The Thin Edge of the Wedge
It seemed to Mabel that Isobel's proposals, kindly worded and prettily
mentioned, were always impossible of acceptance. She did nothing but
refuse these overtures to friendship for the next week or so. This was
the more awkward since she was particularly anxious to make everything
nice for Isobel. But the proposals and the overtures seemed continually
to occur in connexion with the Merediths. It was a ridiculous thing of
course that Isobel should be proposing anything in connexion with the
Merediths.
Jean had now found some one after her own heart, one who did not wait
for invitations, but thought immediately on a plan for making one's self
known to people. Isobel had already called on the Dudgeons. Her
progress was a royal one, and Mabel hated herself for the way she alone,
though often with the backing up of Elma's companionship, kept out of
things. She ventured to tell Jean why Robin no longer was a friend of
hers. Jean seemed then to think him all the more eligible for Isobel.
This hurt more than one dared to believe. But Jean always had been for
a direct way of dealing with people, sentiment not being in her nature
at all. She considered it stupid of Mabel to bother about a man to whom
she had not even been engaged.
Mabel, rather morbidly clung to her pride after this, and refused Elma's
repeated pleadings to tell her mother and father. If one's own sister
called one a donkey, it wasn't much encouragement to go on to more
criticism. Mabel would rather see Isobel married to Robin than say a
word more on her own account. Elma worried about it as much as Mabel
did, and nothing would induce her to go near the Merediths. Mr. and
Mrs. Leighton noted the difference, but had to confess that changes of a
sort must come. Above all, Mabel was very young, and they did not want
to press anything serious upon her just then. Robin's behaviour
remained so gentlemanly that no one could convict him of anything except
a sudden partiality for Isobel.
"They are all children of a sort," said Mr. Leighton, "and children
settle their own differences best."
Isobel felt the difficulty of the number of girls in the place. It
appalled her to think of Elma's creeping up next, and making the string
lengthen. She looked with positive disapproval on Elma with her hair
up. In a forlorn way, Elma felt the great difference between her
seventeenth birthday, and that glorious day when Mabel entered into her
kingdom.
Mabel was in trouble, Jean engrossed with her own affairs, and Isobel
sweetly disdainful when Elma turned up her hair. She put it down again
for three weeks, and nobody seemed to be the least pained at the
difference.
At every visit to Miss Grace, she wondered whether or not it would be
quite loyal to tell her about Mabel. Miss Annie and she were, however,
so uncomprehending about anything having gone wrong, so interested in
the new cousin, that invariably Elma's confidences were checked by such
a remark as, "How very sweet Isobel looked in that pink gown to-day,"
and so on. Then one had to run on and be complimentary about Isobel. It
seemed to Elma that her heart would break if Miss Grace, along with
every one else, went over to Isobel.
She was not to know that Adelaide Maud had been there before her.
"I can't quite explain," said Adelaide Maud to Miss Grace one day, "I
can't explain why I feel it, but this new cousin isn't on the same plane
with the Leightons. There's something more--more developed, it's true,
but there's also something missing."
"Something that has to do with being a lady?" asked Miss Grace in her
timid way.
"Exactly. I know my London types, and this isn't one I should fasten on
to admire, although she makes rather a dashing brilliant appearance in
her present surroundings."
"I'm a little concerned about that," said Miss Grace.
In spite of her uniform courtesy where Isobel was concerned she had
quite a talk with Adelaide Maud regarding her.
"I should fancy it's this," said Miss Grace finally, "that while she
stays with the Leightons she has all the more income on which to look
beautiful. I can't help seeing an ulterior motive, you observe. I
sometimes wonder, however, what she will do to my little girls before
she is done with them."
The first thing Isobel did was to inflame Jean with a desire to sing.
There was no use trying to inflame Mabel about anything. After Jean had
discovered that she might have a voice there was nothing for it but that
she should go to London. She begged and implored her father and mother
to let her go to London. She was the only member of the family who had
ever had the pluck to suggest such a thing. They had a familiar disease
of home-sickness which prevented any daring in such a direction. Mabel
had twice come home a wreck before she was expected home at all, and
invariably vowing never to leave again.
And now Jean, the valiant, asked to be allowed to go alone to London in
order to study.
"It's Isobel who has done it," wailed Betty. "She's so equipped. We
seem such duffers. And it will be the first break."
Mr. Leighton groaned.
"Why can't you be happy at home," he asked Jean.
"Oh, it will be so lovely to come back," said Jean, "with it all--what
to do and how to do it--at one's fingers' ends."
"You don't keep your voice at your fingers' ends, do you?" asked Mrs.
Leighton.
It seemed superb nonsense to her that Jean should not take lessons at
home. Isobel marvelled to find that the real difficulty in the way of
Jean's getting was this mild obstinacy of Mrs. Leighton's.
"I can tell Jean of such a nice place to live--with girls," said Isobel.
"And I know the master she ought to have."
"And we can't all vegetate here for ever," said poor Jean.
Nothing ever cost Mr. Leighton the wrench that this cost him, but he
prepared to let Jean go.
Mabel and Elma would rather anything than that had happened just then.
It had the effect of making Isobel more particular in being with Mabel
rather than with Jean. Had she sounded the fact that with all Jean's
protestations, Mabel was the much desired--that people were more keen on
having the Leighton's when Mabel was of the party! Elma began to
speculate on this until she was ashamed of herself.
They played up for Jean at this juncture as though she were going away
for ever. One would have thought there was nothing to be had in London
from the manner in which they provided for her. Even Lance appeared
with a kettle and spirit lamp for making tea.
"You meet in each other's rooms and talk politics and mend your
stockings," said he, "and you take turns to make tea. I know all about
it."
Maud Hartley gave her a traveller's pincushion, and May Turberville a
neat hold-all for jewellery.
Jean stuck in her two brooches, one bangle, a pendant and a finger ring.
Then she sighed in a longing manner.
"If I use your case, I shall have no jewellery to wear," she said to
May.
At that moment a package was handed to her. It was small, and of the
exciting nature of the package that is first sealed, and then discloses
a white box with a rubber strap round it.
"Oh, and it's from Bulstrode's," cried Jean in great excitement. "The
loveliest place in town," she explained to Isobel. "What can it be?"
It was a charming little watch on a brooch clasp, and it was accompanied
by a card, "With love to dear Jean, to keep time for her when she is far
away. From Miss Annie and Miss Grace."
"Well," said Jean, with her eyes filling, "aren't they ducks! And I've
so often laughed at Miss Grace."
"They are just like fairy godmothers," said Elma. "Jean! It's lovely."
She turned and turned the "little love" in her hand.
Where so many were being kind to Jean, it appeared necessary to Aunt
Katharine that she also must make her little gift. She gave Jean a
linen bag for her boots, with "My boots and shoes" sewn in red across
it.
"I don't approve of your trip at all," she said to Jean, "but then I
never do approve of what your mother lets you do. In my young days we
were making jam at your age, and learning how to cure hams. The stores
are upsetting everything."
"I want to sing," said Jean, "and your bag is lovely, Aunt Kathie.
Didn't you want very badly to learn the right way to sing when you were
my age?"
Aunt Katharine sang one Scotch song about Prince Charlie, and it was
worth hearing for the accompaniment alone, if not for the wonderful
energy with which Aunt Katharine declaimed the words. Dr. Merryweather,
in an abstracted moment, once thanked her for her recitation, and this
had had the unfortunate result of preventing her from performing so
often as she used to.
"No, my dear," she said in answer to Jean's remark, "I had no desire to
find out how they sang at one end of the country, when my friends
considered that I performed so well at the other end. The best masters
of singing are not all removed from one's home. Nature and talent may
do wonders."
Then she sighed heavily.
"The claims of home ought to come first in any case. Your mother and
father have given you a comfortable one. It is your duty to stay in
it."
"Well, papa has inflamed us with a desire to excel in music. It isn't
our fault," said Jean. "And one can't get short cuts to technique in
Ridgetown."
"I quite see that your father places many things first which ought to
come last," said Aunt Katharine dismally. "Oh, I beg your pardon," she
exclaimed, for four girls, even including Jean with her boot bag, had
risen at her, "I forgot that I am not allowed free expression in regard
to my own brother-in-law."
Aunt Katharine could always be expected to give in at this point, but up
to it, one was anxious.
Cuthbert came down to bid farewell to Jean.
"You are a queer old thing," he said to her. "Living in rooms is a
mucky business, you know."
"Oh, I shall be with twenty other girls," said Jean; "a kind of club,
you know. Isobel says it's lovely. And then we get so _stuck_ here!"
Cuthbert admitted that it wasn't the thing for them all to be cooped up
in Ridgetown.
"Couldn't stand it myself, without work," said he. "And then, it's
ripping, of course."
It was lovely to have Cuthbert back, and he made a new acquaintance in
Isobel. She had been a queer little half-grown thing when he had last
seen her.
In an indefinite way he did not approve of her, but finding her on terms
of such intimacy with every one, he only gave signs of pleasure at
meeting her.
Elma was in dismay because there were heaps and heaps of things for
which she wanted Cuthbert, and he only stayed two days. An idea that he
could put a number of crooked things straight, if he remained, made her
plead with him to come again.
Cuthbert promised in an abstracted manner.
"Give me one more year, Elma, and then you may have to kick me out of
Ridgetown," he said. "Who knows? At least, I shall make such a try for
it, that you may have to kick me out."
Everybody nice seemed to be leaving, and Adelaide Maud was away.
It was rather trying to Elma that Isobel should about this period insist
on visiting at Miss Annie's. Isobel seemed to be with them on every
occasion, from the moment that Jean arranged to go to London.
Jean got everything ready to start. With Isobel's help she engaged her
room from particulars sent to her. It was the tiniest in a large house
of small rooms, but Jean, rather horrified at a detached sum of money
being singled out by her father from the family funds, was determined to
make that sum as small as possible. Mr. Leighton saw these preparations
being made and was helpful but dismal about them. Mrs. Leighton
presented her with a travelling trunk which would cover up and be made a
window-seat, no doubt, in that room where the tea parties were to occur.
Everything was ready the night before her departure, and exactly at
7.15, when the second dressing bell rang for dinner, as Betty explained
afterwards, Jean broke down.
This was an extraordinary exhibition to Isobel, who had travelled, and
packed, and always moved to a new place with avidity. She said now that
she would give anything she was worth at that moment to be flying off to
London like Jean.
"Oh," said Jean, "it's like a knife that has cut to-day away from
to-morrow, and all of you from that crowd I'm going to. Do you know,"
she said, as though it were quite an interesting thing for them to hear
about, "I feel quite queer--and sick. Do you think that perhaps there
is something wrong with me?" She even mentioned appendicitis as a
possible ailment.
"You are getting home-sick," said Mabel, who knew the signs.
Jean was much annoyed.
"You don't understand," she said. "I'm not silly in that way. I don't
feel as though I could shed a tear at going away. I'm just over-joyed
at the prospect. But I'm so wobbly in other ways. I'm really terrified
that I'm going to be ill."
Poor Jean ate no dinner. Jean didn't sleep. Jean perambulated the
corridors, and thought of the night when Cuthbert got hurt. She wished
that she were enough of a baby to go and knock at her mother's door, as
they had done then, and get her to come and comfort her. She hoped her
father wasn't vexed that she had asked to go, and hadn't minded leaving
him. Then she remembered how she intended coming home--a full-blown
prima donna sort of person--one of whom he should really be proud. This
ought to have set her up for the night, but the thought of it failed in
its usual exhilarating effect.
The sick feeling returned, with innumerable horrors of imaginary pain,
and a real headache.
Jean saw the dawn come in and sincerely prayed that already she had not
appendicitis.