decidedly more cheerful.
When Mr. and Mrs. Barlow went down to Rockley, Brenda had simply refused
to go. When they told her that she would suffer in town from the heat,
she replied that she did not care, she hoped, indeed, that she would
suffer, and concluded by saying emphatically that she was tired of being
a mere idler.
"But since you are so unused to hard work, and to the city in hot
weather, you must not overdo now. I do wish, Brenda," and Mrs. Barlow's
tone was unusually serious, "that you could do things in moderation. If
you had taken a little more interest in the work at the Mansion last
winter, perhaps you would not feel it necessary to go to extremes now."
"It isn't extremes now, only I have more time to give to Julia, and I
don't feel like going to Rockley; and why should any one care,
especially as you have Agnes and Lettice with you."
Mrs. Barlow for the time said no more. She managed, however, to persuade
Brenda to spend a day or two each week at Rockley, usually Saturday and
Sunday; and every Wednesday a large box of flowers was sent up to the
school with a card marked, "With love, from little Lettice."
Concetta was now more than ever devoted to Brenda, and the latter found
her conversation more entertaining than that of any of the
others,--possibly because she heard more of it. Often during the hour
before bedtime she sat on the old rattan settle in the vestibule, while
the tongue of the little Italian girl rattled on over a great variety of
topics. Maggie, passing in or out sometimes after watering the plants in
the little garden, often felt like sitting down beside Brenda, but she
was never asked to join the two, and, unasked, she would not venture.
Then to console herself she would put her hand on the crumpled letter at
the bottom of her pocket. There was one person who cared for her, and
Tim, knowing that his letters would not be intercepted by Mrs. McSorley,
wrote to her often. His description of his life with the troops seemed
to her most wonderful, and oh! how she longed to show to the others that
picture that he had had taken of himself in uniform and broad campaign
hat.
Angelina's interest in the war turned chiefly on her belief that she was
destined to be a nurse. A large red cross cut from flannel she had sewed
to her sleeve, and she told the younger girls that as soon as her mother
should give her permission she was going to Cuba. "As soon, at least, as
there's been a perfectly dreadful battle; of course I don't want to go
until I can be of real use."
As a matter of fact Angelina had little prospect of entering upon this
career of nurse, though she cherished the hope that her mother and Miss
Julia might some time give their consent.
From Tampa in June Arthur wrote home much about the condition of the
volunteers who had gone to the war without suitable equipment, and the
fingers of the young girls at the Mansion flew more swiftly, that they
might the more surely increase their quota of comfort bags.
"Just think of Toby's having to work like a laborer," said Nora, two of
whose brothers had already found their way to the army in the front at
the South. "He says that if it were not for the hammock that he sleeps
in at night he never could stand the heat; but oh, dear! I do hope that
there won't be any real fighting. Where do you suppose that the
Spaniards are now?"
"Off this coast, probably," said Edith; "they say there's a big pile of
coal at Salem, and that the Spanish ships will be sure to try to get it.
I wish we were going to Europe this summer, for I'm afraid that I should
not enjoy seeing a battle."
"Well, I'd sooner see one than feel one, as might be the case if there
should be fighting off this coast; but I am sure that this will not be
the case, and we must feel that our part in the war is simply to keep up
our own courage, and that of our friends and relations, especially of
those who have gone to the war marching toward Cuba."
This was the sensible view to take, and Nora was only one of many girls
whose chief work those long spring days consisted in cutting out
garments, in hemming and sewing, in knitting bandages, and in following
the directions of those older women who had organized themselves to care
for the needs of the soldiers in the field.
Some of them, I am afraid (but we will whisper this), were a little
impatient that nothing happened; that is, that there had been no
fighting. But they were those who had no relatives and no friends in the
army.
Brenda waited eagerly for each letter from Arthur, for he wrote
frequently from Tampa to Agnes. Ralph had already reached Paris, and the
house at Rockley seemed strangely quiet; for Lettice was a demure little
girl, playing very quietly in her corner of the garden or the
drawing-room.
Two letters of Arthur's had lain unanswered, and now Brenda was
unwilling to make up for her neglect. "Arthur should write to me," she
said to herself, although she really knew that she could hardly expect
such a concession from even a young man far less proud than Arthur
Weston. Yet Brenda for a time tried to nurse a grievance, rather vainly,
it must be admitted, essaying to persuade herself that Arthur was in the
wrong.
In the mean time, at the Mansion, she was really very helpful. She was
especially zealous in taking the girls to some of the factories that
Julia and Miss South thought it well for the girls to visit in little
groups. Thus the process of biscuit-making, and spice-making, and half a
dozen other processes had been made clear to them in the course of the
spring, and Brenda said that in accompanying Miss South and the girls on
these expeditions she gained much more than she ever had from the
occasional historic pilgrimages that she had sometimes made with her
cousins.
The girls of the Mansion made one or two historic pilgrimages, too. In
Brenda there was not a deep poetic vein, and something akin to this is
needed to make one thoroughly appreciate historic surroundings. In the
bustling factories she found something with which her spirit was more in
sympathy.
The questions asked by the girls with her diverted her; the explanations
given by their guides in these places took her out of herself.
During the summer the girls were to be invited to New Hampshire; for
Julia had been able to arrange with a farmer living not far from the
home of Eliza, her former maid, to have half a dozen of the girls board
with him for two months, while two were to be under the care of Eliza.
Julia or Miss South was to be at the farmer's during all the stay of
these girls, but on the whole the summer was to be considered a time of
recreation rather than work, and what the girls should learn in the
country was to be gained rather by observation than by direct teaching.
As the choice had been given them, three or four had preferred to return
to their own families for the summer rather than to go to the country,
and thus the number to be looked after was not too large for the
successful carrying out of Julia's vacation plans. Her first intention
had been to take a house and equip it for summer work, carried on upon
the same plan as that of the Mansion in the winter, but her uncle and
aunt and others had pointed out so clearly the disadvantages of this
scheme that she had quickly given it up. The girls were likely to
return to their duties in the autumn much fresher, and much readier to
set to work, than if they had had the same kind of household tasks that
fell to them in winter.
Mr. and Mrs. Barlow wished that Julia had planned to close the Mansion
on the first of June instead of July, for they saw that Brenda had no
intention of coming down to Rockley permanently until July.
"Surely you are not so very much needed at this season. Julia and Miss
South could undoubtedly get some one else to take your place," her
mother remonstrated; and Brenda merely replied:
"Oh, I am needed; I like to feel that I am needed, and besides it is my
own choice; I am staying in town because I want to."
It was evidently useless to argue, and Mrs. Barlow made no further
effort to persuade her to change her mind. Naturally, however, she was
somewhat concerned to notice that Brenda was growing paler and thinner.
She felt that no good could come from Brenda's staying so late in town.
XIX
THEY STAND AND WAIT
"Why so pensive?"
"Pensive! Am I? I did not mean to be; it is certainly not exactly polite
when I have company." Julia smiled at Lois as she spoke, for Lois was
making one of her infrequent visits to the Mansion, and the two girls
had been reviewing many of the events of their college years.
"Yes, you were pensive; you looked as if something weighed on your mind.
That particular expression has vanished now," concluded Lois; "but since
I caught that very unusual look, please tell me what it means. Is it the
war?"
"Oh, no, not wholly."
"Then partly; do you wish to go as a nurse?"
"Oh, no; that is a kind of personal service for which I have never
thought myself especially well adapted. I leave that to experts like you
and Clarissa, for I suppose that now Clarissa is on her way to Cuba,
ready to do the bidding of the Red Cross. Why, Lois, with your bent in
that direction I do not wonder that you are pleased at the prospect of
going where you can really do some good."
"I am not altogether sure that I can go. My mother is opposed to my
going, and to-day when I went to see Miss Ambrose I found her seriously
ill. I came to town to do an errand for her, but I could not resist
running up here for a few minutes; I wished to know what you had heard
from Clarissa."
"It was only the briefest note, but she seems perfectly delighted with
the prospect before her of going. She is so strong that I am sure that
no harm will come to her, and she will be a perfect host in camp or
hospital."
"And the cap and apron will become her. Can you not see her with her cap
tilted over her dark curls? I haven't the slightest doubt that she will
pin a bow of scarlet ribbon somewhere on her gown, even though the
regulations prescribe sombre costume."
"Indeed, I can see her at this very minute, a real ray of sunshine; but,
Lois, I hope that Miss Ambrose is not very ill."
"I cannot tell. It is a nervous break down. All that she reads and hears
about the war carries her back to the days of the Civil War. She lost
several dear relatives and friends then, and the present excitement has
caused what I should call a kind of reflex action. Unless this Spanish
War proves longer than we expect, a few weeks rest will bring her
around. I am glad that my examinations are just over, for I must spend
my time with her."
"Naturally," responded Julia; "and after all, this will be as good a
cause as nursing sick soldiers, though I understand your
disappointment."
As the two friends talked, Julia's face lost the pensive expression that
Lois had remarked when she first came in. The expression had no deeper
reason than her feeling of dissatisfaction with her winter's work, a
regret that what she had undertaken must hamper her now, when greater
things were claiming the attention of so many other of her friends. Yet
before Lois went home she had begun to see that she need not be
dissatisfied with her own limitations.
"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" Lois had quoted apropos to
herself, just as Philip had quoted it some weeks before, and Julia found
this line of Milton's even more applicable to her own case than Philip
had to his. For there was a prospect that Lois, if the war continued,
might find it possible to offer herself as a nurse, while Julia was sure
that the duties that she had assumed would prevent her doing this, even
as Philip knew that he could not leave his father. Julia regretted, too,
that she had not as much money to offer as she would have had but for
her year's work at the Mansion.
Miss Ambrose, to whom Lois had referred, was not a relative, nor even an
old friend. She had made the acquaintance of this elderly woman by
chance toward the close of her Radcliffe course, and had found her way
to Miss Ambrose's heart without special effort on her own part. An
accident had enabled her to do Miss Ambrose a real kindness. The older
woman had been greatly pleased to learn that Lois was studying at
Radcliffe. Her own tastes in her younger days had inclined her to a
college education, but, alas! at that time there was small opportunity
for a woman to go to college. In interesting herself in Lois' college
work she had seemed to live over again her own youth, and she was never
weary of hearing the details of college life. Later, when Lois was on
the point of leaving Radcliffe, because she had not the money to stay
there longer, Miss Ambrose insisted on her accepting from her the sum
necessary to enable her to remain. In view of the older woman's
kindness, and also because a genuine friendship existed between the two,
it was natural that Lois should wish to stay with Miss Ambrose while she
was ill. Indeed, she was glad to do this, even though she had to curb
her desire to be a nurse during the war.
When Lois left, Julia put herself through a little cross-examination;
for a month or two she had not been wholly satisfied with her year's
work. Had she used her time and her money in the best way? Was there not
some other work that she might have carried on to greater advantage? Was
it altogether wise to have given up so entirely her own personal
interests? Ah! Clarissa was right; she was not justified in putting
entirely aside her music--especially her work in composition. What,
indeed, had she to show for the year? So her thoughts ran. Ten girls
better trained in useful things than would have been the case without
the Mansion teaching; but this year must be followed up by another year
of teaching, and then in the end could she be sure that they would
retain what they had learned? Concetta and Haleema had improved
superficially, but she was by no means confident that they were really
neater or really more truthful than in the beginning. Maggie--and here
she smiled--broke fewer dishes, but her reticence was far from
commendable. Frankness was a virtue that she herself constantly
preached, yet she had been able to instil very little of this quality
into Maggie's breast. In spite of all her precepts, too, Inez was still
as willing as at the beginning of the year to put on her stockings with
the feet unmended, and--"Difficulties are things that show what men
are." Like a ray of sunlight this thought from Epictetus flashed across
Julia's mind. After all, how few real difficulties she had had to meet
during the year; and had not the successes been more than the failures?
Mary Murphy had been the only one of the girls to insist on leaving the
school, although she had occasionally heard the others expressing their
dissatisfaction, especially when some of them had undergone some of the
discipline that they had to undergo. One of the first lessons to learn
had been that of the general deceitfulness of girls, and of these girls
in particular, who did not hesitate to make many little criticisms as
unjustifiable as they were foolish.
After all, the balance sheet did not show a total against the
experiment, even when all the things were counted that had to be called
not quite successful.
"It is the warm weather," thought Julia, "that depresses me. Instead of
dreading next year, when autumn comes I shall probably wish that I had
twice as much to do."
Brenda was disturbed by no such doubts as those that assailed Julia. She
was helping Julia that she might help herself forget that a war was
hanging over the country, and that if there should be a great battle,
if Arthur should be killed, she could never forgive herself. Yet, after
all, what had she had to do with his going, unless, indeed, she had been
foolish in repeating her father's criticism of Arthur's idleness. She
could not forget that autumn ride and that half-jesting conversation,
and the change in Arthur from that moment; but for that, perhaps, he
would not have gone to Washington, and if he had not gone to Washington
she was sure that he would not have volunteered so early. Had he been
near them, certainly Agnes and Ralph would have shown him that it was
his duty to stay at home, just as much his duty as it was the duty of
Ralph or Philip.
Philip had stayed behind on account of his father, and Ralph felt it his
duty to fly to Paris on account of his sick uncle. Arthur could have
gone there in his place, and then he would have been perfectly safe.
Now, even while Brenda was reasoning in this foolish fashion--yet it
could hardly be called reasoning--she did not fully face the question as
to whether she had not done wrong rather than Arthur. She still blamed
him for not writing to her. What if she had not answered his last two
letters? He was the one who had gone farthest away, and he should have
written.
Now all of this was the very poorest logic, and no one understood this
better than Brenda herself, slow though she was to admit that she had
made a blunder.
Miss South heard frequently from her brother Louis, who had been one of
the first to go to the front, and a box had been already sent from the
Mansion filled with useful things for the men of his company, about
whose privations in camp he had written very entertainingly. "How would
you like it," he wrote, "to have to take your occasional bath in a
rubber blanket? Yes! that is exactly what I do. We cannot bathe in the
creek, for its muddy water is all we have to drink. So when I wish to
bathe I dig a narrow trench some distance away, lay my rubber blanket in
it, and carry enough water to fill it. In no other way could I get a
decent--I mean a half-decent--bath." Then he told of the canned beef and
hard bread that was his chief diet, and added that if the heat
continued, he would have nothing worse to fear from the Cuban climate,
"for to Cuba they say we shall go before the end of June."
Brenda, listening to the letter, wondered if Arthur, too, had had the
same experiences.
More than all, she wondered if the troops now in camp would really go to
Cuba, and if--if--
Then she would not let her thoughts go too far. She could not bear to
think of the coming battles; for every one said that the Spaniards would
not yield without a bitter conflict.
Maggie, whose devotion to her was unnoted by Brenda, watched the latter
from day to day, and often saved her steps by anticipating her wishes.
Maggie observed that Brenda's face was paler and thinner than when she
first began to live at the Mansion. She noticed, too, that she no longer
cared for pretty gowns. She wore constantly a blue serge skirt and shirt
waist, suitable enough in its way for one who was a resident at a
settlement; but Brenda had formerly cared little for suitability, and
Maggie, though she would not for a moment have admitted that her idol
looked less than beautiful, still wished that she had the courage to ask
her to wear occasionally one of the dainty muslin gowns that she knew
she had brought with her to the Mansion.
One day as Brenda strolled through the upper hall she saw the door of
Maggie's room ajar. This reminded her that it was her turn to inspect
the bureaus of the girls, and acting on impulse she went at once to
Maggie's drawer. This inspection usually consisted only of a passing
glance to make sure that the contents of the drawers were not in the
state of hopeless confusion into which the bureaus of young girls have a
strange way of throwing themselves.
Maggie's bureau, if not above criticism, was fairly neat, but as Brenda
turned away something strangely familiar caught her eye. It could not
be--yet it surely was--and she took the bit of silver in her hand to
assure herself that it really was the chatelaine clasp of the silver
purse that she had lost. As she took up the little piece of silver her
hand trembled. There was no doubt about it; too well she recognized the
elaborately engraved rose, surmounted by the double B, that had been her
own especial design. How vividly came back to her the day on which she
had lost the purse--the day of the broken vase, of the discovery of
Maggie, of the deferred walk with Arthur; all came back to her vividly,
and yet these things seemed years and years away. She had never
associated Maggie with the lost purse, but now suspicion followed
suspicion, and all in an instant Maggie McSorley had become not merely a
tiresome little girl, but one deserving of reprimand if not of
punishment.
Then discovery followed discovery. Just back of the silver clasp lay the
picture of a young, good-looking soldier in campaign uniform, and Brenda
could not help reading at the bottom the words, "From your loving Tim."
At that moment there was a step at the door, and immediately Maggie was
beside her. The little girl reddened as she looked over Brenda's
shoulder.
"My uncle," she exclaimed.
"Why, Maggie! How often your aunt has said that you haven't a relation
in the world but herself and her husband."
"Then it's she that doesn't tell the truth," and frightened by her own
boldness Maggie burst into tears.
Brenda did not feel like consoling her. Moreover, Maggie's next words,
"Don't tell my aunt," were not reassuring; so Brenda went rather sadly
downstairs. The clasp was still in her left hand; she had even forgotten
to show it to Maggie. Near the library door she met Concetta, looking
bright and cheerful. What a pleasant contrast to the weeping,
unsatisfactory girl upstairs!
That evening Maggie did not appear again downstairs. She would take no
tea, and Gretchen, who had gone above to inquire, reported that Maggie
had a severe headache. As Julia left the rest of the family after tea to
see what she could do for Maggie, Brenda seated herself at the library
table beside Concetta, who was turning over the leaves of a book.
Half absent-mindedly Brenda fingered the clasp which had been in her
pocket since the afternoon, and Concetta, as her eye fell upon it, put
out her hand as if to seize it. Then as quickly she drew her hand away,
pretending not to have seen the bit of silver. Brenda did not notice
Concetta's action, though she was pleased to hear her say a word or two
in excuse of Maggie's weeping proclivities.
"She's such a kind of tender-hearted girl. Yes, she told me the other
evening that she hated to kill a mosquito; she'd rather let them bite
her. Why, I'd kill hundreds of mosquitoes without thinking of it,"
concluded Concetta boldly; "and it made Maggie cry when the kitten got
scalded the other day, but I wouldn't think of crying."
Brenda listened to Concetta quietly; she was wondering if she ought to
disclose her suspicions to Julia. At length she decided that it was her
duty to do so.
"Let us ask Miss South what she thinks. Perhaps there is some
explanation that she can suggest."
Miss South, when consulted, was inclined to question the accuracy of
Brenda's memory.
"Isn't it possible that you have forgotten just when you lost the
purse?"
"No, indeed, I have not forgotten," said Brenda. "It made a great
impression on me that I should have lost it on the very day when I had
had to pay for that broken vase, and that was the day when I first went
home with Maggie; but really I never thought of her having taken it,
and I'm very, very sorry."
Brenda spoke in tones of genuine distress. It is true that she had never
been very fond of Maggie, and that her first pride in her as an
acquisition for the Mansion had soon passed away. Concetta and one or
two of the other girls had interested her more. Yet in a general way she
had had a good opinion of Maggie, which it hurt her very much now to be
obliged to reverse.
Thus, as the school year closed, Brenda, like Julia, was beginning to
have doubts about the value of the work that she had been doing; for if
Maggie had the clasp, she must also have the purse and its contents. The
money contained in it had amounted to only about three dollars, but the
purse itself had been valuable, and doubtless Maggie had sold it. "I
suppose she was afraid to sell the clasp on account of the initials,"
Brenda thought, a little bitterly.
Even though she had not liked Maggie as well as some of the other girls,
she was not pleased that she had made this unpleasant discovery. She
would have been more than glad if she had never seen that
harmless-looking little clasp lying in Maggie's bureau, if Maggie had
never told her that untruth about the soldier's photograph.
XX
WEARY WAITING