just staying in Washington to annoy me."
"Nonsense, Brenda!"
But Brenda would not listen to her mother, and it is to be feared that
her letters reflected her impatience, for Arthur's letters came at long
intervals. Although she did not hear from him directly, she knew from
Ralph and Agnes that he was well, and from another source she often
heard about him.
Although Brenda and Belle saw much less of each other than formerly, or
perhaps because of this, they kept up a vigorous correspondence. After
Christmas Belle and her mother had gone to Washington, and in her very
first letter she mentioned having met Arthur Weston at a certain
reception; "And I can assure you, that, in spite of being cut off from
Boston, he looks very cheerful."
After this Belle never failed to mention Arthur in her letters to
Brenda. She told what a great favorite he was with this one or that one.
"He is an immense favorite, and I almost ought to warn you that he is
really too happy in the society of other people."
Poor Brenda! All she could do was to write glowing letters to Belle,
telling her that she herself had never known so pleasant a winter in
Boston. She left Belle to infer that she was enjoying herself even more
than would have been possible had Arthur been nearer. If the truth were
told, Brenda amused herself rather sadly. Society wearied her, but she
had not strength of mind to give it up altogether. To the delight,
however, of Maggie McSorley, she went more often to the Mansion, and
even condescended to give the girls some lessons in embroidery. Since
her earlier school-days Brenda's skill in needlework had developed
wonderfully, and she could work very beautiful patterns on doilies and
centrepieces.
But to design and fill out these patterns was one thing, and to impart
any of her own skill was another. The latter required infinite patience
on Brenda's part, and Brenda had never been noted for her patience. Yet
the discipline was better for her even than for the younger girls as she
guided their needles and watched them take the right stitches, and
helped the careless Maggie pull out the threads where she had drawn them
too tight, puckering the linen web, and, alas! too often soiling it
hopelessly.
It was good discipline for Brenda, because strangely enough she found
herself more inclined to blame than to praise, and she could not help
noticing how much defter and neater than all the others were the fingers
of Concetta. Indeed, the latter did not really need the instruction. She
had already, like many little Italian girls, served an apprenticeship in
embroidery under her aunt. She did not intend to deceive any one in
joining Brenda's class, but she could not bear the idea that she, among
all the girls, should be deprived of the chance to be near the charming
young lady, as she called Brenda, simply because she knew more than the
others; so she too puckered her thread, and made occasional mistakes in
fear lest perfection on her part should lead to her being excluded from
the class.
Amy called herself a detached member of the Mansion staff. She could not
give much time to assisting Miss South and Julia without neglecting her
college work. But there were certain things that she could do in her
leisure, and occasional spare hours she gave with great good-will to a
class in literature. Amy was still devoted to her early love, "The Faery
Queen," and once in a while, like Mr. Wegg, of fragrant memory, she
dropped into poetry herself. She was winning her laurels in college,
however, for more serious work than poetry--more serious, that is, in
the eyes of the world; and already she was famous among her classmates
for her literary ability.
Indirectly she had been the means of Haleema's going to the Mansion. It
had happened in this way: during her first year in college she had gone
once a week to play accompaniments at a College Settlement. In the
chorus, for which she played, Haleema had been one of the most
vociferous singers, and although Amy had not been able to see her much
outside of the class, she had become much interested in the little girl,
and had received one or two letters from her during the summer. What
Haleema herself wrote, and what the head worker at the Settlement told
her about Haleema's home life, convinced her that the little Syrian was
exactly the kind of candidate desired for the Mansion school, and she
was really pleased with her judgment when, after the first week or two,
she heard Miss South and Julia praising the quickness and docility of
her protegee. Haleema, however, was not a young person capable of great
personal devotion, a fact that her pleading, poetic eyes seemed to
contradict. As she sometimes confided to the other girls, she liked one
person as well as another, and if she had gone a little further in her
confidences, she might have said that the person in the ascendant was
usually the one who at the time was doing some special favor for her.
She appreciated presents, and had a hoard of pretty things stowed away
in the bottom drawer of her bureau.
On Mondays Brenda often found herself going to the Mansion, chiefly
because this was her only chance of seeing Amy. Monday, the Wellesley
holiday, Amy gave in part to a Mansion class in literature, and when her
little informal talk was at an end Brenda would seize her for a
half-hour of "gossip," as she called it. Sometimes she arrived at the
house before the class was over, and then, if she slipped into the
class-room, Amy had not the heart to send her out. Amy protested that
her work was by no means up to the standard that Brenda should look for
in a teacher, while Brenda insisted that Amy's account of certain great
poets and their work was so stimulating, that she should take up a
course of reading herself; and, indeed, she did induce Amy to make out a
list of books that she ought to read.
"I should rather they were interesting, but even if they are not really
exciting, I'll promise to read at least three or four of them."
"To please me?" queried Amy.
"Well, partly to please you, but more to--to--well, to give me something
to think about. Everything seems so dull and stupid this winter, that
I'm going to try a homoeopathic remedy and try to read dull
books--just to see if I can't strengthen my mind."
Then Amy, noticing that Brenda seemed far from happy, wisely asked no
questions, and as they walked across the Common to the station they
talked of everything except the subject that lay nearest Brenda's heart.
"How is Fritz Tomkins?" Brenda asked, almost abruptly, referring to an
old playmate of Amy's, now a Harvard Sophomore.
"Oh, Fritz is doing splendidly. I hardly ever see him, and I'm so
pleased."
"What a funny way of putting it--pleased because you seldom see him."
"Why, yes, because I know that means that he is so busy with his work
that he has no time for other things. He has come to Wellesley only once
this winter, and he tells me that he never worked so hard in his life."
If Amy's speech was a little disjointed, Brenda understood her, and in
contrast her mind wandered to Arthur Weston. He, too, was busy, and
perhaps doing his duty by remaining at his post in Washington. But
unlike Amy, she did not feel pleased that he could so contentedly keep
his back turned to his Boston friends. Consequently she sent only the
briefest answers to his letters, and his replies became at last, if
possible, briefer than hers.
Belle, however, kept her informed of Arthur's doings, and Brenda was
never quite sure whether the information that she gave her was intended
to please or to trouble her. She wrote, for example, of a riding party
to Chevy Chase, where Arthur and Annabel Harmon had led all the others
in gayety.
"Annabel Harmon!" The name was familiar; and soon Brenda recalled one of
Julia's classmates at Radcliffe, a popular girl, and yet one whom some
of the best girls did not like. She had had some trouble with that
strange Clarissa Herter. Although Brenda had never cared so very much
for Clarissa Herter, she was pleased now to recall that she had heard
that Clarissa had in the end been more popular, or rather better liked,
than Annabel. She remembered that Annabel's father was a politician, and
when a second letter came with Annabel's name still connected closely
with Arthur's, Brenda thought more deeply on the subject. She wondered
if, perhaps, Arthur was planning to stay permanently in Washington, and
if he hoped to get some position through the influence of Mr. Harmon.
Had Arthur been at home, Brenda would, undoubtedly, have given less time
to the Mansion work; for in the first place, in starting the work Miss
South had not counted on her aid. Other girls, more enthusiastic in the
beginning, had given less service in the end, and Brenda was almost the
only one who, without having promised much, was willing to do a great
deal.
On the whole, Miss South was well pleased with the interest shown by her
former pupils. There was Anstiss Rowe, for example, one of the most
valued of the residents, who, after a year in society, had pronounced it
all a bore. She had been one of the younger girls during Julia's days at
Miss Crawdon's.
"You never knew," she said once to Julia, "my intense admiration for
you. It would have spoiled it all had you known. But each of us little
girls had to have some object of devotion, and you were my pattern of
perfection."
"The idea!" responded Julia. "I suppose that I ought to blush, but what
you say is too absurd."
"Oh, I suppose that you never wondered who used to send you those
valentines; probably you had so many that you never thought about mine.
But there was one with some lovely mother-of-pearl ornaments. In fact, I
sent you two valentines that year, and two the next; but, of course, you
wouldn't remember mine especially."
"It's all very touching, and, indeed, I do remember them, my dear
Anstiss, for I have an idea that I received no other that year. At
least, I have them safely put away at this very minute."
"Well, I suppose that you thought some extraordinary youth sent them."
"He would, indeed, have been extraordinary. But to tell you the truth, I
suspected that some girl had a hand in them."
"We missed you when you went to College," said Anstiss meditatively.
Though Anstiss had pronounced society hollow and a bore, she had not
entirely forsworn it, and at times she went home for a week or two,
returning, however, always on the evening of her history reading. This
was her special contribution to the school work.
Anstiss had her own protegee at the Mansion--a girl who had been in her
Sunday-school class. Phoebe had been loath to leave school when her
parents insisted, and Anstiss said it was merely avariciousness on their
part, as her father was earning good pay. "When I came to investigate,"
she said, "I found that he was only her stepfather, and her mother said
that she did not need her money. So in the end I was able to get her
consent to her coming here. Phoebe was never very bright at school--"
Then Julia interrupted her.
"But she's doing splendidly here. Miss Dreen says that she's a born
cook, and never makes a mistake."
"Yes, I know. And when she has finished her course I'm going to see what
can be done to encourage her to study still further. She says she'd like
to be a cook, but it seems to me that if she continues to be interested
in her study, she might be a director of cooking somewhere."
"She'd earn as much by being a cook in some household."
"Yes, but after all she has hardly the physique, and certain qualities
of hers lead me to think that she would be a good manager. We are going
to have an exhibition soon, and although we do not expect the greatest
results this first year, still I am sure that you will admit that the
girls have learned something, and Phoebe shall exhibit one of her
model luncheons. She has already served us some very good meals at a
fabulously low cost. That is one of the things she is learning, to make
the best use of inexpensive material."
It was Edith who had been listening attentively to all that Anstiss had
said, and her reply, "I believe that I would rather see than eat those
very, very inexpensive things," was given seriously. Edith was always
glad to help the work at the Mansion when some matter of additional
expense was brought to her, and she made conscientious visits to
Gretchen, and in turn reported her progress to the old gardener. But
there was a certain coldness in her manner that the young girls felt.
They thought that she was not really interested in them, and her visits
were never greeted with the delight that was so evident when Nora made
her appearance. Edith was decided in her likes and dislikes. She could
always be depended on to stand by a friend, and as certainly was she apt
to be severe toward a wrongdoer. Though devoted to Julia and Miss South,
she was less fond of Pamela and Anstiss.
"An artist's model! how Ralph would love to paint her!" Brenda had
exclaimed to Miss South after first seeing Concetta. "How I wish that I
had discovered her instead of Maggie."
"She may have more personal charm," Miss South had responded, "but
Maggie is devoted to you, and some persons call her rather pretty,
although," a little apologetically, "we all understand here at the
Mansion that 'handsome is what handsome does' should be our chief rule
of conduct. I never permit the girls to make one word of comment about
the personal appearance of another."
"Oh, naturally," responded Brenda, accepting the implied reproof; "but
the comparisons that I make will not come to the ears of the girls."
"No, not the comparisons, perhaps; but we try ourselves not to let them
think that any girl is preferred by any one who comes here. All girls of
fifteen are sensitive."
Yet Maggie, in spite of the fact that Concetta tried to make her
jealous, was unwilling to believe that Brenda had a preference for
Concetta.
"Miss Brenda asked Miss South to send me up to her house to get that
parcel of embroidery patterns; she could have sent it down by her man
just as well," concluded Concetta, with an important air; "or she could
have asked you to come."
Then, when Maggie made no reply, except perhaps that she polished her
glasses a little more vigorously, Concetta added:
"But I'm sure she just loves to have me come to her house. You see she
always invites me to go up to her room, and she asks me all kinds of
questions."
Then, as Maggie still continued provokingly silent, Concetta continued:
"You see, my country is a very interesting country, and I tell her all
kinds of things that I have heard, especially about the beautiful
cathedrals. She thinks I remember them all, but it is what I have heard
the elders say, and she listens quite open-eyed, that, so young, I can
remember so much. Don't you hate that you were born only in Boston."
"No, I don't," said Maggie gruffly; "I despise foreigners."
Then did Concetta become wisely silent, for she heard the step in the
hall of one in authority, and she did not wish at the moment to bring
Maggie to the point of tears. Maggie wept with unusual ease, and just
now Concetta was not anxious to draw on herself a reproof, lest it
should be followed by a withdrawal of the permission to go to Miss
Barlow's.
It was true that Maggie had never swerved in her devotion, showing it
often in unexpected ways. Whenever Brenda entered the room she followed
her with her eyes, and when her goddess addressed her she always blushed
deeply. Mrs. McSorley was constantly putting poor Maggie through a
course of questioning, that the former might be made sure that little
girl had done nothing likely to drive her out of this paradise.
XI
SEEDS OF JEALOUSY
Fortunately for many of the girls at the Mansion, they did not live
under a very rigorous system of rewards and punishments. Every one was
expected to report once a week what property she had injured, and this
usually meant what dishes she had broken. She was also expected to tell
what other things she had done that were not for the good of the school.
One or two girls really liked to have a long list of misdemeanors. They
seemed to think that it gave them an air of distinction, and Concetta
was especially delighted to read from a written list:
"Bed not made until ten o'clock Monday.
Bureau drawers untidy for three days.
Forgot to put salt in the bread.
Let the kitchen fire go out.
Spilled ink on my best apron.
Broke one of our blue cups," etc.
Most of the girls were contented with one or two faults, and some were
inclined to forget that they had any, until reminded by nudges from some
of their neighbors. These "confession meetings" were held once a week,
between four and five o'clock. A girl would have had to show herself
unusually bad to be excluded from the pleasant hour that followed when
Miss Julia played for them to sing, and then around the open fire gave
them good advice for half an hour,--good advice that they never imagined
to be anything but a bit of pleasant conversation, although they all
said that they went away feeling as if they could be good forever.
It is true that the girls whose conduct was especially approved by
Julia, regardless in many cases of their reports, were permitted to
borrow some book from her bookcase that they especially wished to read.
At first she had been surprised to find that few of these girls had any
idea about choosing books.
Haleema didn't care to read; she liked to do other things better.
Concetta loved to read, but had actually never read anything but
stories; indeed, she was surprised to hear that people ever read
anything else.
Little did Brenda realize that she was sowing the seeds of jealousy. She
felt much pride in Maggie as having been her own discovery. She thought,
with some complacence, that but for her Maggie might still have been
condemned to the tiresome round of a cash-girl's duties. She did several
little kind things of which Maggie herself was unaware, that enabled
Julia and Miss South to enlarge the work of the school in directions
that were especially helpful to Maggie.
But with the best intentions in the world, Brenda could not help showing
her preference for the pretty Concetta, whose dark eyes seemed mirrors
of truth, and whose manners were always so charmingly deferential. Had
she known that she was giving pain to Maggie by showing her preference
in this way she would herself have been always ready enough to admit
that this was not wise. But Maggie, although her tears flowed so easily,
had the ability to keep her thought to herself.
Mrs. McSorley herself, with her Scotch canniness, had an exalted opinion
of Brenda, and on Maggie's weekly visits home impressed on her the great
advantages that she might expect from having the interest of a Back Bay
young lady. "And if she likes any other girl better than you, it will be
all your fault, and I'll take it a sign that you ain't doing your very
best."
So Maggie had never said a word to her aunt about Miss Barlow's growing
preference for Concetta. To have spoken of this would only have drawn a
reproof upon herself. It was hard enough to confess her real faults, to
tell over the list of things she had broken during the week. She had
promised on first entering the Mansion to do this, and thus far she had
kept her promise.
Now Maggie had her own little bit of a secret, and sometimes she drew
from her pocket a crumpled half-sheet of paper, and wept when she saw at
the bottom:
"From your loving Tim."
What would her aunt say, what would Miss Brenda say, if they knew that
at intervals she received these misspelled letters from a jail-bird.
Yes! "a jail-bird," that was what her aunt had called him, and though it
was true that he had only been in the reformatory, and that his
offence, as he had explained it, was due more to the fault of another
man. Still he had been imprisoned, and Maggie was forbidden ever to
speak to him again.
Yet he was her uncle more than Mrs. McSorley was her aunt. The latter
was only an aunt-in-law, while Tim was her own uncle, and in spite of
his faults she loved him. Of course he was a ne'er-do-well, but his
smile was so jolly in contrast with the long-drawn, severe expression of
Mrs. McSorley. The latter said that it was very easy for him to be
jolly, when he never had the least care in the world for himself or for
any one else. But Maggie remembered many kind things that he had done.
"Since for him I'd never have been to the circus, and it was a whole day
we spent at Nantasket, and he gave me that plush box of pink
note-paper;" and Maggie would wipe away one of her ready tears as she
thought of Tim, and she gazed at the tintype that she kept with a few
other treasures in the plush-covered box.
Many a time she pondered what she should do if he should ever come to
Boston, for he was now in Connecticut looking, as he said, for work.
"And it won't be so very long," he wrote, "before I'll have me own
house, and you for housekeeper; so learn all you can, for it won't be
long."
For Maggie had written him once or twice since coming to the Mansion,
and her letters had been more cheerful than those that had found their
way to him when she was living with her aunt.
So Maggie had her day dreams; and the real secret of her patience, and
her anxiety to learn everything relating to the work of the house, came
from this hope, that she was to have the chance of showing her uncle
what a good housekeeper she could be. Now Maggie should have realized
that her aunt had done much more for her than her uncle; that Mrs.
McSorley had shown her kindness in comparison with which Tim's
occasional bursts of liberality were very small indeed. Where would she
and her mother have been but for Mrs. McSorley? And Mrs. McSorley was
only a sister-in-law, whereas Tim was her mother's own brother. Yet the
kindness of Mrs. McSorley had been so overladen with good advice and
reprimands, that it did not stand out as kindness pure and simple.
Maggie was as sure that Mrs. McSorley did not love her as she was
positive that Tim did love her.
Among the girls at the home she found little Haleema almost the most
sympathetic. At least Concetta disliked them both, and this was their
first bond of sympathy. The girls were apt to be sent in pairs on
errands, and occasionally on pleasure walks, and it had come to be the
habit for Maggie and Haleema to go together. They had gone together in
company with Julia to present their scrap-books and dolls to the
Children's Hospital, and there it was that they had fallen in love with
the prettiest little blue-eyed girl, who had been sent to the hospital
with a broken leg. She was then almost well, and when Miss South saw how
deeply interested the two were in her she allowed them to go each week
on visiting day. Later, when little Jennie went home, the two continued
to visit her; sometimes they even brought her to the Mansion to visit.
There she soon became a great favorite, and poor Maggie saw that Jennie
no longer owed everything to her and Haleema. Concetta won the child's
heart by dressing her a beautiful doll, and all the others vied with one
another in doing things for her.
It was especially hard for her when, in answer to a request from
Concetta, Brenda herself sent a box of useful and pretty things for
Jennie's use.
"It might just as well have gone through me," thought poor Maggie;
though, on further reflection, she had to admit that Concetta deserved
these things, because she had been bright enough and quick enough to
think of asking for them.
A few days later, when she went to see Jennie she took with her a
beautiful bouquet, purchased with money taken from the little hoard that
she had so carefully saved. This was a real sacrifice on Maggie's part,
and when she saw the joy with which the little girl received her gift
she was more than repaid.
Moreover, in the hour that she spent with the little girl she was sure
that Jennie cared for her as much as ever. Indeed, had she been able to
reason more deeply, she would have discovered that a child discriminates
very slightly as to the value of different gifts. Jennie, like other
children, loved Maggie quite as well as she loved Concetta, and though
she enjoyed the presents that each one brought her, she had no scale of
values by which to measure them.
XII
DOUBTS AND DUTIES