TWO GIRLS AND A DOLL.
When Dolores rapped softly at the door an hour later, she was bidden to
enter by a low but calm voice; and she found Helena busy in unpacking
her trunks, and arranging her wardrobe in closets, drawers and boxes.
"You look tired, Miss Maxon," she said kindly--"or rather, Miss Lena,
for we must not be formal if we are to be room-mates, must we? so let us
begin with Lena and Dolores from the first."
"Dolores," repeated Helena, softly; "Dolores--it is a lovely name, but I
never heard it before."
"No, it is not a common name. It means sorrowful, I believe; my mother
named me well. And now, may I not assist you in your unpacking? Let me
hang up your dresses--the hooks are so high, and I am taller than you."
"Oh, thank you, you are very kind, and I _am_ tired. It always makes me
tired and ill to cry, and I look so like a fright, too. I wish I might
be improved by tears, like the heroines in novels we read about; but I
am not so fortunate as they."
"Have you read many novels?" asked Dolores, as she hung up a neat blue
walking suit, secretly wondering if that color could be becoming to her
dusky companion.
"Oh, no, not many. Mamma thinks I am too young to read the best novels
understandingly, and she does not like to have me read anything for just
the story of it. I have read all of Mrs. Whitney's books; they are the
sweetest stories in the world for girls to read, mamma says, and I think
so, too. They always make me feel braver and better, and more contented.
I have read two or three books that made me discontented; the heroines
were so wonderfully gifted and so gloriously beautiful that I fairly
hated my poor self for days after reading about them."
Dolores smiled.
"That is very odd," she said, "I do not remember to ever have been
affected in that way by a book."
Helena cast an admiring glance upon her companion.
"Well, I should not suppose you would be?" she responded, "because you
are more beautiful than any heroine I ever read about, and that makes
all the difference in the world, you know."
Dolores let a whole arm full of mantles and dresses fall in a heap upon
the floor, as she turned and stared at the speaker.
"Are you making sport of me?" she asked, bluntly.
"I, making sport of you? Why, I would not be so rude," cried Helena, the
tears starting to her eyes again. "Perhaps I ought not to have spoken so
plainly--may be you think 'praise to the face is an open disgrace;' but
I do not believe that. If I like any thing or any body, I can not help
saying so; and I thought you must know how very beautiful you are, and I
spoke of it just as I would speak of the beauty of a flower or a
picture. I am sorry if I have annoyed you."
Dolores picked up the scattered garments and began to arrange them in
order.
"Well, you are the oddest girl I ever met," she said. "But you have not
annoyed me; I am sure it is very sweet of you to say such pretty things
to me; only I never knew any girl who talked like that before: girls are
usually so hateful, you know."
"Are they?" and there was real grief in Helena's voice. "Oh, I don't
like to believe that is true."
"But have not you found them so?"
"No; but you see I have known very few girls. I have lived very quietly
at home, and I never even staid all night with a girl in my life--mamma
never liked to have me. No doubt I have a great deal to learn, but I
always longed for a sister, and I thought girls were very nice indeed."
"I suppose some of them are," Dolores admitted, "but I never cared much
for their society myself; as a rule they only think and talk about
beaus, and marriage, and silly gossip which does not interest me. But
I'm sure you are quite different, and we shall get along nicely
together. For pity's sake, what is that!"
This last exclamatory query was uttered just as Helena unfolded numerous
wrappings from a large inanimate object, which very much resembled a
sleeping infant several months old. Helena's olive cheek glowed with a
sudden flush like the rosy side of a ripe peach. She bent low over the
object, which was now quite free from its protecting wraps, as she
answered, "I suppose you will think me terribly silly; mamma said she
was afraid the girls would make sport of me, if I brought it with me,
but when I came away I found I just _could not_ leave my dear dolly at
home. Papa gave it to me three years ago Christmas, and I think it is
the loveliest creature I ever saw in the shape of a doll. I have been so
fond of her, and I have always had her in my room at night; and it broke
my heart to think of leaving her behind me. So at last mamma said I
might bring her. I shall keep her in the bottom drawer of the dresser,
and no one but you need know she is here. I don't want the whole school
laughing at me; but I know I shall be a great deal happier because she
is with me. Did you feel badly when you had to give up your dolls?"
"I never played with a doll in all my life," Dolores answered, "I always
knew they were only dolls."
"Yes, of course real babies are nicer, but they cry so--and one has to
be so careful--"
"Real babies!" echoed Dolores, in undisguised contempt, "I am sure I
never want to play with those miserable little beings. I never know what
to do with them."
"Don't you love babies? the sweet innocent little creatures," cried
Helena, clasping her arms over an imaginary infant, and cuddling it to
her breast with true mother-tenderness. "Oh, I think they are the
loveliest, dearest little things in the world. How can you dislike
them?"
"I don't really dislike them," Dolores replied; "I only pity them.
Nobody ever asks them whether or not they wish to come into this world
of trouble--nobody ever wants them, and every body tires of their
plaintive protest against life. Yes, indeed, I pity the poor things."
"Oh, but I am sure some babies are wanted," Helena interposed. "A little
brother came to me three years ago, and we were all so glad and happy,
as if an angel had been sent to us. And it was an angel," she added, in
a lower tone, "for it was called back to heaven in a few months, and we
were left so very, very lonely. But we were glad it came even for that
brief time. It made us all better, I know. Have you any brothers or
sisters, Dolores?"
"No," Dolores answered, "my mother died when I was six months old."
"Oh," said Helena, very softly, "then you are an orphan? I think that is
the saddest thing in the world--to have no father and mother on earth."
"My father is living--but he has another wife, and I never see him,"
Dolores explained, "and I feel that I am an orphan. I live with my
mother's brother--my Uncle Laurence, when I am at home. But I think we
ought to retire early to-night, Miss Lena--you look very tired; this
has been a hard day for you."
As they disrobed together, Helena's admiration for her companion's
beauty broke forth again.
"You have the loveliest hair I ever saw," she said. "How I would love to
see a picture of you with it flowing about your shoulders like that."
As malice creates malice, so generosity awakens generosity. Dolores, who
was usually quite too indifferent to individuals to particularly notice,
much less mention their pleasing traits, now smilingly replied to
Helena's eulogy:
"And I would like a picture of your beautiful neck and shoulders; you
have the form of a young goddess, my dear."
"Have I?" cried Helena with childish delight, "why, I am sure no one
ever said so before--only Papa told me there was a classic slope to my
shoulders--I always remembered that compliment--as I shall yours. I just
worship beauty, and I am so grateful to heaven for the least little
spark of prettiness it has given me, and I try to make the most of
myself in every way. I think the Creator meant all women to be lovely;
Eve was beautiful, I am sure; and it is only by disobeying the laws of
health, and not thinking the right thoughts that her descendants have
grown deformed and unattractive. That is what Mamma thinks, and I
believe it is true too."
"Are you quite ready to retire," asked Dolores, as she saw Helena let
down her brown hair over her snowy night-dress. "If so, I will put out
the light."
"Oh dear, no," laughed Helena, "you have no idea how long a time I
require at my toilet night and morning. You know I told you I tried to
make the most of myself every way. Now nature did not give me much
beauty to begin with, but Mamma says I can greatly improve on what was
given me. My hair is not very fine or soft, so I give it a hundred
strokes of the brush every night, and fifty every morning. Then I take
ever so much pains with my teeth and nails--for they are very obvious
features, you know, and my nails are inclined to be ugly--not naturally
long and shapely like yours. And I am so fond of bathing, that Mamma
says she ought to keep me in an aquarium with the gold fish."
"But you will find it very difficult to get time for so many elaborate
ceremonies here at school," said Dolores.
"Well, then I shall fall behind in my classes, I fear," answered Helena
as she stroked her hair till it glistened like the coat of a
finely-groomed horse. "I look on my body as the temple of my soul, and I
feel as if I was showing respect to God by taking every delicate and
beautiful care of it that is possible. I do not care for fine clothes so
much as some girls do, but I love to beautify and purify myself--the
body that God made--and dedicate it anew to his service each day and
night. What other girls spend in sweetmeats and candies, I use to buy
delicate perfumes, and soaps, and dainty brushes and appliances for my
toilet and bath. In fact, I suppose I am a born old maid. There now--you
can put out the light, and hereafter I will take that task upon myself
and not keep you waiting."
And then she dropped on her knees by the snowy couch in the moonlight,
and offered up her simple silent prayer of petition and gratitude.
"A nice sweet girl," thought Dolores as she lay and watched the kneeling
figure. "I think I shall quite enjoy her society."
And she did not dream that in the mercifully veiled future circumstances
should transpire, which would cause her to feel for that same girlish
figure kneeling at her bed-side, all the bitter hatred, all the
passionate fury, all the jealous vengeance of which the human heart is
capable when in the grasp of an immortal sorrow and a great despair.