wedding of one of its members? Was there ever a wedding in preparing
for which various persons did not think themselves more or less
slighted? How, then, could Brenda expect to please all in her large
connection? Now, in spite of her impulsiveness, Brenda had been
considered rather conventional, and on this account many felt aggrieved
that she had insisted on having the affair small and informal.
Yet after all it wasn't a very small wedding, and the drawing-rooms at
Rockley were well filled, though with a far less fashionable assemblage
than that which had surrounded and greeted Agnes and Ralph Weston six
years before. There were naturally a certain number of relatives
present, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Blair, Dr. and Mrs. Gostar, and a few
other old friends of both Brenda's and Arthur's families.
Besides the "Four," and Julia and Amy and Ruth, there were Frances
Pounder and two or three of Brenda's former schoolmates. Miss Crawdon,
too, had been invited, and one or two teachers from her school.
Frances Pounder, as her friends still called her, was now Mrs. Egbert
Romeyn, and her husband was to perform the marriage ceremony. Mr.
Romeyn's church was in a mission centre on the outskirts of the city,
and Frances gladly shared his parish labors. To the great surprise of
all who knew her, she had really buried the pride and haughty spirit of
her school days.
Anstiss and Miss South and the rest of the staff of the Mansion were
present; and besides Philip Blair, and Will Hardon and Nora's brothers,
and Fritz Tomkins and Ben Creighton, there were several other young
men, Arthur's special friends chiefly, with a few of those who had known
Brenda from childhood.
Then in addition to these were a number of "unnecessary people," as
Belle called them in a stage whisper to Nora,--all the girls from the
Mansion, for example, every one of whom had accepted the invitation, and
the whole Rosa family, from Mrs. Rosa to the youngest child. Since the
defeat of the Spanish, and especially since the destruction of Cervera's
fleet, Angelina had had little to say about her Spanish blood. Indeed,
she had been overheard giving an elaborate explanation to one of the
Mansion girls of the difference between Spanish and Portuguese, with the
advantage on the side of the Portuguese, from whom, she said, she was
proud to be descended, "although," she had added, "I was born in the
United States, and so I shall always be an American citizen."
Although Angelina was the especial protegee of Julia, rather than of
Brenda, she took the greatest interest in the wedding. Had she been one
of the bridesmaids she could hardly have taken more trouble in having
her gown of the latest mode, at least as she had understood it from
reading a certain fashion journal, with whose aid she and a rather
bewildered Shiloh seamstress had made up the inexpensive pink muslin.
Mrs. Rosa, dazed by the invitation to the wedding, inclined not to
accept it; but Julia, anxious to please Brenda, did all that she could
to make it possible for the whole Rosa family to come from Shiloh to
Rockley. The Rosas did not seem exactly essential to the success of the
wedding, yet as Brenda had set her heart on their presence, there was no
reason why she should not be humored.
To any one who did not know the circumstances, the presence of Mrs.
McSorley and Tim may have appeared less explainable even than the
presence of the Rosas.
Yet Tim, Maggie's Tim, was only second in interest in the eyes of many
present to Arthur himself; for he it was who had saved Arthur's life on
that memorable day of battle, and for this and another act of heroism he
had received especial praise from his commanding officers.
It isn't every family that can have a hero in it, and Mrs. McSorley,
after Maggie had shown her Tim's name in print, and some of his letters,
had wisely concluded, as she said, to "let bygones be bygones;" and as
the nearest relative after Maggie of the brave soldier, Arthur had sent
her a special invitation. So it was that sharp-featured little Mrs.
McSorley, almost to her own surprise, found herself at Rockley, though
feeling somewhat out of place in the midst of what she considered great
grandeur. She stood in the background, near one of the long glass doors
opening on the piazza, ready to make her escape should any curious eyes
be turned toward her. The Rosas, Angelina excepted, were near Mrs.
McSorley, and Mrs. Rosa was in much the same state of mind as the
latter.
[Illustration: Brenda had never looked so well]
Yet after all, who has eyes for any one else when once the bride and
bridegroom have taken their places. Punctually at the appointed hour the
bridal party entered the room, and the murmur of voices was hushed. But
when the impressive service was over, and young and old hastened
forward with their congratulations, again the voices were heard--a
subdued chorus of admiration. For although, as Brenda had decreed, this
was a most informal wedding, though the service was simple, and there
were no attendants but little Lettice and her cousin Harriet, yet no
wedding of the year had been more beautiful. Brenda herself had never
looked so well, and her simple muslin gown was infinitely more becoming
than one more elaborate could have been. She carried a great bouquet of
lilies-of-the-valley, and the little bridesmaids carried smaller bunches
of the same flower. They wore little pins of white and green enamel, and
pearls in the form of sprays of lily-of-the-valley, Arthur's gift to
them, and they held their little heads very proudly, since this to them
was the most important moment of their lives. Arthur, as a hero of the
late war, was almost as interesting to the onlookers as the bride, and
that is saying a great deal. Though a little against his own will, he
wore his uniform, at Brenda's request, and thus gave just the right note
of color, as the artistic Agnes phrased it. Over the spot where the two
stood was a wedding-bell of white blossoms,--the one conventional thing
that Brenda had permitted,--and in every possible place were masses of
white chrysanthemums and roses and other white flowers.
The continued warm weather had enabled Brenda to carry out her
long-cherished plan of having the wedding-breakfast in a tent on the
lawn, and she and Arthur led the way outside as soon as they could. The
others followed, and quickly all the guests were grouped in smaller
marquees arranged for them around the large tent in which the tables
were set. The caterer and his assistants were aided by a rather unusual
corps of helpers,--the girls from the Mansion, who had begged Brenda's
permission to serve her in this way. Every one of them was there, and
Maggie, who had been at Rockley all summer, directed them, pleased
enough that her knowledge of the house and grounds enabled her to be of
real use on this eventful day.
"No," responded Brenda smilingly, as some one asked her what prizes
there might be concealed within the slices of wedding-cake,--"no, this
time I believe there is neither a thimble nor a ring, nor any other
delusion. You see, at Agnes' wedding I received in my slice of
bride-cake the thimble that should have consigned me to eternal
spinsterhood, and Philip had the bachelor's button. Now you can picture
my mental struggle when I found that I couldn't live up to what was so
evidently predestined for me, and Philip doubtless has had the same
trouble, and you can see why it is wiser that none of the guests to-day
should be exposed to similar perplexity."
"But you forget Miss South," said Nora, who was one of the group; "don't
you remember that she found the ring in Agnes' cake?"
"Oh, yes, but that only proves my rule."
"Why, Brenda Barlow, how blind you are! Haven't you heard?"
"I'm not Brenda Barlow, thank you, and I haven't heard, but I can see,"
and she looked in the direction in which Nora had turned. There,
surrounded by the rest of the "Four," with Mr. and Mrs. Barlow and Mr.
and Mrs. Blair near by, stood Mr. Edward Elston, the picture of
happiness. Miss Lydia South, leaning on his arm, looked equally happy,
and her attitude was that of one receiving congratulations.
"They did not mean to have it come out until next week," explained Nora,
"but in some unexplained way it became known, and now I suppose we may
all congratulate them."
In a moment Arthur and Brenda had offered Miss South their cordial good
wishes. "I am more than glad to call you cousin," said Brenda, "and I do
not know which to congratulate the more, you or Cousin Edward. But what
will Julia and the Mansion do without you next year?"
"Oh, I shall be at the Mansion until after Easter," replied Miss South,
"and for the remainder of the year I think that Nora and Anstiss are
willing to do double work. Beyond that we cannot look at present."
"Arthur," said Brenda, as they moved away, "you are not half as cheerful
to-day as you were at Agnes' wedding. You and Ralph seem to have changed
places. It is he who is making every one laugh. It does not seem natural
for you to be so serious."
Brenda seemed satisfied with Arthur's reply.
"For one thing," said Arthur, "I am thinking of poor Tom Hearst. I
cannot help remembering that he was the life of everything then; it
seems so hard that he should have been taken."
"Yes, yes," responded Brenda gently. "I, too, have been thinking about
him. I was looking, last evening, at the photograph we had taken at the
Artists' Festival--the group in costume with Tom in it. He was so happy
then at the thought of going to Cuba; and now--just think, Arthur, it
was only six months ago." Brenda's voice broke, she could hardly finish
the sentence.
"There, there," interposed Arthur gently, "let us remember only that he
died bravely;" and then in an unwonted poetical vein he recited a few
lines beginning--
"How sleep the brave who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes bless'd!"
and Brenda, listening, was partly cheered, though even as her face
brightened she averred that she did not wish ever to wholly forget Tom
Hearst.
To Brenda, indeed, any allusion to the war was painful. She could not
soon forget those first days of anxiety, and the anxious weeks of her
convalescence, when it was not a question of whether she _would_ write
to Arthur or not, but of whether she _could_. But now, with the future
spreading so brightly before them, it was hardly the time to dwell on
the mistakes of the past.
XXII
THE WINNER
One morning not so very long after the wedding the old Du Launy Mansion
was "bustling with excitement." This, at least, was the way in which
Concetta phrased it, and if her expression was not exactly perfect in
the matter of its English, every one who heard her understood what she
meant, and agreed with her. Girls with eager faces hurried up and down
stairs, laughing gayly as they met, even when occasionally the meeting
happened to take the form of a collision.
Lois, entering the vestibule, looked at the doorkeeper in surprise. She
resembled Angelina, and yet it was not she.
"I'm her sister," the little girl explained; "I'm Angelina's sister.
She's going to study all the time this winter."
"Oh, yes," responded Lois absent-mindedly; "so you are to take her
place."
Lois had not known the whole Rosa family, and if she had ever heard of
Angelina's sisters, had forgotten their existence. Her first start of
surprise, therefore, had not been strange. But now as she went upstairs
she did recall the fact that Miss South and Julia had decided that
Angelina's rather indefinite duties as doorkeeper and assistant were not
likely to fit her for the most useful career. Taking advantage
accordingly of her professed interest in nursing, they had advised her
to begin a certain course of training, by which she might fit herself to
be a skilled attendant. "At the end of this course you may be inclined
to return to the Mansion and help us with the younger girls whom we
shall then have with us." The suggestion that she might some time teach
the younger girls pleased Angelina, and almost to their surprise she
accepted the offer. Her letters from the school to which she had gone,
though she had been there so short a time, were highly entertaining.
Those who were most interested in her were glad that Angelina had made
the change. She had not yet sufficient age and discretion to assume the
role of mentor and patroness that she liked to assume before the younger
girls now at the Mansion.
"It is no reflection upon our school," Julia had said cheerfully, "that
we send Angelina to another; but we shall have younger girls in our next
year's class, and Angelina herself will then be older, and possibly
wiser, so that if she then tries to guide our pupils, it will not be a
case of the blind leading the blind."
But this is a little aside from the entrance of Lois into the Mansion
this bright October day. After she had passed the young doorkeeper her
second surprise came in the shape of Maggie, who greeted her
enthusiastically as she stood at the door of the study. Enthusiasm was a
new quality for Maggie to manifest, and Lois would indeed have been
unobserving not to notice that the Maggie who now spoke to her was
altogether different from the Maggie McSorley whom she had known six
months earlier. The other Maggie had been thin and pale, and her eyes
were apt to have a red and watery look. But this Maggie was rosy-cheeked
and bright-eyed, and her expression was one of real happiness. Lois had
no chance to compliment Maggie on the change, for, before she could
speak, from behind two hands clasped themselves across her eyes, while a
deep voice cried, "Guess, guess,--"
"Clarissa!" exclaimed Lois, and then with her sight restored she turned
quickly about to meet the smiling gaze of her old classmate.
"I knew you were coming soon to visit Julia, but I had no idea that it
would be so soon."
"I hope that you are not disappointed," rejoined Clarissa. "I hurried on
account of this wonderful prize-day. But how _did_ you manage to play
hide-and-seek with me in Cuba. By rights we should have met at the
bedside of some soldier, or at least on the hospital ship. Tell me, now,
wasn't it great, to feel that one was actually saving life?" and then
and there the two friends sat down on the lowest stair and began to talk
over all they had gone through during the past few months, regardless of
the wondering glances of the girls who passed on their way up and down.
Lois, however, spoke less cheerfully of her experiences. She had
happened to help attend to a number of extremely pathetic cases, and on
the whole her work had touched her very deeply. A general improvement
in Miss Ambrose's condition had enabled her to accept with a clear
conscience an opportunity that had come to her for a brief term of
service as nurse, and her family had put no further obstacles in her
way. But on the whole, though glad that she had been able to help, she
had found that she shrank from certain details of the work. An observer
would not have imagined this condition of mind in Lois, for her hand was
always steady, her mind always alert for every change in her patient,
and she was unsparing of herself. But she had learned from her
experience that it would be wiser for her to shape her future studies
toward a scientific career, rather than in the direction of the active
practice of medicine. To have attained this self-knowledge was worth a
great deal to her.
On the other hand, nursing had strengthened Clarissa in her zeal for
personal service, and she had decided to add to her Red Cross training a
regular hospital course for nurses.
In the midst of their eager conversation the two friends suddenly were
recalled to the present by seeing Julia at the head of the stairs.
"What a lowly seat you have chosen!" she cried. "But do go into the
study; I'll be there in a moment."
When she joined them Lois apologized for having come so early.
"You wrote me that this was to be the most remarkable prize-day you had
ever had, and I thought that I might make myself useful by arriving this
morning. But if you tell me that I am in the way, I'll bear the reproof
for the sake of the pleasure I've had in meeting Clarissa. I had not
realized that her visit to you had already begun."
"Oh, we didn't tell you purposely. We wished to surprise you," and then
the conversation drifted naturally to their Radcliffe days.
Julia herself brought it to an end by asking her friends to go to the
gymnasium, where they could make themselves useful by talking to her
while she did several necessary things in connection with the award of
the prizes.
"It seems to me that it's always a prize-day here at the Mansion. Didn't
you have several last winter?" asked Lois. "I remember the tableaux, and
the valentines, and there were some prizes for scrap-books, and dolls,
and--"
"Well," said Julia, with a smile, "if competition is the soul of trade,
why shouldn't it be the soul of education? At any rate, we feel that at
the Mansion we can accomplish a great deal by stimulating the girls with
the hope of a future reward. The prize award to-day, however, is nothing
new. Prizes will be awarded on last year's record. You must remember
that we promised two--one to the girl who had improved the most, who had
succeeded in reaching the highest standard, and one to her who tried the
hardest."
"Ah, yes, I remember," responded Lois; "but I thought that they were to
be given last year."
"We were too much occupied at the end of the season with thoughts of the
war. We decided to postpone the prize-day until autumn."
"It's well that you did," said Clarissa, "otherwise you wouldn't have
had the pleasure of hearing me make a speech on the happy occasion," and
she drew herself up to her full height, as if about to begin an eloquent
oration.
When afternoon came a baker's dozen of girls assembled in the gymnasium,
which was tastefully decorated with flags, branches of autumn foliage,
and long-stemmed, tawny chrysanthemums arranged in tall vases.
Besides the pupils there were present all the staff of the Mansion, but
no outsiders, since this, after all, was to be a family affair--no
outsiders, at least, except Clarissa; for Lois, like Nora and Amy, and
one or two other friends of Julia's, were accounted members of the
staff, though their help was less definite than that of Julia and Pamela
and the other residents of the Mansion.
As the girls took their places in a semicircle in front of the little
platform, they talked to one another in an undertone.
"I hear that the prizes are perfectly beautiful. Miss Brenda, I mean
Mrs. Weston, sent one of the prizes, but I don't know what it is."
"Whom did you vote for, Concetta?"
"Oh, that's telling; we were not to tell until all the votes were
counted; but I think--"
"Hush! Miss Julia's going to speak."
Then as all the eager faces turned toward her, Julia began her informal
address.
"I need not remind you that last winter you were told that two prizes
would be awarded at the end of the season. The first to the girl who in
every way had been the most successful--whose record was really the
best. The second to the girl who had succeeded in making the most of
herself. Miss South and I have watched you all carefully. Every day we
made a record of your improvement--in some cases, I am sorry to say, of
your lack of improvement. We have talked the matter over, and have asked
Miss Northcote to help us decide; and after we three had made one
decision, we referred it to every other person who had lived here the
past year, or who had taught you even for a short time."
Julia's natural timidity heightened perhaps the seriousness of her tone,
and the faces before her grew sober.
"Now at one time, as I think I told you, we thought of leaving it to you
girls to vote on both the first and the second prizes; but on second
thought we have seen that the first prize ought to be based on the
records that have been kept. Accordingly," and she opened a box that lay
on the table before her, "it gives me great pleasure to present this
case of scissors to Phoebe, as a prize awarded her for having made the
best record in work and in all other things during the past year."
Now Phoebe had been so quiet a girl, so colorless in many ways, that
no one had thought of her as a possible prize-winner. She accepted the
scissors with a smile and a word of thanks, and passed the red morocco
case around the circle that all might see its contents--six pairs of
scissors, of the finest steel, ranging in size from a very small pair
of embroidery scissors to the largest size for cutting cloth.
There were whispered comments in the interval that followed. One girl
expressing her astonishment that Phoebe had been the winner, another
replying, "Why, she never did wrong, not once; didn't you ever notice?"
Then in a little while Julia spoke again.
"We have decided to let you vote for the girl who deserves the second
prize. Remember it is to be given to the girl who has made the most of
herself, who has shown the greatest improvement. Each must write her
choice independently on one of these slips of paper, and at the end of
ten minutes Miss Herter will collect the slips."
As they wrote, the faces of the girls were worth studying. Evidently the
matter was one that demanded deep thought. They bit their pencils, and
looked at one another, and at last wrote the name in haste and folded
the slip with the air of having accomplished a great thing. There were
some, of course, who wrote their choice instantly, and with no
hesitation, and waited almost impatiently for Clarissa to collect the
slips. But at last the votes were in, and as it did not take long to
count them, the result was soon known.
"Nine votes--a majority--for Nellie, and it is confirmed by the staff,"
announced Clarissa in her clearest tones. At this there was much
clapping of hands, and even a little cheering, for Nellie was a
favorite, and no one begrudged her the set of ebony brushes and mirror
for her table. Even Concetta and Haleema seemed content with the
result, although more than one of the judges surmised that the slips
that bore the names of these two girls were written each by the girl
whose name it bore.
There was justice in this award to Nellie, who a year before had been
the most hoidenish of young Irish girls, in speech more difficult to
understand than any of the others, in dress untidy to an extent
bordering on uncouthness, and in disposition apparently very slow to
learn the ways of an ordinary household. By the end of the season her
speech had become clear and distinct, though with a charming brogue; her
dress had become neat and tasteful, and she could make most of her own
clothes, and Miss Dreen considered her the deftest of her waitresses.
Perhaps, however, the vote would not have been so nearly unanimous had
not Nellie also endeared herself to the girls by a certain sunniness of
disposition. She had not made a single enemy during the whole year. But
in the midst of their congratulations--from which the blushing Nellie
would gladly have escaped--the girls again heard Julia's voice.
"I have here a letter from Mrs. Arthur Weston ["Miss Brenda," two or
three explained to their neighbors], who expresses her regret that she
cannot be with us to-day."
Julia would have been glad to read her cousin's letter to the girls, had
it not been written in so unconventional a style as to make this
impossible. There were passages, however, that it seemed wise to give at
first hand, and with one or two slight changes of wording she was able
to read them. But first she had a word or two of explanation.