one had come from him since he had left camp for Cuba, and this, like
the earlier letters, had been addressed to Agnes, not to Brenda. Letters
were mailed to him twice a week, and various things had been sent to him
that the family hoped might be of use in camp. But although Brenda
helped pack the little boxes, and though she had bought, or at least
selected, many of the things that went in the boxes, she did not write.
She was still waiting for Arthur's letter.
The last week in June several of the girls from the Mansion went home to
be with relatives for a few days before going up to the farm, and Brenda
at last agreed to go down to Rockley. Mrs. Barlow had told her that she
might bring with her any of the girls whom she wished to have with her.
"Naturally, I suppose, you will wish to bring Maggie, as she is your
especial protegee."
Mrs. Barlow had not realized the waning of Brenda's interest in Maggie,
but Brenda, as she read the letter, knew that she would not invite
Maggie. She had not yet spoken to Maggie about the silver clasp, but she
saw that the time had now come to do it, and she nerved herself to the
disagreeable task. Accordingly, a day or two before she was to start for
Rockley she called Maggie to her room, but when Maggie appeared she was
not alone. Concetta was with her. It hardly seemed wise to send Concetta
away, and the two little girls sat down, as if to make an afternoon
visit. Hardly had she been seated five minutes, however, when Concetta
spied the little silver clasp that Brenda had laid on the table near by.
At first she put out her hand as if to take it, then even more quickly
drew it back. But Brenda had noted the action, and after they had talked
a few minutes of other things she brought up the subject of the lost
purse.
She had described the pretty purse that she had so valued, because it
was a present from one of whom she was especially fond, and told how its
loss had distressed her. It must be admitted that her heart beat a
trifle more quickly as she looked at the two, but neither of the girls
appeared the least self-conscious. Then she held up the clasp--perhaps
it wasn't just right to say this before Concetta--and added:
"It surprised me very much a day or two ago to find this little clasp in
the possession of one of the girls here at the Mansion, for it is the
very clasp that I lost with the silver purse."
Then Maggie reddened and looked at Concetta, and Concetta looked from
Maggie to Brenda.
"Did you think that somebody stole it?" asked Maggie anxiously, and
then she seemed to search Concetta's face for an answer.
"I hardly care to say what I think," replied Brenda. "I should not like
to believe that any one had stolen it."
This time her gaze was so evidently directed toward Maggie that Maggie
was almost driven to reply.
"I know that it was in my drawer, Miss Barlow, but--"
"Oh, it was I who gave it to her, I really did; but I didn't steal it."
Concetta spoke very positively.
Brenda was certainly puzzled by the turn of affairs, the more puzzled
because she realized as well as any one else in the house that Maggie
and Concetta had never been good friends, yet it was Maggie whom she now
heard saying:
"Oh, I'm sure, Miss Barlow, that Concetta isn't to blame."
"I never saw the purse," explained Concetta, "but the clasp was given to
me--that is, I paid twenty-five cents for it. The girl I got it from
lives in the next house to my uncle's; you can ask her about it."
"Well, I'm obliged to you, Concetta, for freeing Maggie from suspicion.
It is indeed strange that the day I lost the purse was the very day on
which I first saw Maggie. You remember, Maggie, the day when I went home
with you."
"Yes, indeed, Miss Barlow, the day I broke that vase; that was a bad
bargain for you."
"Why, I'm not so sure, Maggie; you see I seem to have found you in
exchange for the vase, and perhaps, after all, I have had the best of
the bargain. But tell me, Concetta, how it happens that you and Maggie
are good friends now. Only a little while ago you seemed to be far from
friendly, yet now you would not have been so ready to tell me about the
silver clasp if you had not been anxious to help free Maggie from any
chance of blame."
So Concetta--for in spite of occasional mistakes in English she was
always more voluble than Maggie--explained that several times of late
Maggie had been very kind to her, and she gave among her instances the
day when Maggie had helped with the lamps; "and then I thought that she
was dreadfully good when she never told about Haleema the day the
ammonia got spilled, for it was Haleema that broke the bottle, but
Maggie never told; and then," concluded Concetta magnanimously, "I got
tired of hearing every one find fault with Maggie, so she and I are
going to be great friends now. That's one of the things I've learned
here, that it's better to be good friends with every one, 'to love your
neighbor as yourself.' Miss South often talks to me about it, and so I'm
trying to think that every one is as good as I am;" and Concetta tossed
her pretty head, and her expression seemed to say that she did not find
this sentiment the easiest one in the world to hold.
On investigation--for Concetta urged her to investigate--Brenda found
her story true so far as it concerned the way in which she had come into
possession of the silver clasp. The little girl from whom she had bought
it referred her to an old woman who had a long story as to how it had
come into her possession, and Brenda at last decided that it was useless
to follow the clew further. But the outcome of all this was a better
understanding between Brenda and Maggie, for Brenda, when she had once
made a mistake, was never unwilling to rectify it. Whether this little
girl had stolen it or whether the old woman was to blame she did not
care. She felt sure that neither Maggie nor Concetta had taken the
purse. She praised the latter for her frankness, and became so kind to
the former, that Maggie actually blossomed out under her smiles.
Before the end of the month Pamela had written that she must stay in
Vermont all summer, and in consequence could take no part in the
vacation work that Julia had planned. Nora accordingly offered her
services, and Amy wrote that she volunteered to spend August with the
girls.
Brenda's cousin, Edward Elton, who happened to be present when the plans
were discussed, expressed himself as being so gratified that Julia and
Miss South would not be left to carry on the work quite alone, that
Anstiss Rowe, ever a fun lover, began to speculate as to the reason for
his concern.
"Do you suppose that this is on account of his interest in Julia? Julia
has so many others to worry about her, that he need not be especially
fearful on her account, or--there, I'll ask her--" and running up to
Miss South, who had just been bidding Mr. Elton good-bye at the door,
she put the question so suddenly that Miss South actually blushed. Then
a certain idea came into Anstiss' mind, which just then she did not put
into words.
It was the end of June before Brenda consented to go down to Rockley,
and when she went Maggie accompanied her. The observing little girl was
still disturbed as she noted how thin Brenda had grown, and even before
Mr. and Mrs. Barlow noticed it, Maggie had seen that Brenda's step was a
little heavy, that her bright manner had given place to listlessness.
Her one interest seemed to consist in buying and collecting things for
the benefit of the Volunteer Aid Association. No one now reproached her
for extravagance, and when her father found that it would please her, he
doubled his contribution to this Association, and sent another in
Brenda's name.
One afternoon Julia came down and spent the night, and the two cousins
wandered on the beach, just as they had in that summer that now seemed
so long past--that summer that had been Julia's first at Rockley. Little
Lettice, skipping along beside them, begged her aunt to tell her about
the day when she had sat on the rock and had dropped her book on the
heads of Amy and Fritz seated just beneath her. It always interested
Lettice to hear this, for Brenda had a fashion of ending the story with
"and if I hadn't dropped that book, I might never have known your cousin
Amy." For Amy was "Cousin Amy" in the vocabulary of Lettice, who would
have thought it a great misfortune never to have known this adopted
relative, since nobody else in her whole circle of acquaintances had so
many delightful stories to tell. But on this particular evening Brenda
was not ready to repeat her story nor to tell any other, and little
Lettice, with a grieved expression, ran on ahead of Brenda and Julia to
skip stones in the water. Julia did not remonstrate with Brenda, for she
realized that her cousin was not acting wholly from perversity.
Now Brenda was not the only one of the Mansion group whom the prospect
of Cuban fighting troubled. Miss South's brother Louis was at the front,
and two of Nora's brothers, and Tom Hearst, who had written several
amusing letters from camp. Yet although those who were in the army tried
to cheer the hearts of their friends at home, and although the latter
wrote cheerfully in reply, all felt that the time was far from a happy
one. The more timid, like Edith, had recovered from their fear that the
Spanish fleet would pounce down upon the defenceless inhabitants of the
North Shore. Yet some of them would have faced this danger rather than
to live in dread that their sons and brothers were to meet the troops in
actual conflict under the hot Cuban sun.
Even the strongest, even those who had no relatives in the army, were
stirred, as they had seldom been stirred before, on that Sunday morning
when they received the first news of the attack on Santiago. How
terrifying were the broad headlines with letters two or three inches
long, and how meagre seemed the information given in the columns
below,--meagre, yet appalling: "The volunteers were terribly raked.
Nearly all the wounded will recover." How much and yet how little this
meant until the names of the killed and wounded should be given! Brenda
herself would not look at those Sunday newspapers. Agnes summarized the
news for her, and told her that in the short list given of wounded or
killed she had not yet found one that she knew.
"Oh, when shall we hear everything?" cried Brenda. "Oh, Papa, can't you
go; can't I go with you? I would so much rather be in Cuba than here."
"My dear child, you are foolish. In Cuba at this season! Even if you
could go, what could you do? The killed and wounded are a very small
proportion of those who are fighting, and we have no reason to think
that Arthur is among them. To be sure, I wish that Ralph were here; we
could, at least, send him South. As it is, I may go myself, but we can
only wait until to-morrow, when there will be more complete reports."
Were twenty-four hours ever as long as those that passed before the
Monday morning papers arrived?
After her sleepless night again Brenda shrank from reading the reports.
Agnes, going over the long list of killed and wounded, gave an
exclamation of surprise,--or horror,--then checked it, with an anxious
look at Brenda. The latter, watching her narrowly, sprang forward.
"What is it Agnes? You must tell me at once."
"Poor Tom Hearst!" cried Agnes, as her tears fell on the paper; "he was
killed by a bursting shell during the early part of the attack on San
Juan Hill."
But Brenda apparently did not hear.
"Is Arthur's name there?" she asked impatiently.
"Why, yes," said Agnes reluctantly, "it--"
But before she could utter another word Brenda had fallen heavily to the
floor, and for a few minutes everything else was forgotten. Indeed, from
the moment when Brenda was placed on the couch in her room upstairs
Agnes did not leave her side, and for twenty-four hours, by the
direction of the physician whom they had hastily summoned, they did not
dare to refer to Santiago.
When she came to herself Brenda learned that the report about Arthur had
simply been "slightly wounded;" that her father was expecting an answer
soon to his telegram of enquiry, and that Philip Blair had started
South.
A faint smile passed over Brenda's face.
"I was sure--I was afraid that he was killed--like poor Tom. Isn't it
dreadful that he should die? he was always so full of life." Then she
began to weep silently, and said no more about Arthur.
Now it happened that Brenda passed through a more severe illness that
summer than Arthur. Her physician, in anxious consultation with the
family, concluded that she had stayed too long in town. "I think, too,"
he said, "that she has had something to worry her. It would seem," he
added apologetically, "that one situated as she is would have no cares;
but it is hard sometimes to account for the workings of a young girl's
mind. She may have magnified some little anxiety until it played serious
injury to her nerves."
"It is this war," responded Mrs. Barlow. "I wonder that more of us do
not have nervous prostration."
During those long weeks Brenda herself had little to say, even when she
was well enough to sit up. When she spent long hours under the awning on
the little balcony on which her windows opened, she seemed to take but a
languid interest in the world around her.
In those first two or three days when Brenda's condition was at its
worst, when there was even a question whether or not she would get well,
no one thought much about Maggie, the newcomer at Rockley, whose grief
was greater than she could express. She kept her place in a corner of
the piazza, hoping and hoping that some one would ask her to do
something for the sick girl. Gladly would she have exchanged places with
the trained nurse who went back and forth to the sick-room, had she not
known that the nurse could do the things that she in her ignorance was
unequal to. At last there came a day when Brenda herself asked for her,
and after that Maggie was always in the sick-room, except on those
occasions when she was carrying into effect some request of Brenda's.
How thankful she felt for the lessons in invalid cookery, that now
enabled her to prepare a tempting luncheon that Brenda would eat after
she had petulantly refused the equally good luncheon prepared by the
nurse. Then there were hours when no one but Maggie could amuse Brenda,
when, after listening to a chapter or two from the book that she had
asked Maggie to read, the sick girl would draw the other into
conversation. Any one who listened would have found that the subject
about which they talked was war and battles--especially the eventful day
of the Santiago fight, concerning which Brenda would allow no one
else to speak to her.
[Illustration: She seemed to take but a languid interest in the world
around her]
Now it happened that one afternoon after Maggie had been reading to her,
Brenda remembered the photograph that she had seen in Maggie's room, and
again, as on that former day, she asked her about it. So Maggie was
drawn to tell all about Tim, even the sad story of his imprisonment.
"But now," she concluded, "everything is going to be all right. His
captain is going to have him recommended for promotion for saving
life--great bravery," and she pronounced the words with extreme pride.
"He saved an officer at the risk of his own life, and when the war's
over he's coming to see me."
In fact, Maggie had good reason to be proud of Tim. She had read his
name in the newspapers, and though his own letters were modest, she was
sure that he had been a real hero.
But the strangest thing of all was a letter from Philip Blair, that Mrs.
Barlow read one day aloud in Maggie's presence.
"After all," he wrote, "sick as Arthur is, we may be thankful that it is
fever and a very slight wound that keep him on his back. From all I hear
he had the narrowest escape, and but for a private soldier, Tim
McSorley, he would probably have lost both legs." Then followed a
description of the way in which Tim had rescued him almost from under
the bursting shell; for, the newspaper report to the contrary, Arthur
had not been badly hurt by the shell, only stunned, with a slight wound
also from a grazing bullet. But the hardships of the campaign had so
told on him that he was soon on the sick list, and when he reached Fort
Monroe on the hospital ship he was in a raging fever.
Now to Philip in this eventful July had come an opportunity for
usefulness, really greater than if he had gone to Cuba in the army. As
his father could now spare him, he had given invaluable service to the
sick. He had made one trip to Cuba and had had the grave of Tom Hearst
marked properly, and he had travelled the length of the country from
Florida to Boston to report to the Volunteer Aid Association the
especial needs of the sick soldiers in the camps that he had visited. He
was a real ministering angel--for angels are often masculine--to Arthur
and other sick friends of his in the hospital at Fort Monroe; and those
who knew how much he accomplished in this direction wondered how he
found time for the long and cheerful letters that he wrote to the
friends of the sick to keep up their spirits.
Lois, too, though belated, had a chance to serve as a nurse in one of
the camps, and, while doing her duty there, had the satisfaction of
knowing that she was not neglecting home duties; for both her family and
Miss Ambrose were at last in such a condition that she felt justified in
leaving them. Though few persons would have envied her her hard hospital
work, Lois considered herself the most enviable of mortals, and all that
she went through only confirmed her in her strong desire to be a
doctor.
XXI
AN OCTOBER WEDDING
One fine October morning, almost three months to a day from the victory
at Santiago, Julia and Nora, Edith and Ruth, stood on one of the broad
piazzas at Rockley talking as rapidly as four intimate friends can talk.
Ruth and Julia were hand and hand, for this was their first day together
since Ruth's return from her year's wedding journey, and each was
delighted to find the other unchanged. "A little older," Julia had said
when Ruth pressed her for her opinion; and then, that her friend might
not take her too seriously, "but I'd never know it."
"A little more sedate," Ruth had responded; "but you do not show it."
Then the four fell to talking over the events of this very remarkable
year.
"Nothing can surprise me," Ruth said, "since I have heard of the
engagement of Pamela to Philip Blair. I did not suppose that he had so
much sense. Excuse me," she added hastily, noting Edith's surprised
look; "I merely meant that Pamela's good qualities are the kind that the
average man would be apt to overlook."
"Philip is not an average man," responded Edith proudly; "we all think
that he is most unusual."
"Yes, indeed," interposed Nora; "my father says that he never saw any
one develop so wonderfully, and when he was first in college every one
thought that he was to be a mere society man, like Jimmy Jeremy.
Wouldn't you hate it, Edith, if he had decided to devote his life to
leading cotillions?"
"Oh, he never would have done that," said the literal Edith; "he would
have found something else to do daytimes."
Then Nora, to emphasize Philip's development, told several anecdotes of
his helpfulness and devotion to the sick soldiers.
But neither Edith nor Nora then told what Ruth learned later, that Mrs.
Blair was far from pleased with the turn of events, as the quiet and
almost unknown Pamela was not the type of girl she would have selected
to be Philip's wife. Her objection, however, had been made before
Philip's engagement was formally announced. When once it was settled,
she accepted it with the best possible grace, and even Pamela herself
scarcely realized the obstacles that Philip had had to overcome in
gaining his mother's consent.
Edith had found it even harder to conceal her disappointment from
Philip. Only to Nora did she say, frankly, "I hoped that it would be
Julia. They were always such friends, and I am sure that no one ever had
so much influence over him."
"We can give Julia the credit of having made Philip look at life in a
broader way, and I am sure that they are still the greatest friends.
But I happen to know, Edith, that she never felt the least little bit of
sentiment for him, and never would."
More than this Nora could not be persuaded to say, and Edith, though
with a slight accent of resignation, added:
"Oh, well, I'm very fond of Pamela already, and if I can't have Julia
for a sister-in-law, I'm sure that she and I will get along beautifully.
Only it will seem very strange to have such a learned person in the
family."
But to return to the group on the piazza this bright autumn morning.
Seldom have tongues flown faster than theirs. There were so many things
to talk about, more absorbing even than Philip's engagement,--Arthur's
wonderful escape, for example, of which Ruth had heard only the vaguest
account. Now, as she wished to hear details, Nora naturally was ready to
give them to her.
"A shot had passed through his ankle, and he couldn't drag himself away,
so that there seems not the slightest doubt that he would have been
struck again, and perhaps killed, for he was just in the line of the
enemy's fire."
Nora spoke as if quite familiar with army tactics and military language,
and since there was no one present to criticise her or to say whether
her description was technically correct, she continued:
"Yes, we are quite sure that he would have been killed if it hadn't been
for Tim McSorley, who dragged him away--"
"Ah," interposed Edith, "and isn't it strange this soldier proved to be
a cousin or uncle of Maggie McSorley, a girl, you know, who is at the
Mansion; and it's all the stranger because it was Brenda who discovered
her, and this has made the greatest difference for Maggie. Brenda had
got into the habit of snubbing her, but now she can't do enough for
her."
"It's all very interesting," said Ruth, smiling slightly; "but Maggie
herself hadn't anything to do with rescuing Arthur, had she?"
"Oh, no, indeed; but still it has made a difference, for Brenda
naturally feels grateful to every one belonging to Tim McSorley. She is
so impulsive. Then I think, too, that she saw that she had always been
unfair to Maggie, and so now she can't do enough for her, just to make
amends."
"Yes, and besides, although Maggie had nothing to do with rescuing
Arthur, it was her uncle's letter to her that gave the first account of
what had really happened to Arthur. I was in the room when she came
running to Brenda with the letter; it was when Brenda was nearly beside
herself, waiting for some real news, and I honestly think that that
letter saved her from brain fever," added Julia.
"'All's well that ends well,'" rejoined Ruth, "is too trite a proverb to
quote to-day, yet, however it happened, we should be thankful that
Brenda escaped brain fever. No day could be more ideally suited for a
wedding than this, but if Brenda's illness had been more severe than it
was, who knows when the wedding could have taken place. The day might
have been postponed to December or some equally disagreeable month, and
no tenting on the lawn then."
"I agree with you," said Julia; "and now I must run away, for there are
still several things to do for Brenda, and in less than an hour the
train will be here bringing Arthur and the rest of the wedding party.
Let me advise you," she concluded, "to be arrayed in your wedding
garments by that time, for on an informal occasion like this you will
all be needed to help entertain. Many of the guests have never been here
before."
When at last the wedding guests arrived, the truth of this statement was
evident, for among them were very few of the old friends of the Barlow
family.
"We have had one family wedding," Brenda had protested, when her friends
expressed surprise at her plans; "and now, if I wish to have mine small
and quiet, I think that I ought to be suited, and Arthur, too, for he
wishes everything to be just as I wish it."
There was no gainsaying this reasoning, nor would Mr. and Mrs. Barlow
have asked Brenda to change her plans. What remonstrances there were
came from some of the relatives, and from many of Brenda's young friends
not invited to the house, who felt that in some way they were to lose
something worth seeing. As Brenda had decreed that it should be a house
wedding, they were not even to have the privileges of lookers-on, as
might have been the case at a church wedding.