you had, I should march straight East, and find the reason why. If
it's on account of that Mansion school, you'd have to leave it
instantly; so when you write tell me what you've been composing,
and whom you are studying with this year. As for me, I really am
rather idle, and I'm learning that a college education isn't really
wasted, even if one practises only the domestic virtues. My mother
has been far from well this year, and she's luxuriating in having
me here to run things. Running things, you know, is rather in my
line. But ah! how I wish that I could see you and Pamela and Lois
again, and all the others of our class who are enjoying themselves
fairly near the classic shades. I suppose that you go out to
Radcliffe at least once a week, and do you feel as blue as I do to
think it's all over? But don't forget to tell me about your music.
"Ever your
"CLARISSA."
As Julia folded up this letter from her old classmate her face grew
thoughtful. She certainly was not even studying this year, nor had she
composed a note. It was kind in Clarissa to remember her little talent.
Even Lois had spoken to her recently about hiding her light under a
bushel. Was she doing this? Might her little candle, properly tended,
shine out large enough to be seen in the world? Her uncle and aunt had
remonstrated with her for neglecting her music, and Julia had promised
to resume her work later. But thus far the exact time had not come, and
she hesitated to tell them that she doubted that she had the talent that
they attributed to her. This feeling of discouragement had come to her
in the last year at Radcliffe, when she began to see that her ability as
a composer had its limits. Now, with Clarissa's letter before her, she
wondered if she had been right in letting one or two slight set-backs
discourage her. She had continued her practising, and her rendering of
the great composers was a continual uplifting to those who heard her.
But the other,--her work in harmony,--was she right or wrong in laying
it aside for the present? Was this the talent that she should be called
to account for? Ought she to keep it concealed in a napkin? As she
thought of this, Julia longed more than ever for Ruth--Ruth, with whom
she had found it easier to discuss these personal questions than with
any other of her friends. But Ruth, on her wedding trip, was thousands
of miles away. It would be six months, at least, before they could meet,
and she glanced at the map on which she marked a record of Ruth's
wanderings, and noted that now she was in the neighborhood of Calcutta.
"The other side of the world," she thought. "Ah! well, I will let things
go on as they have been going, and next year, perhaps, I shall see more
clearly what I ought to do."
Pamela was perhaps carrying out her ideals more thoroughly than Julia,
for all her teaching was along the artistic lines that she loved the
best. She was not always sure that the girls got just what she intended
them to get from her little talks on the nature of beauty, and the
relations of beauty to utility. She used the simplest language, however,
and made her illustrations of a kind that they could easily comprehend.
She had tried to show them the meaning of "Have nothing in your house
that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful," and in
expounding this she saw that she must try to train them to understand
the truly beautiful. For her own room she had had some mottoes done in
pen and ink artistically lettered, and one at a time she would set them
in a conspicuous place, sure to attract the attention of the girls at
their lessons.
Ruskin's "Every right action and true thought sets the seal of its
beauty on person and face; every wrong action and foul thought, its seal
of distortion," put up in plain sight, though at first it was not
thoroughly understood, served as the text for a little talk, and each
girl for the time being decided to curb her tongue, lest her face should
show the effect of backbiting.
Samples of dress fabrics, samples of wall papers, gaudy chromos
contrasted with simple photographs, queer and over-decorated vases in
comparison with graceful Greek shapes, were all used by Pamela to
enforce her lessons. Yet she often had misgivings that her words were
not accepted as actual gospel by Nellie and Haleema and one or two
others, whose preference for crude colors and fantastic decorations
often came unexpectedly to the surface.
Nora laughed at her efforts to develop an aesthetic sense in these girls.
"They'll never have the chance to own the really beautiful things, and
they might as well think that these cheap and gaudy objects are
beautiful."
But Pamela shook her head at this.
"Why, Nora, you surprise me! What I am trying to teach is the fact that
beautiful things are often as cheap as ugly things. Of course, in one
sense, they are always cheaper, because they give more pleasure and
often last longer. But when a girl's taste is cultivated she can often
find more attractive things for less money. Who wouldn't rather have a
wicker chair than one of those hideous red and green plush upholstered
affairs, and the wicker chair certainly costs less."
"You are absolutely correct, Pamela Northcote, and your sentiments do
not savor of anarchism, though I hear that Mrs. Blair is greatly
perturbed lest this work at the Mansion should interfere with the labor
market, and prevent the householder of the future from getting her
rightful quota of domestics."
"It would not surprise me," said Pamela, "if not more than two of the
girls here actually became domestics. I think that Julia and Miss South
are right in encouraging them to live up to their highest aspirations."
"Well, I doubt if any of them have begun to aspire very strongly yet. On
the whole they are remarkably short-sighted, and when I ask them what
they intend to be they are usually so taken by surprise that they can
make no reply."
"Miss South feels that she can judge them only very superficially this
year; but she hopes that next year she will know them so well that she
can give them definite advice. In the mean time they are at the mercy of
laymen like yourself and myself, and we have the responsibility of
guiding them toward the heights of art, whether in the aesthetic or the
culinary line."
Theoretically Pamela took some of the girls each Saturday to the Art
Museum; really the average was hardly oftener than every other week.
There were rainy Saturdays, there were days when Pamela had special work
of her own, or an occasional invitation would come for her to go out of
town. Three girls at a time were invited to go. Julia would not permit
Pamela to leave the house with more than that number, lest she should be
mistaken for the head of an orphan asylum.
Pamela made these trips so interesting that for a girl to be forbidden
to go when her day came was the greatest punishment that could be
inflicted on her. Julia and Miss South had discovered this, and the
discovery had solved one of their greatest problems,--this question of
punishment; for although the girls were old enough to be beyond the need
of punishment, yet there were certain rules that only the very best
never broke, and to the breaking of which certain penalties were
attached.
Thus it happened that on this particular Saturday afternoon Haleema,
whose turn it was to go, was not of the trio, and in her place was
Maggie, triumphant in the knowledge that for a whole week she had not
broken a single cup or saucer, nor in fact a dish of any kind.
"That means that I have my whole quarter to do as I like with," she said
as they left the house.
"That means," interpolated Concetta, "that you'll put it in your little
bank. She's a regular miser, Miss Northcote."
"No, I ain't," responded Maggie, "only just now I'm saving."
"That's right," said Pamela. "'Many a little make a mickle.'"
"Yes, 'm," and Maggie lapsed into her wonted silence.
Concetta, however, was inclined to be more talkative.
"Oh, she isn't simply saving, she's mean. Why, she got Nellie to buy her
blue necktie last week; sold it for ten cents. Just think of that!"
"Well, well, that is no affair of ours."
"She sold a lovely story-book that her aunt gave her Christmas. She said
it was too young for her, and she'd rather have the money."
"That may be, Concetta; but still I say that this is none of our
business."
Yet although she thus reproved Concetta for her comments, Pamela
wondered why Maggie wished to save. Economy was not a characteristic of
girls of her age; though, recalling her own past need of money, Pamela
felt that thrift was not a thing to be discouraged.
"Oh, please let us go to the paintings first," begged Concetta.
"No! no! to the jewelry," cried Gretchen; while Maggie, knowing as well
as the others that they would first go where Miss Northcote chose,
wisely said nothing, expressed no preference.
On their first visit they had walked through all the galleries to get
the necessary bird's-eye view, and a second visit had been given almost
wholly to the old Greek room. But all the casts and reliefs were as
nothing in Concetta's eyes compared with the richness of color in
Corot's "Dante and Virgil in the Forest," and the wonderful realism of
La Rolle's two peasant women.
"I don't know whether they're Italians," said Concetta of the latter,
"but there's something about them that makes me think of Italy;" for
Concetta had vague remembrances of her native land and of the
picturesque costumes of the Italian women. Although she was proud enough
to consider herself an American citizen, she still was pleased when
people called her a true daughter of Italy, and she loved everything
that reminded her of her old home.
Of all the things that she had seen, Gretchen declared that she would
much prefer the great crystal ball to which a fabulous value was
attached, although there were some exquisite gold necklaces that had an
especial charm for her.
Now on this special day Pamela meant to combine instruction with
pleasure, and so the quartette quickly found themselves in the Egyptian
room.
"You don't think that beautiful, do you, Miss Northcote?" and there was
more than a little doubt in Concetta's tone as she pointed to a granite
bust of a ruler in one of the earliest dynasties.
"I like it better than the mummies," interposed Gretchen, before Pamela
could reply; "they give me the shivers."
"I wish you'd take us into the mummy room," continued Concetta
seductively; "there are some lovely blue beads there."
But Pamela was sternly steadfast to her purpose, reminding them that
there would be other opportunities for them to wander about
indefinitely, whereas now she wished them to get a little idea of
history through these reliefs and statues. But I am afraid that of the
three Maggie alone really listened very attentively to her explanation
of the difference between the Egyptians and the Assyrians, which their
works of art brought out so well.
But neither Thotmes, nor Assur-bani-pal, nor Nimrod, nor Rameses were
names to conjure with, and in spite of her efforts to make her subject
interesting, by connecting things she told them with Bible incidents,
Pamela could not always hold their attention. To give up too easily
would have seemed ignominious, and she decided to allow them a diversion
in the shape of a visit to her favorite Tanagra figurines.
"That will be good," said Gretchen, in her rather quaint English, as
they turned their backs on the grim relics of Egypt; "and we'll try to
remember every word you've told us to-day."
"Then what _do_ you remember?" said Pamela with a suspicion of mischief
in her voice.
The three looked uncomfortable. On their faces was the same expression
that Pamela often saw on the faces of her pupils in school when unable
to answer her questions.
"The names were rather hard," ventured Concetta.
"Yes, but you must remember one fact,--at least one among all the things
that I have been telling you."
"I remember one," ventured Maggie.
"Well, then, we shall be glad to hear it."
"Why the Assyrians used to make their enemies look smaller than they
when they made reliefs of battles," ventured Maggie.
"And the Egyptians were very fond of cats," added Gretchen; and with all
her efforts this was all the information Pamela gleaned from the girls
after her hour's work.
But before she had a chance to try a new and better way of presenting
the Tanagra figures to them, she heard her name pronounced in a
well-known voice, and looking up she saw Philip Blair gazing at her
charges, and at her too, with an air of amusement.
"This is a surprise. I did not realize that you were a lover of art,"
she said a little awkwardly.
"Oh, yes, indeed, though I can't tell you when I've been in this museum
before. It looks just about the same, though, as it did when I was a
kid."
"There are some new paintings upstairs," said Pamela; "though it's
almost closing time now," she added, glancing at her watch.
When they saw that Pamela was fairly absorbed in conversation, the three
girls wandered off toward another room where, Concetta whispered, there
were prettier things to be seen.
"Do you bring them here often?" There was something quizzical in
Philip's tone as he watched the three for a moment.
"Some of them every week; it's a great pleasure." Pamela was bound not
to apologize.
"Do you think they'll get an idea of household art by coming here?"
"I'm sure I hope so, though that isn't my whole aim. It will take more
than these visits here to get them to change their views of the really
beautiful. Concetta is always telling me about some of the beauties in
the house of her cousin, who married a saloon-keeper. They have green
and red brocade furniture in their sitting-room, and a piano that is
decorated with a kind of stucco-work, as well as I can understand her
description, for it can hardly be hand-carving."
Emboldened by Philip's hearty laugh Pamela continued:
"She also thinks our pictures far too simple, 'too neat and plain,' I
think she called them. Certainly she told me that she likes chromos in
gilt frames."
"It is clearly, then, your duty to raise her ideals, though when it
comes to a whole houseful of new ideas, you will certainly have all that
you can do."
But from this lighter talk Philip and Pamela turned to more serious
things, and as they walked through the long galleries, unconsciously
they were showing themselves in a new aspect to each other. Philip, at
least, who had had so many trips abroad, had profited more than many
young men by his opportunities; and as they walked, Pamela, for almost
the first time in her life, felt a little envious as he talked of this
great painting and then of that,--of paintings that she had longed to
see,--speaking of them as casually as she would speak of the flower-beds
on the Public Garden. Ah! was she never to have this chance of crossing
the ocean? It was but a passing shadow; for a swift calculation of her
probable savings showed that, though the time might be long, there was
still every probability that some time she could take herself to Europe.
But meanwhile--
"Ah! you should see a real Titian, or a Velasquez like the one the
National Gallery bought a few years ago; I saw it the last time I was
over. Oh! I should love to show you some of my favorites in the Dresden
Gallery."
"Yes, yes!" Pamela spoke absent-mindedly. She had suddenly remembered
the existence of her charges.
"I wonder," she began, when her speech was cut short by Gretchen, who
ran rapidly up to her from the broad hall outside, a look of alarm on
her face as she grasped Pamela's arm.
"It's--it's Maggie!" she exclaimed excitedly.
"What is it? Has anything happened? Is she hurt?"
"I can't say as she's exactly hurt," responded Gretchen, "though she
gave an awful scream; but you'd better come."
[Illustration: They walked through the long galleries]
With Gretchen leaning on her arm, or rather dragging her on, Pamela
hastened to the large room with its tapestries and cases of
embroideries.
"No, no, not here; this little room," and Pamela soon saw Concetta and
Maggie. The latter was weeping bitterly, the former stood near looking
rather sulky. One of the custodians, with severity in every line of his
face and figure, was talking to them "for all he was worth," as Gretchen
phrased it.
In a glance Pamela saw what had happened. There was a hole in the top of
the glass case, and the man held in his hand a large glass marble.
Pamela remembered that Maggie had been tossing it up and down on her way
across the Common.
"I didn't do it." Maggie was crying.
"Nonsense, Maggie! I saw you playing with it myself."
"But not now--not now."
Pamela glanced suspiciously at Concetta, but the little Italian was
already at the other side of the room, pretending a great interest in a
case of ivories. For the moment Pamela was overcome. Her old shyness had
returned. Several bystanders were gazing at the strange group, and
Pamela was at a loss what to say. Clearly it was her duty to offer to
make restitution, but she could not speak; she did not know what to say;
and when Gretchen, too impressed, doubtless, by the brass buttons on the
coat of the official, said anxiously, "If he's a p'liceman, will he put
us all in jail?" the climax had been reached, and Pamela herself felt
ready to cry.
In a moment she saw Philip pass her; he had been not far behind all the
time, and the few words that he spoke in a low voice made the grim
features of the official relax.
"Oh, certainly, sir, certainly," he said, as Philip gave him his card.
"I'll go with you to the office."
Philip paused only a moment to say to Pamela, "There, I leave you to
your charges; let me know if they break anything more on the way home."
Then, as if this was an afterthought, "By the way, it's all right about
that glass; my father's a trustee, you know; I'm going to fix it in the
office downstairs."
When Pamela told her of the incident, Julia only laughed. "I dare say it
cost Philip a pretty penny; that kind of glass is very expensive."
"Oh, I feel so ashamed," said Pamela. "It was really my fault. I should
not have let them leave me. I must repay the cost of the glass."
"Nonsense! Philip might as well spend his money for that as for other
things. He never has been considered especially economical. Besides, it
was at least partly his fault that you left the girls, or let them leave
you;" and this was a fact that Pamela could not deny.
XIII
THE VALENTINE PARTY
When the "Leaguers" announced that they intended to have a valentine
party, Julia and Miss South gave their assent with hesitation.
"It has a sentimental sound," said Julia,--"a valentine party! and I do
wonder whom they wish to invite."
But when they were questioned the girls explained that they did not
intend to ask a single person from outside, and, of course, not a single
boy. The valentines that they most enjoyed sending were to other girls,
and they wanted only girls at their valentine party.
These, at least, were the words of Concetta, their spokesman, and if any
of the others dissented, they did not express their disagreement.
"But we expect you, Miss South, and Miss Bourne and Miss Barlow, and all
the ladies who have been so very kind to us. Miss Northcote is in the
secret, but every one else is going to be very much surprised."
"We'll try not to be curious, and I suppose that you wouldn't let us
bribe Angelina to tell us."
"Oh, no'm; no, indeed. Miss Angelina," and Gretchen turned to Angelina,
who was standing near, "if you tell we'll never--never--"
"Oh, I'm not afraid."
"We'll never call you Miss Angelina again--just plain Angelina."
"I wouldn't stand being called 'plain Angelina,'" said Miss South,
patting Angelina's shoulder as she passed by.
Now for a week or two there was much secrecy, much whispering, many
hours spent in the gymnasium at times when the rules about exercising
did not require the girls to be there. Snippings of bright-colored paper
were found in the hall, and not only bits of paper but of colored
cambric; and Julia, and Nora when she came to the cooking-class, and all
the other older persons interested in the Mansion, professed to be
entirely mystified by what was going on.
But at last the eventful fourteenth of February arrived, and all the
guests had assembled in the dining-room. The little stage had been set
up, and the audience awaited the performance with great interest. Each
girl, as before, had been permitted to invite two guests, and a number
of boys and men were present,--brothers, cousins, uncles, and an
occasional father, and the women relatives were out in full force.
Angelina's sister had come in from Shiloh to spend a day or two, and she
was doorkeeper in Angelina's place. As the guests went to their places,
each one was given a heart-shaped card, the edges gilded, to which was
attached by a pink cord a small pencil shaped like an arrow.
"Evidently we are to keep some kind of a score," said Nora, "but what it
is to be I cannot imagine."
"Nor I," responded Brenda; "I haven't been taken into the secret, but I
know that it is to be something exciting."
Brenda had not yet outgrown her love for emphatic words, and "exciting"
once in a while reappeared as a reminder of her childish years.
They had not waited very long when the door from the little room behind
was opened, and a barefooted maiden with a broad straw hat torn at the
rim, and a blue calico gown looped up over a paler blue petticoat,
appeared. She carried a rake, and "Maud Muller" was breathed around the
room before Angelina, coming from behind the scenes,--that is, from the
other room,--had had time to say, "Ladies and gentlemen, you are asked
to listen to each character, and to make a record of two things: First,
those who look the best, then those who speak the best, that is,--I
mean--" and for the first time almost in the memory of those present
Angelina seemed to have stage fright, and was unable to translate her
sentences into the clearer and more elegant phrases that she had
intended to use. Thereupon she retired in some confusion, and Maud, who
was really Nellie, recited the simple lines of the charming poem:
"'Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay,
Under her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.'"
"I doubt that Maud had exactly that brogue," said Nora. "If she had, I
believe that the judge would have been too thoroughly fascinated to ride
away."
After this came a strange, Spanish-looking figure, who took a kneeling
attitude with bowed head. The solemnity of the effect was somewhat
marred when Concetta--for she it was--turned her head around slightly to
make sure that the audience was fully appreciative of her. Many were the
guesses as to what she portrayed, and indeed it was one of the guests, a
thoughtful girl, who ventured Ximena, "the angel of Buena Vista," and
then every one else wondered why she had not been clever enough to think
of this.
"'From its smoking hell of battle, love and pity send their prayer,
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air.'"
After the women of Marblehead and Barbara Freitchie had made themselves
known, "The Witch's Daughter" was given in series of tableaux, in which
Maggie took the part of Mabel, and Angelina the part of Esek Harden, in
a coat which, if not historically accurate, was at least a suitable kind
of masculine attire for a girl to wear. Next came Haleema as the
Countess, and Luisa as Amy Wentworth, in rather elegant clothes that
surely must have come from one of the chests in the end room; and last,
but not least, Anna and Rhoda, the two sisters in their long white
gowns,--Anna timid and shrinking and Rhoda vehemently denouncing her;
Inez the former and Phoebe the latter,--reciting some of the more
tragic stanzas of the poem.
"Must we give up these pretty hearts?" asked one after another as Phoebe
began to collect the cards.
"Oh, you can have them back again if your names are on them, we only
want to count the votes;" and then there was a general murmur, for some
people had forgotten to record their opinions and a little time was
lost. But in the interval Julia played a Chopin waltz that several of
the girls especially liked, and followed this with a few chords of one
of the choruses they had been learning, in which they all joined very
heartily.
When the score cards were brought back it was found that there was a tie
for the favorite character between Haleema as the Countess, and Maggie
and Angelina as Mabel Martin and Esek.