she quoted one or two passages from certain ancient authors to show that
she had attained a state of indifference to outside criticism.
Gradually Pamela told Philip much about her school, to prove that it
wasn't simply philosophy that helped her enjoy her work.
"So it really is your interest in them that makes your pupils so fond of
your classes."
Then, in answer to her word of surprise, he added:
"Oh, my little cousin, Emily Dover, one of your most devoted admirers,
has been telling me--I believe that you have the misfortune to instruct
her."
"Ah, the good fortune! She is a bright little thing, if not a hard
student."
"You could hardly expect more from one of our family."
"Why, your sister seems to me fairly intelligent."
Could this be Pamela, actually speaking in a bantering tone, unawed by a
young man considerably her senior?
"I am glad," he said a moment later, "that you are surviving not only
the experiment of teaching my little cousin, but this experiment at the
Mansion."
"Oh, this isn't an experiment, it's--it's--"
"The real thing?"
"Yes, it really is. If you wish to understand it, you must come here
some day when the classes are at work. Miss South or Edith will be happy
to show you about."
"But I am a working-man now. At the time when I might properly visit the
school I am afraid that there would be no classes in session."
"Of course I'm busy myself, too," said Pamela, "and sometimes I feel
that I am here on false pretences."
"Remembering your reputation, I don't believe that you are very idle."
"Oh, of course I help; but then some one else could as well do my work."
"Tell me exactly what you do."
But Pamela shook her head, and with all his urging Philip could not make
her describe her exact sphere of activity. Yet Miss South or Julia could
have told that no resident was more useful than Pamela, who devoted her
evenings to the girls, talking to them, playing games, and in all that
she did directing their thoughts toward the appreciation of beautiful
things. Every Saturday she took two or three to the Art Museum, and
later she meant them to see any exhibitions that there might be in town.
One or two critics were inclined to laugh at this work. "It would put
strange ideas into the heads of the girls. They would want things that
they could never own." But Pamela was satisfied when she saw the
rapturous glance of appreciation on the faces of Concetta and Inez, the
most artistic of the girls, and the awakening interest in the others.
But how could she explain all this to Philip in casual conversation at a
dinner-table?
Maggie, helping Angelina, found this, her first experience in waiting on
company, very trying. To overcome her timidity Miss South had purposely
assigned her to this task. But who could have supposed that she would
let the bread fall as she passed it to Philip, tilting the plate so far
that a slice or two fell on the table before him.
"There!" and he smiled good-humoredly, "the Mansion realizes the extent
of my appetite, and evidently I am to receive more even than I ask for."
Poor Maggie's next mishap was to drop a dessert plate as she started to
take it from the sideboard.
"It was because you looked at me so hard," she said afterwards to
Angelina; "I couldn't think what you wanted, you were shaking your head
so fierce."
"Why, it was the finger-bowl, child. You forgot it. There should be one
on every plate. When I told you to get extra things for company, I meant
finger-bowls too. We always have them on the dessert plates."
"Oh, yes," said Maggie, as if her not getting them had been the merest
oversight, although really this was her first experience in waiting at
dinner, and she had not a good memory for the details that had been
taught her.
But shy as she was, she did not hesitate to take part in the
conversation once or twice. Miss South and the others showed no surprise
when twice her voice was heard replying to questions that Philip had
expected Miss South or Pamela to answer.
After the older people returned to the library, Angelina confided to
Maggie that Mr. Philip Blair was to give a lecture at the Mansion in a
week or two. "I know all about it, because Miss Julia told me a few days
ago."
Haleema, the little Syrian girl, who was helping Maggie in her
dish-washing, paused in her singing to listen to Angelina's accounts of
the wonderful adventures that Mr. Blair had had in the West.
"Ho!" said Haleema, "it ain't nothing to go bear-hunting, if you don't
get killed. Why, I've had two uncles and ten cousins killed by the
Turks," and then she went on singing cheerfully,--
"'As quick as you're able set neatly the table,
And first lay the table-cloth square;
And then on the table-cloth, bright and clean table-cloth,
Napkins arrange with due care.'"
The air to which she sang was "Little Buttercup," and her voice was
clear and sweet, but as she began the second stanza,--
"'Put plates in their places at regular spaces,'"
Angelina interrupted her. "This isn't the time for singing this song,
this is dish-washing time;" and, overawed by Angelina's imperative
manner, Haleema was silenced.
* * * * *
As to the lecture itself, it is needless to say that Philip a few
evenings later had an appreciative audience. All the girls were in a
twitter at the prospect of this their first entertainment, Angelina most
of all. She had arranged her hair in an elaborate coiffure, which, she
informed Haleema, she had copied from a hairdresser's window in
Washington Street.
"Ah, then, perhaps you have one of those things--a whip, I think they
call it?"
"A what?"
"A whip, a long piece of hair to tie on, for I did not know that you had
so much hair, Miss Angelina."
"Oh, a switch."
Angelina looked at Haleema sharply and made no further reply. Haleema
had addressed her by the flattering "Miss Angelina," which Manuel's
sister, when none of the residents were present, tried to exact from all
the younger girls at the Mansion, and therefore she would not reprove
her for her insinuation about "the whip."
Nevertheless Angelina held her head rather stiffly as she filled her
part as head usher.
Each girl at the Mansion had been permitted to invite two guests--a girl
of her own age and an older person. And almost every one invited was
present. Angelina's brother John was the only boy there. He had shot up
into a fairly tall youth, with a very intelligent face. He was attending
evening school in the city, and working through the day for a little
more than his board. Julia knew that she could depend on him to help her
when at times Angelina proved refractory. To-night John was to operate
the lantern while Philip talked about the views.
The girls held their breath in admiration as slide after slide was
thrown on the screen. Gorges, canons, mountain-passes followed one
another in quick succession. The wonderful canon of the Arkansas, the
Marshall Pass, the Garden of the Gods, the tree-shaded streets of
Colorado Springs, the railroad up Pike's Peak, and all the weird and
wonderful sights of the Yellowstone Park.
"He's really very handsome," whispered Nora to Julia during a pause
between the pictures when Philip's regular features were thrown in
silhouette upon the sheet. Then she continued, "Don't you remember how
we used to laugh at him, and call him a dandy, when he was a Sophomore;
but now he looks so manly, and his lecture has been really interesting."
Pamela, seated on the other side of Nora, heard these words with
surprise. She had not known Philip in the days when he was considered
somewhat effeminate.
All the girls expressed their pleasure as each new picture came in
sight, and yet I am afraid that their loudest applause was given to a
series of colored pictures showing the adventures of a farmer with an
obstinate calf that he vainly tried to drive to the barn, succeeding
only when he put a cow-bell around his own neck.
At last the lights were turned on, but all were still seated as Angelina
rushed to pick up the pointer and to help roll up the screen. There was
no real need of her doing this, but she was anxious to impress the two
girls whom she had invited from the North End with a sense of her own
importance. Just as she had picked up the pointer, standing in full
sight of all, she was aware of a titter that was turning into a full
laugh. Instinctively she put her hand to her head, and looking around
she met the childlike gaze of Haleema, who was holding aloft a braid of
black hair.
"Here, Miss Angelina, is your whip--I mean switch."
Conscious of the strange appearance of her head since the towering
structure had fallen, annoyed by the smile on the faces of those before
her, and dreading the reproofs of her elders, Angelina fled shamefacedly
from the room.
Maggie and Concetta and the other young girls were able to bear this
mishap with less discomfort than Angelina herself; for the latter in her
way was apt to be domineering, and they knew that for a little while she
would not come down to the dining-room where chocolate and cakes were to
be served.
Serving their guests, the young housekeepers were at their best. Each
had her appointed duty. One carried plates and napkins, another arranged
the little white cloths on half a dozen small tables placed around the
room. One girl poured the chocolate, and another put the whipped cream
on the top of each slender cup. None of them hesitated to tell her
friends what portion of the feast she had prepared, whether sandwiches,
whipped cream, or the wafer-like cookies.
"I wish that Brenda had been here," said Edith, as she and Nora and
Philip walked home.
"Oh, Brenda wouldn't give an evening to this kind of thing at this
season; she says that it's the gayest winter since she came out."
"I don't see how she can stand going out every evening," rejoined Edith,
who was wearing mourning for a relative, and hence was not accepting
invitations to dinners and dances.
"I suppose she thinks it her duty to enjoy herself here. She says it
pleases her father and mother to have her enjoy herself."
"Girls have strange ideas of duty," remarked Philip, "though it seems to
me that those girls at the Mansion have just about the right idea."
VI
IN THE STUDIO
As autumn sped on Brenda was not very ardent in following up the Mansion
work. But what a perfect autumn it was! How bracing the air! How much
more delightful to spend the daylight hours in long rides out over the
bridle-path, along the broad boulevard, or in the narrower byways of the
suburbs. Sometimes, instead of riding, Arthur and Brenda would walk even
as far as the reservoir and back. One afternoon in late November they
had circled the lovely sheet of water that lies embosomed among the
hills of Brookline, and, waiting for a car, had sat down on a wayside
seat.
"Except for the bare trees it's hard to believe that this is November,"
Brenda had said.
"Yes," responded Arthur. "Days like this almost redeem the bad character
of the New England climate."
"Oh, Arthur, there isn't a better all-round climate anywhere."
"After a winter in California, I should think that you'd know better
than that."
[Illustration: Waiting for a car they had sat down on a wayside seat]
The argument went a little further, and Brenda made out her case very
well, quoting the surprise of Californians and Southerners, who had
come to Boston expecting an Arctic winter, to find only an occasional
frigid day.
"Those must have been exceptional winters;" and Arthur shrugged his
shoulders in a way that always provoked Brenda as he concluded, "Say
what you will, it is always a vile winter climate."
"Then I'm sure," retorted Brenda, "I don't see why you plan to spend the
winter here."
"Oh, indeed! I fancied that you knew the reason."
Taking no notice of this pacific remark, Brenda continued:
"Yes, if I were you I wouldn't stay in so dreadful a place; you
certainly have no important business to keep you. Why, papa said--"
She did not finish the sentence. Arthur frowned ominously, and he
abruptly signalled a car just coming in sight.
Brenda hardly understood why Arthur was so silent on the way home. She
did not realize that her allusion to her father had annoyed him. Arthur
knew that Mr. Barlow did not altogether approve of his lack of a
profession. After completing his studies he had not wished to practise
law. A slight impediment in his speech was likely to prevent his being a
good pleader, and the opportunity that he desired for office practice
had not yet offered. His personal income was just enough to permit him
to drift without a settled profession. There was danger that he might
learn to prefer a life of idleness to one in which work had the larger
part.
Yet Arthur's intentions were the best in the world. He really was only
waiting for the right thing to present itself, and although Brenda had
not quoted her father's words, his imagination had flown ahead of what
she had said, and he was angry at the implied criticism.
"No, I can't come in," he said, as he left Brenda at her door. "I have
an engagement."
"Oh, what--"
Then Brenda checked herself. If he did not care to tell her, she could
afford to hide her curiosity. After he left her she wondered what the
engagement was.
"I'll see you at the studio to-morrow." This was Arthur's parting word,
in a pleasanter tone than that of a moment before.
"Yes, perhaps so; I'm really not sure."
The next day, toward four o'clock, Brenda and her little niece, Lettice,
mounted the stairs to the studio. The stairs were long and narrow, for
Ralph Weston, on his return from Europe, had chosen a studio in the top
of one of the old houses opposite the Garden, in preference to a newer
building.
When his wife and her sister had protested that he would see them very
seldom if he persisted in having this inaccessible studio, "It may seem
ungallant to say so," he had said, "but that is one of my reasons for
choosing to perch myself in this eyrie. I am all the less likely to be
interrupted when seeking inspiration for a masterpiece. If I were
connected with the earth by an elevator I should never be safe from
interruption. In fact, I should probably urge you and your friends to
spend your spare time here. But now, knowing that it would be an
imposition to expect you to climb those stairs more than once a week, I
feel quite secure until Thursday rolls around."
"Oh, you needn't worry. That glimpse across the Garden from your window
showing the State House as the very pinnacle of the city is beautiful,
but we can live without it, if _you_ can exist without us;" and Brenda
drew herself up with dignity.
On this particular afternoon as she reached the studio door with Lettice
clinging to her hand she was flushed and almost out of breath.
Within the studio her sister Agnes, giving a few last touches to the
table, exclaimed in surprise at sight of the little girl.
"Why, Lettice, what in the world are you doing here?"
"Oh, auntie found me in the park, and she sent nurse off."
Then Brenda explained that Lettice looked so sweet that she just
couldn't bear to leave her behind, "and nurse," she added, "fortunately
had a very important errand down town, and was so glad that I could take
Lettice off her hands, and so--"
"'The lady protests too much, methinks,'" interposed Ralph. "But you
really need not apologize. I am always glad to have Lettice here, even
though her mother does think her too young to receive at afternoon
teas."
"At four years old--I should think so. There, dear, you mustn't touch
anything on the table," for the little girl, on tiptoe, was trying to
reach a plate of biscuit.
Lettice withdrew her hand quickly, and, when her wraps were removed,
allowed herself to be perched on a tabaret, where her mother said she
was safe from harming or being harmed.
The studio was filled with trophies that Mr. and Mrs. Weston had
collected abroad. The high carved mantle-piece was the work of some
medieval Hollander, the curtain shutting off one end of the room was old
Norman tapestry--the most valuable of all their possessions. Each chair
had, as Brenda sometimes said, a different nationality. Her own
preference was for the Venetian seat, with its curving back and
elaborate carving. As it grew darker outside the studio was brightened
by the light from a pair of Roman candlesticks.
Only one or two of the paintings on the wall were Mr. Weston's work.
When asked, he always said that he had very little to show, and that he
did not believe in boring his guests by driving them, against their
judgment, perhaps, to praise what they saw.
"Mock modesty!" Brenda had exclaimed at this expression of opinion.
"If I were sure that that was a genuine Tintoretto, I should believe
that you were afraid of coming in direct competition with an old master;
though, to tell you the truth, I'm glad that your work is a little
brighter and livelier," she concluded.
One or two callers had now come in, and Brenda took her place at the
tea-table, that Agnes might be free to move about the large studio. Soon
the nurse appeared, and Lettice, protesting that she was a big girl and
ought to stay, was ignominiously carried home.
"Where's Arthur?" asked Ralph, as he stood near Brenda, waiting for her
to pour a cup of tea for a guest.
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Oh, I beg your pardon," responded Ralph ceremoniously. "I fancied that
you might have heard him say what he intended to do."
Ralph went off with the tea, and Brenda continued to pour for other
guests. But her mind was wandering. She served lemon when the guest had
asked for cream, and generously dropped two lumps into the cup of one
who had expressly requested no sugar. In spite of herself her eye
travelled often to the door, and an observer would have seen that her
mind was far away. When at last she saw Arthur entering the room some
one was with him, and the two were laughing and chatting gayly.
"Oh, we had such a time getting here," cried the shrill voice of Belle.
"Mr. Weston's been making calls with me in Jamaica Plain, and the cars
were blocked coming back, so that it seemed as if we should never get
here."
"But we're glad to arrive at last;" and Arthur moved toward the table,
while Belle lingered for a word or two with Agnes and her husband.
"Poor thing!" exclaimed Belle, when at last she joined Arthur beside the
table. "Poor thing! have you been shut up here pouring tea all the
afternoon? You ought to have been with us; we've had a perfectly lovely
time."
"You don't care for sweet things, so I won't give you any sugar," said
Brenda, without replying directly to Belle.
"Come, Belle, you must see this sketch of Lettice. It is the one you
were asking about." Agnes had come to the rescue.
As Belle turned away, Arthur tried to make his peace, for he saw that in
some way he had displeased Brenda. He explained that he had merely
happened to meet Belle, who was out on a calling expedition. He had
accompanied her to one or two houses, because when she had paid these
visits she intended to go to the studio. "I really meant to call for
you, although you were so uncertain yesterday about coming," he
concluded apologetically.
"Of course you knew I would come. I always do on Thursdays," replied
Brenda; "but you were not obliged to call for me if you had something
pleasanter to do."
"Ah, Belle is never out of temper." Arthur spoke significantly, annoyed
by Brenda's unusual dignity of manner. Then, as she turned to speak to
some one at the other side of the table, he crossed the room and joined
Belle.
Since the death of her grandmother two years before, Belle and her
mother had been away from Boston. They expected to spend the coming
season in Washington, as they had the preceding. Belle now pronounced
Boston altogether too old-fashioned a place for a person of cosmopolitan
tastes, and she dazzled the younger girls and the undergraduates of her
acquaintance by talking of diplomatic and state dignitaries with the
greatest freedom. According to her own estimate of herself, she was one
of the brightest stars in Washington society.
Although she and Brenda were less intimate than formerly, when Belle was
in town she was with Brenda more than with any other girl of her
acquaintance. Despite her insincerity and her various other failings,
now much clearer to Brenda than in her school days, Belle had certain
qualities that made her very companionable, and Brenda was inclined to
overlook her less amiable traits. Indeed, she had clung to Belle in
spite of the protests of various other girls. But to-day she felt
impatient with Belle. Her high, sharp voice grated on her ear. Her
witticisms seemed particularly shallow, and almost for the first time
Brenda realized that the words with which Belle raised a laugh from
those present carried a sting for some one absent.
Again Belle approached her. "I suppose your cousin never indulges in
frivolities like this. I hear that she has withdrawn altogether from the
world into some kind of a home or institution."
"There, Belle, how silly you are! If you'd spend more time in Boston,
you'd at least hear things straight. Julia is just as fond of frivolity
as any of us, only it's the right kind of frivolity."
"Oh, excuse me," exclaimed Belle with mock sorrow. "I had entirely
forgotten your new point of view. You used to feel so differently about
your cousin."
"Well, it is irritating to hear you talk about her being in an
institution. Surely you've heard about Miss South and the old Du Launy
Mansion; and if you go up there and call, you'll see that they are not
shut out from the world."
"Dear! dear! why need you take everything so seriously. There! why, it's
half-past five! I'm really afraid to go home alone."
This was said as Arthur came within earshot, and, of course, he could
only offer to go home with her, as she professed to be in too great a
hurry to wait for Brenda and the rest of the party.
"But I will come back for you," murmured Arthur, as he turned away.
"No, thank you; you needn't," responded Brenda stiffly; "I have Ralph
and Agnes, and really I don't care for any one else."
"Very well, then, we'll say good evening;" and the two young people went
off after Belle had said her farewells very effusively to all in the
studio.
As Brenda sat alone in a corner of the studio after the other guests had
gone, she had an opportunity to think over the events of the past few
years which some of Belle's sharp remarks had brought up. Ralph and
Agnes were busy discussing designs for some picture-frames that he was
to have made, and, sitting apart, Brenda in a rather unusual fit of
reverie recalled some of the happenings of the six years since her
cousin Julia had first come into her life. When first she learned that
her orphan cousin, who was a year and a half her senior, was to become a
member of her family, she had been far from pleased. Without feeling
jealousy in its meanest form, she was annoyed lest the presence of Julia
should interfere with her enjoyment of her little circle of intimate
friends. Edith Blair, Nora Gostar, Belle Gregg and she had formed a
pleasant circle, "The Four," into which she did not care to have a fifth
enter. Consequently she was far from kind to her cousin, and would not
invite her to the weekly meetings of the group, when they gathered at
her house to work for a bazaar. Belle prompted and upheld Brenda in her
attitude toward her cousin, while Nora and Edith were Julia's champions.
Later Julia had an opportunity to behave very generously toward Brenda,
and from that time the cousins were good friends. Belle's departure for
boarding-school and her later absence in Washington had naturally
lessened her intimacy with Brenda. Julia, after two years at Miss
Crawdon's school with Brenda, had entered Radcliffe College, where in
her four years' course she had made many friends, and had been graduated
with honor. Belle, as well as Julia and Brenda, had been one of Miss
South's pupils at Miss Crawdon's school, but she was one of the few with
no interest whatever in the work begun at the Mansion--a work which the
majority had been only too glad to help.