THE LITTLE HINGE
The day before the dance was to be given Toinette wrote her second letter,
arguing that when everybody else had so much to occupy their thoughts they
would have little time to notice other people's doings, and the letter
could be mailed without exciting comment. Waiting until the very last
moment, she ran down to the mail-basket to slip the letter in it
unobserved. As ill-luck would have it, Miss Preston also had a letter to
be slipped in at the last moment, and she and Toinette came face to face.
It was too late to retreat, for the letter was in her hand in plain view,
so, forced into an awkward position, she made a bad matter worse. Dropping
the letter quickly into the basket, she said:
"Just a note for papa about something I want for the dance to-morrow, Miss
Preston; I didn't think you'd care, and I hadn't time to do it earlier,"
and, with flaming cheeks, she turned to go away.
"Wait just one moment, dear," said Miss Preston, "I've something to say to
you. Walk down to my room with me, please," and she slipped her arm about
the girl's waist.
No more was needed, and all the suspicion and rebellion in Toinette's
nature rose up to do battle with--windmills. It was a hard young face that
looked defiantly at Miss Preston.
"Toinette, dear, I want to have a little talk with you," she said, as she
locked the door of her sitting-room, and, seating herself upon the divan,
drew Toinette down beside her.
Toinette never changed her expression, but looked straight before her with
a most uncompromising stare.
"You said just now that you did not think I would care if you sent a note
to your father; why should I, sweetheart?"
It must have been a stubborn heart, indeed, which could resist Miss
Preston's sweet tone.
"Oh, I don't know, but teachers always seem to mind every little thing one
does," replied Toinette, sulkily.
"It seems to me that this would be entirely too 'little a thing' for a
teacher or anyone else to mind. Don't you think so yourself?"
"Well, of course, I didn't think you would mind simply because I wrote to
papa, but because I posted the letter without first letting you read it,"
answered Toinette.
Now, indeed, was Miss Preston learning something new, and not even a child
could have questioned that her surprise was genuine when she exclaimed:
"Read your letters, my dear little girl! What are you saying?" and a
slight flush overspread her refined face.
It was now Toinette's turn to be surprised as she asked:
"Isn't that the rule here, Miss Preston?"
"Is it anywhere? I can hardly believe it. One's correspondence is a very
sacred thing, Toinette, and I would as soon be guilty of listening at
another person's door as of reading a letter intended for another's eyes.
Oh, my little girl, what mischief has been at work here?"
While Miss Preston was speaking Toinette had risen to her feet, her eyes
shining like stars, and her color coming and going rapidly. Now, taking
both Miss Preston's hands in her own, she said, in a voice which quivered
with excitement:
"Is that _truly_ true, Miss Preston? Aren't the girls' letters ever read?
Haven't mine been? _Do_ you trust me like that?"
Miss Preston looked the girl fairly in the eyes as she answered:
"I trust you as I trust the others, because I feel you to be a
gentlewoman, and, as such, you would be as reluctant to do anything liable
to cast discredit upon yourself as I would be to have you. I do not wish
my girls to fear but to love me, with all their hearts, and to trust me as
I trust them. I do not expect you to be perfect; we all make mistakes; I
make many, but we can help each other, dear, and remember this: 'Love
casteth out fear.' Try to love me, my little girl, and to feel that I am
your friend; I want so much to be."
Miss Preston's voice was very sweet and appealing, and as she spoke
Toinette's eyes grew limpid. Miss Preston still held her hands, and, as
she finished speaking, the girl dropped upon her knees and clasped her
arms about her waist, buried her face in her lap and burst into a storm of
sobs. All the pent-up feeling, the longing, the struggle, the yearning for
tenderness of the past lonely years was finding an outlet in the bitter,
bitter sobs which shook her slight frame.
Although Miss Preston knew comparatively little of the girl's former life,
she had learned enough from Mr. Reeve, and observed enough in the girl
herself, to understand that this outburst was not wholly the result of
what had just passed between them. So, gently stroking the pretty golden
hair, she wisely waited for the grief to spend itself before she resumed
her talk, and, when the poor little trembling figure was more composed,
said:
"My poor little Toinette, let us begin a brand new leaf to-day--'thee and
me,' as the Quakers so prettily put it. Let us try to believe that even
though I have spent thirty more years on this big world than you have,
that we can still be good friends, and sympathize with each other either
in sunshine or shadow. To do this two things are indispensible: confidence
and love. And we can never have the latter without first winning the
former. Remember this, dear, I shall never doubt you. Whatever happens,
you may rest firm in the conviction that I shall always accept your word
when it is given. Our self-respect suffers when we are doubted, and one's
self-respect is a very precious thing, and not to be lightly tampered
with."
[Illustration: "LET US BEGIN A BRAND NEW LEAF TO-DAY."]
She now drew Toinette back to the couch beside her, put her arm about her
waist, and let the tired head rest upon her shoulder. The girl had ceased
to sob, but looked worn and weary. Miss Preston snuggled her close and
waited for her to speak, feeling sure that more was in her heart, and
that, in a nature such as she felt Toinette's to be, it would be
impossible for her to rest content until all doubts, all self-reproach
could be put behind her.
She sat perfectly still for a long time, her hands clasped in her lap, and
her big, brown eyes, into which had crept a wonderfully soft expression,
looking far away beyond the walls of Miss Preston's sitting-room, far
beyond the bedroom next it, and off to some lonely, unsatisfied years,
when she had lived in a sort of truce with all about her, never knowing
just when hostilities might be renewed. It had acted upon the girl's
sensitive nature much as a chestnut-prickle acts upon the average mortal;
a nasty, little, irritating thing, hard to discover, a scrap of a thing
when found--if, indeed, it does not succeed in eluding one altogether--and
so insignificant that one wonders how it could cause such discomfort. But
it is those miserable little chestnut-prickles that are hardest to bear in
this life, and so warp one's character that it is often unfitted to bear
the heavier burdens which must come into all lives sooner or later.