you if you don't, and then your family all get at you, and it's all an
awful bore. But when I find a girl like you who don't mind sitting still
and talking, I don't have quite so bad a time." Then remembering that a
little more politeness was due even to a girl who didn't pretend to be
fond of dancing, he added, "Wouldn't you like to try this Portland
Fancy? I can generally get through that all right, and I don't mind
dancing with you," and though the compliment in the last part of his
speech was a little dubious, Julia accepted, to the amazement of some of
the other girls, who would have felt themselves very much lowered if
obliged to dance with a schoolboy.
After all the gaiety of Christmas week it wasn't the easiest thing in
the world for the girls to settle down to work at school. There were so
many things to talk over, there was so much to think about. Christmas
day itself had been very pleasant for Julia, though it had been kept by
her uncle and aunt strictly as a family festival. She and Brenda were
the youngest of the group gathered at the table, for Brenda's elder
sister was still in Europe, and the other cousins invited to the dinner
were all older than Julia and Brenda. The presents were given
unostentatiously at breakfast before the arrival of any outside of the
household, and Julia was touched to find that she had been remembered
not only by the relatives whom she had seen, but by the absent cousins
in Europe who had known her only when she was a very little girl. Brenda
in her turn was extremely surprised by the handsome gifts which Julia
gave to her and to her father and mother. There was the beautiful
bracelet which she had been longing for as she had seen it in a Winter
street window, with the tiny watch set near the clasp, while for her
father and mother was a large paper edition of Thackeray, finely
illustrated and elegantly bound. Brenda was too heedless of money
herself to stop to count the cost of these gifts, and yet she realized
that they must be expensive, and while thanking Julia with the greatest
warmth, she wondered how in the world she had been able to afford them.
Her father had laughed as usual at what he called her "silverware," and
had asked her again as he had always asked her since she had acquired
the habit of present exchanging, as he called it.
"Now, wouldn't it really be more fun to have all your own money again,
Brenda, so that you could start out, and buy for yourself the things
that you like the most instead of all these odds and ends."
"Oh, papa," Brenda had replied, as she always did, "I just love these
things, and I have more presents than almost any girl I know; they say
that I really am the most popular."
"Yes," he rejoined, "because you make the most presents. However," as he
saw a cloud settling on her face, "I will not say anything if you are
happy. Only remember that you won't have any allowance again until the
first of March."
But an empty pocketbook did not seem the worst thing in the world to
Brenda with her happy-go-lucky disposition, and on the Monday after New
Year's, when they were all back in school she was the merriest of the
crowd.
XIX
NORA'S THOUGHTLESSNESS
It is never the easiest thing in the world to settle down to work after
the holidays, and even Julia for a day or two found herself a little
dreamy, with her thoughts constantly going back to the many pleasant
things of that Christmas week. But it was not as hard for her as for her
cousins to resume the regular routine. She had a more definite aim than
they, with the prospect of college examinations not so very far away.
Brenda had not yet made up her mind to give her approval to her cousin's
studying Greek, and she did not take the trouble to contradict Belle and
Frances Pounder when they said that it must be a very disagreeable thing
to have a cousin who intended to be a teacher. It is true that neither
Belle nor Frances was thoroughly informed as to Julia's intentions, but
they never needed very definite facts on which to base their theories.
Consequently when they were at a loss for a subject of conversation,
they were in the habit of discussing Julia's peculiarities. Other
persons did not find Julia peculiar. To older people she seemed an
especially well-mannered girl, with a delightful vein of thoughtfulness
that was not too often met in young girls. She had become also a decided
favorite with the brothers of her school friends to an extent that
sometimes seemed surprising. For Julia was not an extremely pretty girl,
and she was not half so well informed on sports and games as were the
girls who had lived all their lives in Boston. But she had a way of
listening attentively to whatever any boy happened to be saying to her,
and the questions that she asked always showed an unusual degree of
attention--an attention that any one could see was not a mere pretence.
Philip Blair had already begun to confide to her a larger share of his
college woes than he would have confided to his placid sister Edith. For
Edith had an uncomfortable habit of forgetting just what was to be kept
secret, and though Philip had no very dark secrets, there were still
little things that he preferred not to have told. Julia was also very
ready to help Nora's younger brothers in their lessons, and as Harry
Gostar said, "There isn't another girl Nora knows that could help a
fellow with his Greek exercises, and even if she hasn't studied Greek
any longer than I have, she has learned more than enough to show me
where I make mistakes in these beastly old conjugations."
There was probably some jealousy in the feeling of Frances and Belle
toward Julia, but jealousy was not a strong motive with Brenda. In her
case there had been little more than pettishness in her first attitude
towards her cousin--the pettishness of a spoiled child. Yet this
pettishness, which left to itself would have seemed of little
account,--hardly worth noticing, when fanned by Belle and Frances took
on the aspect of jealousy. In consequence of this feeling Julia had been
made at times very uncomfortable, though no one had ever known her to
say a word to Brenda in resentment.
Sometimes she found it very hard not to say a word when she heard the
Four rushing upstairs on the afternoons of the club meetings. Strange
though it may seem, no invitation had yet been given her to assist in
the work for the Bazaar, even although all the other girls realized that
the success of the Rosas' Christmas tree had been largely due to her.
Perhaps it was just as well that Julia had no opportunity to inspect the
things that were preparing for the Bazaar. For even after these many
weeks of work there was hardly a single finished article. Belle's
centrepiece was so elaborate that a whole afternoon showed hardly more
than a single finished leaf, or one exquisitely wrought blossom.
"If any one would pay you for your time, Belle," Nora said mischievously
one day, "we should have money enough to send one of the Rosa children
to Europe."
"You'd better talk, Nora," Belle replied, "your afghan isn't half done
either, and an afghan does not begin to be as fussy as a centrepiece,
and it isn't even artistic, or----"
"Oh, well," Nora replied, "this is not the only thing that I have done;
I keep it to work on here, but I have finished a small shawl at home,
and a pair of baby's shoes, and I am going to do any number of things
besides."
"Ah," said Belle, tossing her head, "you won't find me working myself to
death over a Bazaar. I think one afternoon a week is a great deal to
give to any poor family, for that is what it amounts to, and you know
that I don't care much about those Rosas, anyway."
"Oh, Belle!" cried Edith, looking shocked.
"No, indeed, I don't, and I am sure that Brenda does not care half as
much as she pretends. Why, Edith, as for that you yourself never go down
to the North End to see them."
"I can't; my mother won't let me go into dirty streets or into tenement
houses."
"Oh! if you cared very much, you'd find some way to go there
occasionally. You could drive."
Edith looked so uncomfortable at this suggestion, that Nora, on whom
usually fell the duty of taking up the cudgels, exclaimed,
"You know that Edith was very generous at Christmas, and that she is
ready to do ever so much more for the Rosas, and it isn't a bit fair to
speak in that way."
Belle discreetly said nothing further, for she had learned that when
Nora assumed this positive tone, Brenda was apt to go over on her side,
and then Belle herself would be so in the minority as to be obliged to
seem an unpopular person, and if there was one thing in the world that
she dreaded, it was to be considered unpopular. So trimming her sails
she said, "Why, how silly you are, Nora, you know that I was only in
fun. Of course we all are interested in the Rosas, and I only wish that
I could do two or three centrepieces for the Bazaar. But I am always so
busy at this season----"
"You busy, Belle," cried Nora. "Who ever heard of such a thing. You are
just the idlest person I know."
"Indeed I am not," was the answer. "I have to do all the errands for the
family, and half my clothes are made in the house, and we always have
such stupid seamstresses, that----"
"I should say so, Belle; I do think that you have had some of the
ugliest clothes, lately, that I have seen this winter," interrupted
Nora, rather unceremoniously. Belle reddened very deeply at this speech,
for as a matter of fact she was extremely sensitive on the subject of
her clothes. Unlike Brenda or Edith, she never had the privilege of
going to a fine costumer; nor could she even employ the dressmaker who
made some of the gowns worn by others of her set of friends. The
circumstances in her family were such that she could not gratify her
taste in dress. She must wear this thing or that thing that her
grandmother had selected, or must have something of her mother's altered
to the present fashion for girls. However skilful the alterations, she
felt as if she were in some way disgraced. Now to tell the truth Belle
herself had so much natural taste that only a very severe critic could
see anything to criticise in her dress, and a sensible person watching
the two girls would have said that it was much better for a young girl
to be brought up with the somewhat economical habits that had to be
Belle's than to have the rather too elegant clothes, and the many
changes of costume which Mrs. Blair seemed to prefer for Edith. But
girls will be girls, and Belle's great grievance was that when fawn
brown for example, was the fashionable spring shade, she had to wear a
gown of stone grey, because somewhere in the cedar chests in her
grandmother's attic there was a stone grey thibet, ample enough to cut
over into a spring gown for her. As to hats, neither her mother nor her
grandmother approved of her having her hats trimmed at a milliner's. In
consequence, after her mother had put on a hat a simple trimming such as
she approved herself, Belle would spend her first spare afternoon in
ripping it all off, in order to retrim it. Indeed she usually spent not
one afternoon but several in this operation, and even ventured to lay
out her own pocket money in little ornaments or in ribbons that she
thought would add to the appearance of the hat. In the same way she was
able too to make slight alterations in the appearance of her gowns, and
sometimes the changes were improvements. At other times what she had
considered a genuine addition to the style of her garment or hat to
other eyes seemed only queer, or in schoolgirl parlance "weird."
When therefore Nora said that she had considered Belle's clothes of the
present winter the ugliest she had seen, she touched a tender cord. In
the first place Belle had had a strong dislike for the coat and hat
which her mother and grandmother had selected for her, and in the second
place she thought that she had improved the appearance of her costume as
a whole by entirely altering the style of her winter hat. For she had
twisted the front to the back, had added a deep blue bow to the
trimming, and she believed that altogether she had accomplished wonders.
At Nora's speech the tears came to her eyes, and the heedless Brenda,
who was not herself always careful of the feelings broke forth
indignantly,
"I do think, Nora, that you might be careful what you say; you know that
Belle dresses as well as she can, and I think that she always looks
well. I wish that I could trim hats."
"Oh, Brenda, it is a good thing that you can't, for if you could you
never would have a thing to wear; you can do fancy work, but you haven't
a thing finished yet for the Bazaar."
While Nora was talking Belle had been folding up her work, and in a
moment more she was putting on her hat and coat.
"You are not going now?" cried Brenda. "Oh, don't go; you're not mad at
Nora, are you?"
"Oh, no," answered Belle with the air of injured innocence. "Oh, no, but
I think that I ought to be going. I did not mean to stay the whole
afternoon."
"Oh, don't go," urged Edith; "if you'll wait half an hour I will go with
you, but I must finish this piece of drawn work."
But Belle continued to put on her outer wraps, and in a few minutes had
bidden the others good-bye. As a matter of fact Belle was deeply
offended, and she knew that if she had stayed much longer with her
friends she would have been driven to express herself strongly. Now a
general quarrel was a thing to be dreaded, and she knew that it would be
unwise to risk it. Belle was certainly a sensible girl, and what she now
did was really the best thing under the circumstances.
Left to themselves the three other girls let their tongues move very
freely. It was something new for the rather loquacious Belle to go off
without a word, as if in some way she had been vanquished. It was the
very best thing that she could have done for herself.
"Really, Nora, I don't see how you could speak in that way to Belle. I
am sure that she feels very badly," began Edith.
"Well, she is awfully conceited about her clothes, and sometimes she
does look so queer."
"But you shouldn't say so to her face----"
"Better to her face than behind her back."
"I don't know," rejoined Edith, "there are some things that it is just
as well not to say at all. Belle has a right to wear whatever kind of
hats she likes."
"Oh, Edith," responded Nora, "you are altogether too fair. I am tired of
having Belle find fault with every one else as if she were just perfect
herself. For my own part, I----"
"Well, Nora," said Brenda, "you ought not to say anything to Belle when
she is in my house. I happen to know that she is very sensitive about
her clothes. In the first place her mother will never let her have what
she wants----"
"No, it's her grandmother," interrupted Edith. "She really does have a
hard time, and it isn't fair to criticise her."
"No," added Brenda, "it is not."
"Well, Brenda," said Nora, "you ought not to say anything. You make
Belle awfully mad sometimes by what you say. I heard you telling her the
other day that you should think that she'd just hate that winter coat
that she has been wearing, the fur is so very unbecoming, and you asked
her why she didn't have a chinchilla collar and muff. She won't quarrel
with you, because there are so many little things that you can do for
her."
"There, there," cried Edith who saw that neither Brenda nor Nora was in
an amiable frame of mind. "Don't let us bicker. Any one would think that
we were all enemies instead of the inseparable four."
"Oh, Edith, we can't all be as amiable as you," responded Nora. "But
really I am a little sorry that I offended Belle, for I know that she
has a rather hard time at home, but I do wish that she would not put on
such superior airs, and I do wish that she would not wear her hats hind
side before. Sometimes I almost hate to go out with her."
"Why, Nora, I never heard of such a thing. I did not know that you
attached the least importance to appearances. Besides I thought that you
always wanted to make every one comfortable in her feelings. It seems
strange that you should have been so awfully thoughtless towards Belle."
"I dare say that you are perfectly correct," responded Nora; "you
usually are, Edith Blair. And I haven't a doubt that I shall go down on
my knees to-morrow at recess, and apologize to Belle and to every one
else whom I have ever offended. But I say that we have had enough of
this exchange of compliments for to-day. Let us put up our work, and
talk about something else. Why, see here, Belle has left her centrepiece
behind her."
"Oh, give it to me," cried Brenda; "I will put it away," and she took it
from Nora's hands.
"We shouldn't have had this fuss, should we," said Edith, "if Julia had
been working with us?"
"You don't call this a fuss," rejoined Nora, "only a slight
misunderstanding."
Now in spite of her outspokenness Nora was really a very fair minded
young person, or perhaps I ought to say because of it. Those who express
themselves very plainly often hurt the feelings of their friends, and
not all of them have the courage to admit that they have been wrong. It
does require some courage to go to a girl who is in the habit of
justifying all her own words and deeds to tell her that you yourself
have been wrong. Yet this was just what Nora did a day or two later when
she began to reflect on the criticisms she had made in the matter of
Belle's clothes. She was surprised herself at the graciousness with
which Belle received her apology. But this was one of the cases--rather
exceptional to be sure,--in which Nora was decidedly in the wrong.
Belle, therefore, could afford to be magnanimous. After this Nora was
much more careful about criticising any one, for it was her general aim
in life to follow as closely as she could the Golden Rule.
XX
FIDESSA AND HER MISTRESS
On the very afternoon when Nora and Belle had their falling out, Julia,
after finishing her practising, had gone for a walk. It was a bright,
clear day, and she wished that she had some other girl to walk with her.
For when by herself she never ventured beyond the entrance to the park,
although if her cousin or one of her school friends could go with her,
her aunt had no objection to her walking in the park itself. One of the
disadvantages of her friendship with Ruth Roberts lay in the fact that
they could seldom be together in the afternoons. Their homes were too
far apart. Sometimes on Saturday Julia would go to Roxbury to spend the
half day with Ruth, and on other Saturdays Ruth would come in town to
stay with Julia. It was hard to tell which was the pleasanter thing to
do. At Roxbury, there were Ruth's ponies to drive, and in snowy weather
a chance to coast down a quiet side street. Out of town there are many
more chances for fun for girls past sixteen than can possibly be found
in town or the city. When Ruth visited Julia the two usually went to a
concert accompanied by Mrs. Barlow, or when she could not go, by one of
their teachers. Of late Julia had been in the habit of inviting Miss
South to go with them. Brenda never went to these concerts. She was not
fond of music, and she did not pretend to be. The only matinee that she
cared for was the theatre, and as her parent were decidedly opposed to
her going often to the play, she could not indulge herself half as much
as she wished.
On this particular afternoon Julia felt especially lonely. Doubtless no
small part of her loneliness came from the fact that she was perfectly
well aware of the presence of the "Four" in the house, and though she
had tried not even to say to herself that she felt slighted, she would
have been less than human not to feel that her cousin had slighted her
in not asking her to the club. "To look up and not down, to look out and
not in," had been one of the lessons which her father had been most
careful to teach her. It was therefore not very often that she let her
thoughts dwell too long on her own affairs. But on this particular day
she felt a little low-spirited and inclined to regard herself as rather
ill-used. Without realizing it she had walked some distance into the
park, and pausing to admire a bit of distant view that she was able to
get from a slightly elevated point, she lingered a moment or two longer
to decide whether it was an animal or a child that she heard crying
behind a small clump of bushes near by. When she found that there was no
other way of satisfying herself, she walked up to the bushes, and there,
standing forlornly on three legs, was a tiny Italian greyhound.
"Why, you poor little thing!" she cried, "what is the matter?" and as
she spoke she took the little creature in her arms.
"Is your leg broken, or sprained, or what?" she continued, though of
course she did not expect any reply from the dog. The greyhound showed
great joy at the sound of a friendly voice, and looked up in Julia's
face with an expression of confidence and gratitude.
"Come, I am going to put you down on the ground for a minute to see
whether you are hurt, or only pretending." So, suiting the action to the
word, she stood the little dog on its feet. As if understanding her
purpose, the little creature limped in front of her for a few steps, but
the limp was so slight as to assure Julia that no serious accident had
befallen the leg, which the dog still seemed inclined to hold off the
ground.
"Now let me see if your collar tells who your owner is," added Julia,
and she bent down towards the dog. There to her surprise, she read in
clear letters, "Fidessa, Madame du Launy." Now immediately Julia decided
that the owner of the dog must be the mistress of the large house near
the school, about which her friends were so curious. In an instant, too,
she remembered that she had seen this little animal, or one very like
it, taking its exercise in front of the great, mysterious house. Julia
had always been fond of dogs, and the little trembling creature appealed
strongly to her. For a moment she almost wished that there were no name
on the collar, so that she might have kept it with her for a day or two
while finding the owner. "O, if only it had no owner, what joy!" she
thought, as she gazed into its dark eyes, "to keep it for myself!"
As things were, however, she felt that she ought to try to return it as
soon as possible, and taking the little Fidessa in her arms, she
retraced her steps to the other side of the city where Madame du Launy
lived.
As she stood in front of the house which Nora and Brenda had tried so
unsuccessfully to enter a few weeks before, the old timidity which at
one time had been the trial of her life returned to her. Nevertheless,
she rang the bell bravely, and was welcomed almost with open arms by the
serious-faced servant who opened the door. He had seen Fidessa
instantly, and if he had not, the little creature would have made
herself quickly known. When Julia released her, she jumped about in the
greatest excitement, whirling around in a circle and then rushing ahead
up the stairs. All trace of the lameness seemed to be gone, greatly to
Julia's surprise.
While Fidessa was running ahead, the man, asking Julia to follow him,
had shown her into a large room, rather dimly lighted. At first she
thought that she was alone, but far at the other end of the apartment
she saw a slight figure arise from the depths of a large armchair, as
the man said solemnly, "Madame du Launy, here is a young lady who has
found Fidessa." At that moment the truant dog bounded into the room, and
leaping up towards the old lady almost knocked her over. At the same
moment a plain, elderly woman entered behind Fidessa, and Julia could
see as she stood in the doorway that her eyes were rather red around the
edges as if she had been weeping.
"Draw up a blind, or two, James," said Madame du Launy, querulously, "we
are not at a funeral. Come nearer, my dear, I am sure that I am very
much obliged to you for your trouble. Where did you find my poor little
dog?" By this time, the "poor little dog" was seated calmly on a cushion
with its slender front legs crossed as if it had never given any one a
moment's uneasiness. As Julia looked at the lady who had addressed her,
she saw that she was, or had been tall. Her figure, though somewhat
bent, gave the impression of stateliness. This aspect was increased by
the large towering structure which she wore on her head, whether to be
called cap, or turban, it was hard to tell with its folds of black silk,
its border of white lace and with two or three jeweled pins sticking in
it.
In answer to Madame du Launy's question, Julia described finding the
little dog in the park, and her fear at first lest it had hurt its leg.