideas above their sphere, on the whole
she was commended for undertaking a good work. There were some also who
pitied Mrs. Barlow on account of Julia's partnership in the scheme.
"This is what comes of letting a girl go to college," and they wondered
that Mrs. Barlow herself did not express more disapproval.
"You'll have only orphans," said Mr. Elton, a cousin of Mrs. Barlow's,
who took much interest in the work; "for in my experience fathers and
mothers of the working class are just lying in wait for the earnings of
their half-grown daughters. To fill your school you will either have to
kill off a few fathers and mothers, or else consider only orphans to be
suitable candidates. To be sure, you might offer heavy bribes to
parents. But of course you can get the orphans easily, if they have
cruel aunts or stepmothers."
"As to cruel aunts," responded Julia, "judging from my own experience,
as was said of Mrs. Harris, 'I don't believe there's no sich a person;'
and in spite of Ovid and Cinderella, I have my doubts about cruel
stepmothers."
"We'll see," said Mr. Elton. "At any rate, you'll have to bribe your
girls, and when I meet them my first question will be, How much do they
pay you to stay?"
One of the most delightful features in fitting up the house for its new
use had been the eagerness to help shown by many of Miss South's former
pupils.
Ruth, for example, in furnishing the kitchen, had said, "This will show
that I have a practical interest in housekeeping, even though I am to
spend my first year of married life in idle travel."
"With your disposition it won't be wholly idle," Miss South had
responded.
"Well, I do mean to discover at least one or two new receipts, or better
than that, some new articles of food, that I can put at the service of
the Mansion upon my return."
"We certainly shall have you in mind whenever we look at these pretty
and practical things."
III
BRENDA AT THE MANSION
One fine afternoon, not so very long after she had wasted her twenty
dollars and made a friend of Maggie McSorley, Brenda in riding costume
opened the front door. As she stood on the top step, somewhat
impatiently she snapped her short crop as she gazed anxiously up Beacon
Street.
On the steps of the house directly opposite were three girls seated and
one standing near by. They were schoolgirls evidently, with short skirts
hardly to their ankles, and with hair in long pig-tails. As she looked
at them, by one of those swift flights of thought that so often carry us
unexpectedly back to the past Brenda was reminded of another bright
autumn afternoon, just six years earlier. Then she and Nora, and Edith
and Belle, an inseparable quartette, had sat on her front steps
discussing the arrival of her unknown cousin, Julia.
How much had happened since that day! Then she had been younger even
than those girls across the street, and Julia, who had come and
conquered (though not without difficulties) was now a college graduate.
But Brenda was not one to brood over the past, and when one of the girls
shouted, "We know whom you're looking for," she had a bright reply
ready.
Soon around the corner came the clicking of hoofs on the asphalt
pavement. Brenda, shading her eyes from the sun, looked toward the west.
"Late, as usual, Arthur!" she cried, a trifle sharply, as a young man,
flinging his reins to the groom on the other horse, ran up the steps
toward her.
"Impatient, as usual!" he responded pleasantly, consulting his watch.
"As a matter of fact, I'm five minutes ahead of time. But I'd have been
here half an hour earlier had I known it was a matter of life and
death."
The frown passed from Brenda's face. The two young people mounted their
horses, and the groom walked back to the stable.
"Have a good time!" shouted one of the girls, as the two riders started
off.
"The same to you!" cried Arthur.
"Ah, me!" exclaimed Brenda, as they rode on, "I feel so old when I look
at those Sellers girls. Why, they are almost in long dresses now, and I
can remember when they were in baby carriages."
"Well, even I would rather wear a long dress any day than a baby
carriage," responded Arthur. "There, look out!" for they were turning a
corner, and two or three bicyclists came suddenly upon them. Brenda
avoided the bicyclists, crossed the car tracks safely, and soon the two
were trotting through the Fenway.
The foliage on the banks of the little stream was brilliant, and here
and there were clumps of asters and other late flowers. They rode on in
silence, and were well past the chocolate house before either spoke a
word.
"Why so silent, fair sister-in-law?"
"Oh, I was only thinking."
"No wonder that you could not speak. I trust that you were thinking of
me."
"To be frank," replied Brenda, "that is just what I was not doing. In
fact I was thinking of a time when I did not know of your existence."
"Mention not that sad time, mention it not! fair sister-in-law."
When Arthur used this term in addressing Brenda she knew that he was
bent on teasing; for although her sister had married Arthur's brother,
her engagement to Arthur, announced in June, might very properly be
thought to have done away with the teasing title "sister-in-law."
"Don't be silly, Arthur," cried Brenda; "you can't tease me to-day.
Several years of my life certainly did pass before I had an idea that
you were in the world. I was thinking of the time before we knew each
other, when I was so jealous of Julia."
"Jealous of Julia!"
"Oh, I hadn't seen her when I began to have this feeling."
"But why--what made you jealous if you hadn't seen her?
"I can't wholly explain. Perhaps it wasn't altogether jealousy. You see
I didn't like the idea of her coming to live with us."
"You must have got over that soon. You and she have always seemed to hit
it off pretty well since I've known you."
"Oh, yes, ever since you have known us; and I've always been ashamed of
that first year. Though Belle led me on, just a little."
As Arthur still seemed somewhat mystified, Brenda described Julia's
first winter in Boston; and she did not spare herself, when she told how
she had shut her cousin out from the little circle of "The Four."
"Really, however, Nora and Edith were not at all to blame. They liked
Julia from the first. Then what a brick Julia was when she made up that
sum of money that I lost after we had worked so hard at the Bazaar for
Mrs. Rosa."
Though Arthur had heard more or less about these things before, he
enjoyed hearing Brenda narrate them in her quick and somewhat excited
fashion.
"Why, you may believe that I really missed Julia when she was at
Radcliffe, and I'm fearfully disappointed that she won't be at home with
us this winter."
"She isn't going back to Cambridge, is she? I certainly saw her degree,
and it was on parchment."
"Oh, Arthur, how you do forget things. I'm sure that I wrote you about
the school that she and Miss South were to start."
"I was probably more interested in other things in the letter. But has
she lost her money, and hence starts a school?"
"Arthur, I believe that you skip pages and pages."
"No, indeed, dear sister-in-law, but some pages sink more deeply in my
mind than others. Has Julia lost her money, and therefore must she
teach?"
"You are hopeless, though I believe that really you remember all about
it. It's Miss South's scheme. You see she has that great Du Launy house
on her hands, and it's a kind of domestic school for poor girls, and
Julia is to help her."
"What kind of a school?"
"A domestic school; I think that's it; to teach girls how to keep house
and be useful."
"Indeed! Then couldn't you go there for a term or two, Brenda? That kind
of knowledge may be very useful to you some time."
Whereupon Brenda urged her horse and was off at a gallop, so distancing
Arthur for some seconds before he overtook her. On they went through the
Arboretum, and around Franklin Park, then over the Boulevard toward
Mattapan and Milton. It was dusk when they turned homeward, and dark, as
they looked from a height on the city twinkling below them.
As Arthur left her to take the horses to the stable Brenda called after
him, "I may take your advice and enter the school for a year or two."
"We'll see," responded Arthur.
Now, although Brenda had no real intention of entering the new school,
either as resident or pupil, she was deeply interested and extremely
anxious to see what changes had been made in the Du Launy Mansion, and
she was to make her first visit there a day or two after this ride with
Arthur Weston.
The school itself was not as new as it seemed. It had existed in Miss
South's mind long before she had a prospect of carrying out her plans.
Many persons thought it a fine thing for her when she was able to give
up her teaching and live a life of leisure in the fine old mansion with
Madame Du Launy.
Yet Miss South had wholly enjoyed her work at Miss Crawdon's school, and
she had said good-bye to her pupils with regret. Kind though her
grandmother was, she had sacrificed more than any one realized in
becoming the constant companion of an exacting old lady. Still, as this
was the duty that lay nearest her, she devoted herself to it wholly.
Although Madame Du Launy had lived in a large and imposing house,
containing much costly furniture, her fortune was smaller than most
persons supposed. The larger part of her income came from an annuity
that ceased with her death. Miss South had not enough money left to
permit her to keep up the great house in the style in which her
grandmother had lived; for out of it small incomes were to be paid
during their lives to three old servants, and after their deaths this
money was to go to Lydia South's brother Louis. To Louis also went the
money from the sale of certain pictures and medieval tapestries that the
will had ordered to be sold. As to the Mansion itself, Lydia South could
do what she liked with it and its contents,--let it, sell it, or live in
it.
"She'll have to take boarders, though, if she lives there," said some
one; "aside from the expense it would be altogether too dreary for a
young woman to live there alone."
But Miss South had no doubt as to what she should do. Here was the
chance, that had once seemed so far away, of carrying out her plans for
a model school. She found that it was wisest for her to retain the old
house for her purpose, as she could neither sell it nor rent it to
advantage. The neighborhood was not what it had once been. Almost all
the older residents had moved away; two families or more were the rule
in most of the houses in the street, and not so very far away were
several unmistakable tenement-houses. Miss Crawdon's school had left the
street a year or two before, and if she should sell the house no one
would buy it for a residence. Julia, who was to be her partner in the
new scheme, thought the Du Launy Mansion far better suited to their
purpose than any house they could secure elsewhere.
"The North End would be more picturesque, and we could do regular
settlement work among those interesting foreigners. But there is more
than one settlement down there already, and here we shall have the field
almost to ourselves."
Changes and additions to the house had been made during the summer, and
not one of Julia's intimates, excepting those who were to live in the
Mansion, had been permitted to see it. Nora and Edith and Brenda had
implored, Philip had teased, but all had been refused. "You must wait
until everything is in readiness."
When, therefore, Brenda and Nora one morning found themselves walking up
the little flagged walk to the old Du Launy House, they speculated
greatly as to the changes in the house. Outside, on the front at least,
there had been no alterations, and everything looked the same as on that
morning when the mischievous girls had ventured to pass under the
porte-cochere to apologize for breaking a window with their ball. It was
the same exterior, and yet not the same. It had, as Brenda said, "a
wide-awake look," whereas formerly almost all the blinds had been
closed, giving an aspect of dreariness. Now all the shutters were thrown
back, blinds were raised, and fresh muslin curtains showed at many
windows instead of the heavy draperies of Madame Du Launy's time.
In place of the sleek butler who had seemed like a part of the
furnishings, permanent and unremovable, Angelina opened the front door,
beaming with satisfaction at the dignity to which she had risen. Indeed
she fairly bristled with a sense of her own importance, and answered
their questions in her airiest manner.
"Oh, Manuel's doing finely at school, Miss Barlow. I can't be spared
much now to go to Shiloh, but I was there over Sunday, and my mother's
got two boarders, young women that work in the factory and don't make
much trouble for her. So you see I'm not so much needed at home. John's
got a place, too, in the city this winter, so that I'll see him
sometimes," and Angelina giggled in her rather foolish way.
As she ushered them into the sitting-room Julia emerged from the shadows
of the long hall to greet them, and then there was a confusion of
sounds, as Nora and Brenda eagerly asked questions at the very moment
when Julia was trying to answer them.
"Yes," said Julia, as they sat down in the reception-room, "this is the
same room where I first saw Madame Du Launy, the day I took Fidessa
home. But you've both been here since?"
"Oh, yes, and I can see that it hasn't been so very greatly changed.
There's that picture of Miss South's mother that brought about the
reconciliation, as they'd say in a novel," responded Nora gayly. "I'm
glad that you haven't made the reception-room as bare as a hospital
ward; I had my misgivings, as I approached the door."
"Oh, we wished this to be as pleasant and homelike as possible; you can
see that there are many things here that I had in my room at Cambridge,"
and she pointed to a Turner etching, and a colonial desk, and an
easy-chair that Brenda and Nora both recognized.
"The greatest changes," continued Julia, "are in the drawing-rooms;" and
leading the way across the hall, Brenda and Nora both exclaimed in
wonder. Two drawing-rooms, formerly connected by folding-doors, had
been thrown together, and with the partitions removed, the one great
room was really imposing.
"You could give a dance here," cried Brenda, pirouetting over the
polished floor.
"Who knows?" replied Julia with a smile.
"I'm afraid that you'll have nothing but lectures and classical
concerts, and other improving things," rejoined Brenda.
"Who knows?" again responded Julia.
"But it's really lovely," interposed Nora; "I adore this grayish blue
paper,--everything looks well with it. And what sweet pictures! why,
there's that very water color that Madame Du Launy wanted to buy at the
Bazaar. To think that it should come to her house after all! And there's
your Botticelli print; well, I believe that it will have an elevating
effect; I know that it always makes me feel rather queer to look at it."