WHEN LIFE WAS BEAUTY
No. 15, Seaton Crescent, Toronto, was a students' boarding-house. Mrs.
Dalley, the landlady, declared every day of the university term that
they were the hardest set going for a body to put up with.
Nevertheless, being near the college buildings, she put up with them,
both going and coming, and No. 15 was always full. A short street was
Seaton Crescent proper, running between a broad park which bordered the
college campus, and a big business thoroughfare. At one end
street-cars whizzed up and down with clanging bells, and crowds of busy
shoppers hurried to and fro; at the other end spread the green
stretches of a park, and farther over stood the stately university.
buildings. A street of student boarding-houses it was, and No. 15
stood midway between the clanging and the culture.
But Seaton Crescent presented much more than a double row of
boarding-houses. Passing out of its narrow confines, it curved round
one side of the park bordered by a grand row of elms. Here the houses
were mansions, set back in fine old gardens that had smiled there many
a summer before the boarding-houses were built. The last house in the
row, Crescent Court, was of a newer date. It was a pretentious
apartment house, set up on the corner commanding a view of the campus
and the park. Just far enough removed from the boarding-house region
was Crescent Court to be quite beyond the noise of the street-cars and
the shoppers, and consequently its inmates felt themselves far removed
from the work-a-day world.
In one of its front rooms, a little rose-shaded boudoir, luxuriously
furnished, sat a lady. She had been handsome once, but her face now
bore the marks of age--not the beautiful lines of years gracefully
accepted, but the scars of a long battle against their advance. She
wore a gay flowered dressing-gown much too youthful in style, her
slippered toes were stretched out to the crackling fire, and a cup of
fragrant tea was in her hand. Her cosy surroundings did not seem to
contribute much to her comfort, however, for her face had a look of
settled melancholy, and she glanced up frowningly at a girl standing by
the window.
"I sometimes think you are growing positively frivolous, Beth," she
complained. "I don't understand you, in view of the strict religious
training both your aunt and I have given you. When I was your age, all
church-work appealed strongly to me."
The girl looked far across the stretches of the park, now growing
purple and shadowy in the autumn dusk. Her gray, star-like eyes were
big and wistful. She did not see the winding walks, nor the row of
russet elms with the twinkling lights beneath. She saw instead an
old-fashioned kitchen with a sweet-faced woman sitting by the window,
the golden glow of a winter sunset gilding her white hair. There was
an open Bible on her knee, and the girl felt again the power of the
words she spoke concerning the things that are eternal. She breathed a
deep sigh of regret for the brightness of that day so long ago, and
wondered if her companion's accusation was true.
"I didn't mean to be frivolous," she said, turning towards the lady in
the chair. "I do want to be some use in the world. But all the girls
who are getting up this new charitable society are--well, for instance,
Miss Kendall belongs."
"And why shouldn't she? There's nothing incompatible in her being a
fine bridge-player and doing church-work. You must get rid of those
old-fashioned ideas. Take myself, for instance. You know I never
neglect my social duties, and nothing but the severest headache ever
keeps me from church."
The wistful look in the girl's eyes was being replaced by a twinkle.
"But you know a Sunday headache is always prostrating," she said
daringly.
The lady in the deep chair looked up with an angry flash of her dark
eyes; but the girl had stepped out into the light of the fire,
revealing the mischievous gleam in her dancing eyes. She knew her
power; it was a look the elder woman could rarely resist. For with all
their vast differences in temperament there had grown up a warm
attachment between these two, since that day, now several years past,
when they had run away together from an afternoon tea.
The lady's frown faded; but she spoke gravely.
"Beth, don't be so nonsensical. You know it is your duty to me--to
yourself, to join the Guild. We have not established ourselves
socially yet. Toronto is ruined by pandering to wealth. I've seen the
day when the name of Jarvis was sufficient to open any door, but times
have changed, and we must make the best of it. But you are culpably
careless regarding your best interests. Now, I particularly want you
to cultivate Blanche Kendall; the Kendalls are the foremost people in
St. Stephen's Church, and if you join this society it will make your
position assured. Only the best people are admitted. Mrs. Kendall
assured me of that herself. Now, don't trifle with your chance in
life."
"A chance in life? That's what I've been looking for ever since we
came to Toronto," said the girl, gazing discontentedly into the fire.
"But I don't think it's to be found in St. Stephen's Church. I hate
being of no use in the world."
The elder woman looked amused in her turn, now that she felt she was
gaining her point.
"You talk like a child. Will you never grow up, I wonder?"
"Not likely," said the girl in a lighter tone. She stepped across the
room and picked up a fur-lined cloak from a chair. "My body got into
long dresses too soon, my soul is still hopping about with a sun-bonnet
on, and you really mustn't expect me to be proper and fashionable until
I've turned ninety or so. Is there any reason why I shouldn't run over
and have dinner with Jean and the boys to-night?"
"Certainly there is. Didn't I tell you Mr. Huntley is just back from
the West? He's coming to dinner."
"But you won't want a frivolous person like me round. He'll want to
talk business to you all evening."
"That doesn't matter. You ought to be interested in my business.
Besides, he's a charming bachelor, so I want you to behave nicely."
"I couldn't think of it. I feel sure I'd make a better impression if I
stayed away, anyway." She was gathering the dark folds of her cloak
about her light evening dress as she spoke. "He might feel embarrassed
if we met again. The last time he laid his fortune at my feet and I
spurned it with scorn."
"What are you talking about, you absurd child? Did you ever meet Blake
Huntley in Cheemaun?"
The girl came back to the fire, her eyes dancing. "No, it was in
prehistoric times--at Forest Glen. I remember I was dressed mostly in
a sunbonnet and the remains of a pinafore--and I think I was in
Highland costume as to shoes and stockings. Mr. Huntley evidently felt
sorry for me and offered me a silver dollar, which was too much for my
Gordon pride. Even Aunt Margaret approved of my refusing it, though
she felt it might have been done in a more genteel manner."
The lady in the lounging chair laughed, and her astute young companion
saw her chance. "I'm going to run over and see Jean and the boys just
for five minutes," she said in a wheedling tone. "I shall be back in
time for dinner."
"Well, see that you are." The elder woman's voice had lost all its
fretfulness. She looked quite pleased. "You must remind Blake Huntley
of your former acquaintance. What was he doing at The Dale?"
"He had come to see about"--the girl hesitated--"selling old Sandy
McLachlan's farm." Her big gray eyes looked steadily and solemnly into
her companion's.
The lady poured herself another cup of tea. She gave an impatient
shrug. The old subject of Eppie Turner's wrongs had become unbearably
wearisome. "Well, don't air any more of your romantic ideas concerning
her. You'll never find her anyway. And don't stay long at No. 15.
You go there so often I shall soon begin to suspect you have lost your
heart to that bonny Prince Charlie--he's handsome enough."
"Charles Stuart?" The girl laughed aloud at the absurdity. "The poor
Pretender! Don't hint your horrible suspicions to him, please, he'd
never get over it."
"I'm glad you think it ridiculous. In view of the chances you are
likely to have this winter, you'd be a fool to think of him. I hope
you have some ambition, Beth."
The girl had turned away again and was carefully tucking a magazine
into the folds of her cloak. Her long eyelashes drooped--that old
subject of her ambition was still forbidden ground.
"Yes, I have a burning ambition at this very minute to go and see Jean
and John," she said lightly, and whipping her cloak about her slim
figure she waved her hand in a gay farewell and danced away out of the
room.
The lady by the fire sighed. "Was there ever such a monkey?" she said
to herself, and then she smiled. And as the girl ran down the stairs,
she also sighed and said to herself: "I wonder how much longer I can
bear this life. Pshaw, what does it matter anyway?" And then she
laughed.
The short autumn day had closed and lights twinkled along the street
and blazed on the busy thoroughfare--violet electric stars half-hidden
high in the trees and golden gas lamps nearer the earth. The glow of
one shone on the girl as she mounted the steps of No. 15 with a
graceful little run. It showed her tall and willowy, lit up her sweet
face, and the gray, star-like eyes that looked out from beneath heavy
masses of nut-brown hair, and was reflected from them with a gleam as
of bronze.
She opened the door, as one familiar with the place, and hurried up the
steps of the stairs.
"I'm prowling round as usual, Mrs. Dalley," she called to the landlady
who was passing through the lower hall.
The woman's tired face brightened. She liked this Miss Gordon and was
always glad when she dropped in to see her brother and sister. She was
ever willing to listen to complaints concerning maids and medical
students.
"Dear, dear, it must be nice to be you, Miss Gordon," she sighed,
"nothing in the wide world to do. I've been clear distracted this
afternoon with that new maid. I dismissed her at last. She would not
even carry the plates to the table properly, and as for the way she
washed the dishes! Really, Miss Gordon, I tried to do my duty by her.
I scolded and explained till I was hoarse. But I believe the hussy was
just stubborn. I felt sorry to dismiss her, as it was Mr. MacAllister
who asked me to give her a trial. Don't say anything to him about it,
please, Miss Gordon. I hate to tell him I had to send her away."
Miss Gordon laughed. "Has Mr. MacAllister turned into an intelligence
office? Or is he squire of domestic dames?" She retreated up the
stairs as she spoke. It was not safe to get caught in the full tide of
Mrs. Dalley's talk, one might find a whole evening swept away by it.
"Charles Stuart is so queer," she soliloquized. "I wonder what he's up
to now."
She tapped briskly upon a bedroom door at the head of the stairs, then
shoved it open. A young woman with loose raiment, untidy hair, and a
green shade over her eyes looked up from her studies. She raised a
book and aimed it threateningly.
"Lizzie Gordon, don't dare show your idle and frivolous head in this
place. Miss Mills is coming down in five minutes, and we are going to
grind for an hour before tea."
"The mills of the Gordons grind at most inconvenient seasons," said the
visitor giddily. She entered just as though she had been cordially
invited, concealing the magazine beneath her cloak. "I'll stay until
the wheels begin to rumble, anyway. Any letters from home?" She
rummaged through the books and papers that littered the table, keeping
her magazine carefully hidden.
"Just that note from Malc. He was home for Sunday. Jamie's started to
the High School, and Archie's in John Coulson's office. Is that really
another new dress, Lizzie?"
Elizabeth, absorbed in Malcolm's business flourishes, made no reply.
"Mrs. Jarvis spoils you," her sister continued. "You've had your hair
done at the hair-dresser's again, I do believe. Do you know that light
streak in it has almost disappeared, hasn't it?"
Elizabeth folded the letter. The gray star-eyes were very tender.
"I'm so glad Mary's cough is better. My hair?" She patted the heavy
brown braids. "Yes, of course. That means that the wild streak is
gone. I'm perfectly genteel, I assure you, Jean. I left all my
improprieties scattered over the continent of Europe last summer, and
have come home prepared to give up all my penoeuvres."
"I wish you wouldn't use those foolish expressions of Sarah Emily's,
dear, they sound so illiterate."
Elizabeth put down the letter and gave her sister's ear a pull.
"Jean Gordon, you are becoming so horribly particular I'm scared of
you. Every time I come over here I spend the day before getting out an
expurgated edition of everything I intend to say, and even then I fall
into rhetorical pits."
"You're hopeless," sighed Jean. "What were you at to-day, a tea?"
"Yes, some kind of pow-wow of that sort. I'm at one every day." She
moved about the room straightening photographs and arranging cushions.
"Do you know, Jean, I'm so tired of it all I feel like running away
back home sometimes."
"Dear me, you don't know how fortunate you are. You'd soon discover,
if you got home, that life at The Dale would be dreadfully monotonous."
"It couldn't be more monotonous than fashionable life. Those
receptions are all so horribly alike. There is always a woman at one
end of a polished table cutting striped ice-cream, and another at the
other end pouring tea; with a bouquet between them. If I ever so far
forget my genteel upbringing as to give a Pink Tea I'll put the bouquet
at one end and make the ice-cream cutter sit in the middle of the table
with her feet in the tea-pot."
"Don't be absurd. If you dislike it all so thoroughly, why do you do
it?"
"Mrs. Jarvis does it, and I have to go with her. After all, that's the
way I earn my living."
"That's the way I'd earn my death in a month," said her sister, looking
proudly at the pile of books before her. "Are there no girls amongst
those you meet who have a purpose in life?"
"None that I've discovered, except the supreme purpose of getting ahead
of her dearest friend. Society is just like the old teeter we used to
ride at school. When Rosie Carrick was up, I was down, and vice versa."
Jean Gordon looked at her younger sister seriously. Jean took
everything in life seriously, and plainly Lizzie was determined to
continue a problem in spite of her brilliant prospects. She did not
understand that the girl's old desire for love and service had grown
with the years, and her whole nature was yearning for some expression
of it. It was this desire to get back to the old simplicity of life
that drove her so often to her brother and sister in their cramped
boarding-house.
"Why don't you read some improving books," said Jean primly. "I wish I
had your chance. If Mrs. Jarvis had taken a fancy to me I'd be a Ph.D.
some day."
Elizabeth regarded her in silent wonder. The hard life of student and
teacher which Jean still pursued was telling on her. She was pale and
stooped, and deep lines marked her forehead. To Elizabeth her life
seemed a waste of strength. She could never get at Jean's point of
view.
"And what would you do then--even if you should turn into a P.D.H., or
whatever you call him?"
"Why, just go on studying, of course."
"Until you died?" whispered Elizabeth, appalled at the thought of a
life-long vista of green eye-shades and Miss Millses and mathematics.
Jean opened her book. "You can't understand," she said patiently.
"You haven't any ambition."
It was the old, old accusation under which Elizabeth had always lived.
She thought of Annie's cosy home which three Visions now made radiant,
of John Coulson's love and devotion, and her heart answered the
accusation and declared it false. She wondered if other girls were as
silently ambitious as she, and why this best of all ambitions must be
always locked away in secret, while lesser ones might be proudly
proclaimed upon the house-tops.
"Evidently I haven't," she said, pulling her cloak about her with a
laugh. "I'm a butterfly. Gracious! I believe I hear the Mills
rumbling. I'm going to get out of the way."
"Wait and talk to her. She'll fire you with a desire to do something.
She's the brainiest woman that's ever come under his tuition, Professor
Telford says."
"I haven't a doubt of it," said Elizabeth, with a look of alarm.
"That's just the reason I'm scared of her. She's always in a sort of
post-graduate attitude of mind when I'm round, and it makes me feel
young and foolish. Good-night. I'm going up to molest the boys."
"Don't bother them long, Lizzie--there's a good girl. John needs every
minute."
But Elizabeth had caught her cloak around her and was already fleeing
up the second flight of stairs. She barely escaped Miss Mills, who was
coming down the hall. Miss Mills did not approve of Jean Gordon's
fashionable sister, and Elizabeth feared her clever, sarcastic tongue.
John and Charles Stuart shared a bedroom and sitting-room on the top
flat. Elizabeth tapped on the door of the latter room, and in response
to a "come in," entered. They were already at work. Her brother was
doubled up over a table close to a reading-lamp; the Pretender was
walking the floor note-book in hand. They were men now, these two,
both in their last year at college. John Gordon had the same dark,
solemn face of boyhood, lit by that sudden gleaming smile which made
him so resemble his sister. Charles Stuart had changed more. He was
graver and quieter, and a great man in his year at 'Varsity by reason
of his prowess on the public platform. Everyone said MacAllister would
be sure to go into politics, but Charles Stuart, remembering the
wistful look in a beautiful pair of eyes away back in the old home
valley, would never say what would be his calling.
Elizabeth burst radiantly into the room and was received with joyous
acclaim. No matter how busy these two might be, there was never any
doubt of her welcome here.
"Miss Gordon, I declare!" cried the Pretender, making a deep bow. He
handed her a chair and John pulled her into it.
"Hello, Betsey! I say it's a great comfort and uplift to Malc and me
when we toil and moil and perspire up here, to remember there's one
lady in the family anyhow. It keeps up a fellow's self-respect."
"I hope you're going to be nice to me," said Elizabeth, turning to the
other young man. "It's a great strain on a frivolous person like me
belonging to a clever family. Jean's grinding at the Mills, and I came
up here for relaxation, and now John's throwing witticisms at me."
"Jean's studying too hard," said Charles Stuart. "It is enough to
drive those girls out of their minds the way they go at it."
"Well, I hope they won't go that distance. It's hard enough to have
them out of temper all the time," said Elizabeth. Charles Stuart was
always so staid and solemn, she took an especial pleasure in being
frivolous in his presence. She knew he disapproved of her fondness for
dress, so she turned to her brother.
"How do you like my new frock, Johnny?" she asked.
She slipped out of her cloak, dropping the magazine into a chair with
it, and walked across the room, with an exaggerated air of haughty
grandeur. The soft gray folds of the gown swept over the carpet.
There was a hint of rose-color in it that caught the lamp-light.
Elizabeth glanced teasingly over her shoulder at the Pretender, who
turned abruptly away. He was a very poor sort of Pretender, after all,
and he feared the mocking gaze of those gray eyes. They might read the
secret in his own and laugh at it. He picked up the magazine she had
dropped and began turning over its pages, just to show his lofty
disapproval, Elizabeth felt sure.
John proceeded to make sarcastic remarks upon her appearance, while his
admiring eyes belied his tongue. But Elizabeth and John had never
outlived the habits of their reserved childhood, and found it necessary
always to keep up a show of indifference lest they reveal the deep
tenderness between them. Lizzie looked frightfully skinny in the
dress, he announced, and her neck was too long by a foot. Besides, as
her medical adviser, he felt it his duty to tell her that she would
likely get tangled up in that long tail and break some of her bones.
"I'll bet a box of chocolates you can't tell the color of it,"
Elizabeth said. She was glancing nervously at Charles Stuart. He was
surely near the place in the magazine. The guessing grew lively, John
finally giving his verdict that the dress was "some sort of dark
white," when Elizabeth saw Charles Stuart pause and read absorbedly.
"It's your turn, Stuart," she cried, to gain time. "John's
color-blind."
Charles Stuart glanced up. It was no easy task this, examining
Elizabeth's gown, under the fire of her eyes.
"Another new dress," he said evasively. "I suppose that woman has been
taking you to another Green Tea this afternoon."
From the day Mrs. Jarvis had made Elizabeth her paid companion, Charles
Stuart had taken a strong dislike to the lady, and always spoke of her
as "that woman."
"A 'Green Tea,'" groaned Elizabeth. "Charles Stuart MacAllister! It
sounds like something Auntie Jinit would brew at a quiltin'. It's
positively shameful not to be better acquainted with the terms of
polite society."
"Well, here's something I _can_ appreciate," he said, still avoiding
her glance and turning to the magazine again. "Listen to this. It's
as pretty as the dress."
Elizabeth stiffened. It was her poem. He walked over to the lamp and
read it aloud. It was that old, old one of the moonrise and sunset she
had written long ago, now polished and re-dressed in better verse; a
pretty little thing, full of color, bright and picturesque, nothing
more. But it was Elizabeth's first success. The _Dominion_ had
accepted it with a flattering comment that had made her heart beat
faster ever since. But the young poetess was far more anxious as to
what "the boys" would think of it than the most critical editor in all
broad Canada.
Charles Stuart knew how to read, and he expressed the sentiment of the
pretty verses in a way that made Elizabeth look at him with her breath
suspended. They sounded so much better than she had dared hope.
John looked up with shining eyes. "I've seen that very thing at home,
at The Dale, in the evening." He turned sharply and looked at his
sister's flushed face and downcast eyes. "Hooroo!" he shouted. "A
poetess! Oh, Lizzie. This is a terrible blow!" He fell back into his
chair and fanned himself.
"Do you really truly like it, John?" the author asked tremblingly.
John stretched out his hand for the magazine, and Elizabeth, watching
him as he read, drew a big breath of joy. She could tell by his
kindling eye that he was both proud and pleased. But, as she expected,
he expressed no praise.
"There's a good deal of hot air in it, Lizzie," he remarked dryly.
"And say, you and Mac must have been collaborating. He had that very
same expression in his speech last night--'member, Mac, when you
brought down the house that time when you flung something 'against the
eternal heavens,' or some such disorderly act. Here's Lizzie up to the
same business."
The young orator looked foolishly pleased, and the young poetess pulled
the critic's ears. But her heart was light and joyous. John liked her
poem, and that was more to her than the most flattering praise from the
public. For Elizabeth was much more a woman than a poet.
"You're a barbarian, John Gordon," she cried. "He doesn't know a
finely turned phrase from a dissecting-knife; does he, Stuart? But
really, it sounds far better than I thought it could. You read so
well."
"When did you take to rhyming, Lizzie?" asked her brother. "I really
didn't know it was in you."
But Elizabeth was watching Charles Stuart anxiously. He had taken up
the magazine again and was reading it absorbedly. She waited, but he
said nothing. But those dark, deep eyes of his, so like his mother's,
had a wistful look, a look that reminded Elizabeth of the expression in
Mother MacAllister's on the occasion of her last visit home. She
regarded him, rather troubled. What was the matter with her little
verses? She knew Charles Stuart was much more capable of a sound
judgment than John; she knew also that his kindly heart would prompt
him to say something pleasant if he could.
There was an awkward silence. Happily it was broken by the sound of
stumbling footsteps in the passage without. The door opened noisily
and a wild-looking head, with long, tangled hair, was poked into the
room. It emitted in sepulchral tones:
"I say, Gordon, will you lend me your bones?"
The wild eyes caught sight of Elizabeth, and the visitor backed out
suddenly with a look of agony, crashing against the door frame as he
disappeared.
"It's Bagsley!" cried John, springing up. "Hi, Bags, come back here!"
He whistled as if for a dog.
"He's scared to death of girls," said Charles Stuart; "better get under
the table, Lizzie."
"Hurrah, Bagsley!" cried John cordially, "you can have 'em. Here,
they're under the bed!"
A tall young man, incredibly thin and disheveled-looking, sidled into
the room, moving around Elizabeth in a circular course like a shying
horse. He stumbled over a chair, begged its pardon, floundered into
the adjoining bedroom, and dived under the bed. He reappeared with his
arms full of human bones, and shot across the room, muttering something
like thanks. As he fled down the dark hall, he collided with a piece
of furniture, his burden fell, and with a terrific clatter rolled from
the top of the stairs to the bottom. John rushed out to help gather up
the fallen, and Elizabeth ran across the room and hid her face
shudderingly in the folds of her cloak.
"What's the matter?" asked Charles Stuart, shaking with amusement. "If
you feel ill, I'll call old Bags back, Lizzie. He's a medical--in
John's year, and they all say he's going to be gold-medalist."
"U-g-h!" Elizabeth sat up and regarded the bedroom door with disgust.
"Human bones under the bed! Charles Stuart MacAllister, I do think
medical students are the most abominable----"
"It's a fact," he agreed cordially. "When a man borrows your bones I
think the limit is reached. It's bad enough when John borrows my ties
and my boots."
He was speaking absently, and Elizabeth looked at him. He was glancing
down at the magazine again, which was lying open on the table. She
went straight to the point. "Stuart, you don't like my little verses."
He started. "Why, I--what makes you think so? I think they are
beautiful--full of light and music and"--he paused.
"You looked disappointed when you finished," she persisted.
He was silent. "What was the reason?"
"I--I was looking for something I couldn't find," he said hesitatingly.
"What?"
"Its soul."
"Its soul?--'the light that never was on land or sea.' You are too
exacting. Only real poets do things like that. I'm not a genius."
"You don't need to be. But one must live a real life to write real
things," he said bluntly.
"And I don't," she said half-defiantly. She looked at him wonderingly,
at his broad shoulders and his grave face, feeling as though this was
the first time she had seen him. He seemed suddenly to be entirely
unlike the old Charles Stuart who had always been merely a sort of
appendage to John--a second John in fact, only not one-half so dear.
It came to her like a revelation that he was not at all the old Charles
Stuart, but somebody new and strange; and he was sitting in judgment
upon her useless way of living! She picked up the _Dominion_ and at a
glance she saw the verses as he saw them. He was right--they were
shallow, pretty little things, nothing more. Her lip quivered.
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Lizzie," he was saying contritely--"that's only
one opinion--and I may be wrong."
"No, you're right," said Elizabeth, "only I didn't see it before."
They were interrupted by John's return. "Jean's calling you, Lizzie.
She's got a pleasant little job for you downstairs. Don't be scared.
I locked Bags and the skeleton into his room. He won't catch you."
Elizabeth, glad to get away, ran out and down to the next floor. Jean
was standing at her room door, the green shade still over her wrinkled
brow, her collar and belt both missing. She held up a card.
"Lizzie, could you go downstairs and interview the owner of this?" she
pleaded, frowningly. "It's a caller. She's been sent by some new
society your fashionable friends have organized in St. Stephen's. I do
wish those idle people would leave busy ones alone. I haven't time to
go down, and Mills simply won't be bothered."
Elizabeth took the card. "Miss Blanche Kendall," she read. "Why, this
is the very thing Mrs. Jarvis wants me to join. Of course I'll go.
What excuse shall I make?"
"Anything at all. I don't care."
"Very well. I'll tell her my brother has loaned his bones and my
sister her clothing, and therefore they cannot come."
Jean did not resent the hint regarding her disorderly appearance. She
disappeared, slamming the door with a sigh of relief. Elizabeth went
hopefully downstairs. She was on the whole rather glad of the
unexpected meeting. Miss Kendall she knew to be a very fashionable
young lady indeed. Hunting up lonely students hardly seemed an
occupation that would appeal to her. Who knew, the girl told herself,
but she had been mistaken, and these young ladies were whole-hearted
and sincere in their efforts. She entered the long, dingy parlor fully
prepared to learn from Miss Kendall.
The visitor, a rather handsome young woman in a smart tailored suit,
was sitting on the extreme edge of an uncomfortable chair, looking
bored. She showed no sign of recognition as Elizabeth advanced
smilingly. The latter was not surprised. She had met Miss Kendall
only once--at a card-party--and Elizabeth had learned long ago that
card-parties were not functions where one went to get acquainted with
people. She remembered that Miss Kendall had sat at a table near her,
that she had played with a kind of absorbed fury, and had gone off
radiant, bearing a huge brass tray, the winner's trophy.
"Miss Mills?" she inquired, giving two of Elizabeth's fingers a twitch.
"No, Miss Gordon," said Elizabeth. "Miss Mills asks if you will be so
good as to excuse her this evening. She has an unusual amount of
work." She was about to add an apology for her sister, when Miss
Kendall, looking frankly relieved, broke in: "Oh, it doesn't matter.
You see, I'm sent by our Young Women's Guild--of St. Stephen's, you
know; they are trying to call upon all the young women in this district
who are away from home and likely to be lonely, and our president gave
me Seaton Crescent. It will be perfectly satisfactory if I just report
on them."
She opened a little elegant leather-bound note-book and consulted it in
a business-like manner. "I mustn't miss anyone; Miss Withrow, our
president, is so particular. Let me see. You are Miss Gordon,"--she
put a mark opposite the name,--"one call; Miss Mills--two calls. I
shall leave her a card. Then there are Miss Brownlee and Miss
Chester--they are out, I understand, but I shall leave cards so I can
count them too. Now, do you know of any others in this house who
should attend St. Stephen's?"
Elizabeth's eyes were growing bigger every moment. This was an
entirely new and original manner of comforting the lonely. Evidently
Miss Kendall believed in bringing all her business ability to bear on
her acts of charity. "Just what I thought they'd do," she said to
herself. Then her love of mischief came to her undoing. Her long
lashes drooped over her eyes.
"There are my brother and his friend, Mr. MacAllister," she said with
wicked intent.
"Oh, I don't want young men," said Miss Kendall all unsuspicious.
"There is another society for looking after them. MacAllister"--she
consulted the note-book. "I think that was the name of the person who
sent in another young woman's name--Turner. Is there a Miss Turner
boarding here?"
Elizabeth wondered what in the world Charles Stuart had to do with it,
as she ran over the list of boarders in her mind.
"I can't remember anyone of that name," she answered.
"Oh, well, never mind. I have enough, anyway," said the visitor with a
relieved sigh. She dropped the little book into her hand-bag and
closed it with a snap. Then she looked about her as if trying to find
something to talk about. Elizabeth sat mischievously silent and waited.
The caller seemed to get little inspiration from the furniture. "I was
sent to call by our Guild, of course," she remarked again, as though
she felt it necessary to account for her presence.
"How nice of them," murmured Elizabeth. "Do you do much of this sort
of work, Miss Kendall?"
"No, this is my first attempt, but I think I have taken it up pretty
thoroughly. It comes rather heavy on one who has so many social duties
as I have, but of course one does not expect these church calls
returned."
"Oh," said Elizabeth demurely, "I thought one always returned calls."
"Oh, not necessarily, I assure you," the lady remarked rather hastily.
"You see, I never received a church call before," said Elizabeth meekly.
The visitor looked at her a moment almost suspiciously, but the air of
childlike innocence was disarming. There was another long silence,
while Elizabeth sat with folded hands and vowed that if the
church-caller didn't speak before the clock struck twelve neither would
she. She was wickedly hoping she was uncomfortable.
Miss Kendall seemed to suddenly note some incongruity between
Elizabeth's fashionable attire and the life of a student. She looked
more like a milliner or dressmaker, she decided. "Do you study very
hard?" she inquired at last.
"Rather hard," was the sly answer.
"I suppose one must."
"Yes, one must." Elizabeth had suddenly decided upon her line of
action. She remembered how, whenever Noah Clegg's daughters went
a-visiting about Forest Glen, they would sit for a whole long afternoon
with hands primly folded, and reply to all remarks by a polite
repetition of the remarker's last statement, never volunteering a word
of their own. She could recall a long, hot afternoon when her aunt and
Annie had essayed alternate remarks upon the weather, the crops, the
garden, church, Sunday school, and the last sermon, to the verge of
nervous prostration without varying their visitors' echoing responses
by so much as one syllable. Elizabeth felt that Miss Kendall deserved
all the discomfort she could give her. She folded her hands more
primly and waited. Her victim glanced along the chromos on the wall.
"It's been very warm for November, has it not?" she said at last.
"Yes, very warm," said Elizabeth, also examining the chromos.
"I suppose you go to church regularly?"
"Yes, quite regularly."
"Dr. Harrison is such a clever speaker, isn't he?"
"Yes, very clever."
"His sermons, I think, are quite profound."
"Yes indeed, very profound."
It reminded Elizabeth of the Cantata they had sung in the joyous old
days at Cheemaun High School, where the chorus answered the soloist
again and again with "Yes, that's so!" She wondered how long she dared
keep it up and not laugh. She began to be just a little afraid that
she might give way altogether and make Miss Kendall think she was quite
mad.
But apparently the church call was drawing to a close. The caller once
more consulted her notebook and arose. "Four calls," she said with a
satisfied air. "I wonder if I couldn't put down five. You said there
wasn't a Miss Turner here?"
"No, unless she came recently. Shall I inquire?"
"Oh, no thank you, I really can't spare the time. I have several other
places to visit. I think she's a domestic, Mr. MacAllister said. One
has to take all sorts, you know. I can count her, anyway, and here's a
card for her if you happen to find her."
Elizabeth took the little bundle. She noticed that Miss Kendall's day
was not marked in the corner, but instead the inscription, "St.
Stephen's Young Women's Christian Guild."
"Those are our cards," said the visitor, noticing Elizabeth's glance.
"Of course everyone understands by that, that it's not a social call
one is making. You see, Miss Gordon, one must keep those things
separate."
"Yes, I am sure one ought to," agreed Elizabeth with deep meaning, as
she bowed the church caller out. She fairly soared to the top flat,
convulsed with mirth. Jean would not appreciate the church call, she
would not see the funny side of it, and might even resent it. But the
boys would understand.
They did not fail her, they put away their books and gave themselves
over to hilarity as she described the manner in which the Young Woman's
Christian Guild of St. Stephen's had set about welcoming the homeless
girls of Seaton Crescent.
"How 'll you explain your Dr. Jekyll-and-Mr. Hyde existence next time
you meet Miss Kendall at a Green Tea?" asked John as the supper-bell
interrupted the nonsense.
Elizabeth paused as she gathered up her cloak.
"John Gordon! I never thought of that! And I had orders to cultivate
her society!" For a moment she looked troubled. "May a kind fate send
her a short memory," she added. "Come along, which of you isn't too
hungry to see me home?"
Neither was, and they both saw her safely to the door of the Seaton
Court vestibule; and as she rehearsed the church call once more by the
way, she quite forgot to ask Charles Stuart how his name happened to be
mixed up with it.
Her eyes were still sparkling with fun, as she ran up the stairs and
swept into Mrs. Jarvis's sitting-room.
"At last!" cried that lady looking up with a pleased smile, and at the
same moment a tall man arose from a seat near the fire. He was a very
fine-looking gentleman, faultlessly dressed and slightly pompous in
manner. A certain stoutness of figure and thinness of hair told that
he had passed his youth. He had, moreover, the air of a man who has
reached a high rung on the ladder of success.
Mrs. Jarvis stretched out her hand and drew Elizabeth forward, the girl
could not help noticing that she seemed pleasurably excited.
"Come, Beth, here is an old acquaintance. This is Mr. Huntley, Miss
Gordon."
Mr. Huntley advanced with a look of genuine pleasure on his rather
round face.
"Ah," he said, with a most flattering accent. "I am charmed to be
presented once more to Queen Elizabeth."