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Brenda's Ward
_A Sequel to "Amy in Acadia"_
By Helen Leah Reed
Author of "The Brenda Books," "Irma and Nap," "Amy in Acadia," etc.
Illustrated from Drawings by
Frank T. Merrill
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1906
_Copyright, 1906_,
BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published October, 1906
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
[Illustration: "As Martine courtesied her thanks for this compliment,
she backed gracefully."]
CONTENTS
I. A NEW HOME
II. A STRANGE MEETING
III. PRISCILLA'S PRIDE
IV. CHANGES
V. ANOTHER PARTING
VI. ANGELINA'S COUP
VII. A DROP OF INK
VIII. A PRIZE WINNER
IX. WORD FROM BRENDA
X. THE RECITAL
XI. MARTINE'S ALTRUISM
XII. PUZZLES
XIII. AT PLYMOUTH
XIV. TALES AND RELICS
XV. TROUBLES
XVI. THE MISSING TRUNK
XVII. CLASS DAY
XVIII. AT YORK
XIX. SIGHT-SEEING
XX. THE ISLES OF SHOALS
XXI. VARIETY
XXII. EXCITEMENT
XXIII. QUIET LIFE
XXIV. PORTSMOUTH AND AFTERWARD
XXV. THE SUMMER'S END
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"As Martine courtesied her thanks for this compliment, she backed
gracefully"
"'The real Memorial is here,' said Elinor, reverently, passing from one
tablet to another"
"'This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just the thing for Julius
Caesar'"
"Aunt Nabby seemed to be making little dolls of clay"
"The old captain proved very talkative"
"While Martine was sketching, Clare fluttered about"
Brenda's Ward
CHAPTER I
A NEW HOME
"It's simply perfect."
"I thought you would like it, Martine."
"Like it! I should say so, but it isn't 'it,' it's everything,--the
room, the house, you, Boston. Really, you don't know how glad I am to be
here, Brenda--I mean Mrs. Weston."
"What nonsense!"
"That I should like things?"
"No, that you should call me 'Mrs. Weston.' It's bad enough to be
growing old, so don't try to make me feel like a grandmother. Truly, I
can't believe that I am a day older than when I was sixteen, and yet
when I _was_ sixteen, eighteen seemed the end of everything worth while.
I could not imagine myself old, and serious, and--twenty."
Martine smiled at Brenda's emphasis of the last word, and as she smiled
she laid her hand on her friend's arm.
"Come," she said, "just look in this mirror. A person who did not know
could not tell which is the older, you or I."
"Again, nonsense!"
Yet even as she spoke Brenda could but admit to herself that Martine had
an air of dignity suited to one much older than a girl of seventeen. But
if she had thought Martine altogether grown up, she quickly changed her
opinion, for at this very moment Martine sank on the floor beside her,
and as her laughter re-echoed through the rooms Brenda was driven to
say:
"My dear, don't talk to me about being grown up. You act precisely like
a child of ten. What in the world is the matter?"
"Nothing, oh nothing; that is, almost nothing. Only look and you will
laugh too."
Glancing where Martine pointed, Brenda saw something really amusing.
Before a pier-glass in the hall a sallow girl with glossy black hair
piled high on her head was standing. She wore a pink satin gown that
heightened her sallowness. It was cut square in the neck, and her elbow
sleeves displayed a pair of skinny arms.
"Who is she?" whispered Martine, recovering her breath.
"Why, that, oh that is Angelina."
Martine, fascinated by the vision in the glass, continued to watch the
strange little figure, bowing, gesticulating, turning now to this side
now to that, while her lips moved as if she were talking to herself.
"Who is Angelina?" asked Martine.
"Oh, Angelina, don't you know her? She is to help me for a week while
Maggie is away taking care of her sick aunt."
"Do you call that 'helping'?" and again Martine pointed toward the
pier-glass.
"She did not hear me come in; she thought I would ring," replied Brenda.
"She thinks I am still downtown. She was to go to the door and has been
waiting to hear me ring."
"Would she go to the door looking like that?"
"Oh, I hope not. She'd probably call through the tube and hurry on a
coat, or do something of that kind. Yet no one is ever surprised at
Angelina's doings. Let me tell you about her. Years ago Nora and some of
the rest of us pulled her little brother Manuel from under the feet of a
horse, and in a few days we went to visit the family at the North End.
You can't imagine how poor they were. Then we had a club and worked for
a bazaar to raise money to get them out into the country."
"Oh, yes, Amy told me something about that, though it all happened
before she knew you, I think she said."
"Well, in the end Angelina became my cousin Julia's protegee. She has
learned a great deal about housework at the Mansion School, but she is
always yearning for something beyond. Lately she has been taking lessons
in elocution."
"That's it, then, she's rehearsing now," cried Martine. "Oh, I hope
Maggie will stay away longer than you expect. I think we might have
great sport with Angelina."
"My dear," remonstrated Brenda, "remember that for the present you are
my ward. I can't have you trifling with Angelina, although she can be
very funny."
The sound of voices had at last penetrated Angelina's ears, and she fled
to her room.
"Oh, my," she thought, "I wonder if Mrs. Weston saw me?" In her secret
heart Angelina hoped that she had been observed.
"And Miss Martine, she's almost as stylish as Mrs. Weston. I wonder what
she thought of this dress--gown," she added, correcting herself. "I
almost wish I'd been saying that soliloquy out loud. Then I could have
asked them if they thought I used just the right inflections and
gestures. Perhaps Miss Brenda would let me recite it all to her some
time. She's more sympathetic than Miss Julia was. Now I know if I should
ask Miss Julia she'd say I mustn't give that recital, and I'm sure she
wouldn't approve of this gown. But Miss Brenda, why I shouldn't wonder
if she'd go to it herself, and Miss Martine, I've heard how she spends
money like water, and she'll probably buy a lot of tickets."
As Angelina fled to her room Martine, rising from the floor, sat down on
a divan beside Brenda.
"If you wish to please me, do find another place for Maggie and keep
Angelina. She'll be so entertaining, and poor Maggie always looks half
ready to cry."
"Oh, I couldn't part with Maggie, and more than a week of Angelina would
be too much even for you."
"Well, I will tell you at the end of this week. I am going to work so
hard at school that I ought to have as much amusement as possible at
home. Still I know I am going to be perfectly happy with you this
winter, although I can remember the time when I should just have hated
to spend a winter in Boston. Even now if it wasn't for you--"
"But you had decided to spend the winter here before you ran across me."
"No, my dear Mrs. Weston, my parents had decided that a year or two of
Boston school would be the making of me. They had heard, as you know, of
a dragon who had a boarding-house on the hill, who would look after me
within an inch of my life. Wasn't it strange, though, that she should
have been taken ill this autumn? I suppose you wouldn't let me say
'providential.'"
"Certainly not! She was so ill that she had to go South for the winter."
"Then that is providential for her. How much better the South must be
for her than this bleak Boston. Besides, if she had been able to
continue her home for helpless Western schoolgirls, I should not have
had the delight of sharing your charming apartment."
"Nor should I have had the pleasure of the company of a charming ward."
As Martine courtesied her thanks for this compliment, she backed
gracefully, and neither she nor Brenda realized that she was approaching
too near a table of bric-a-brac, until it toppled over with a crash.
"Oh what have I done! No wedding presents smashed, I hope." There was a
touch of dismay in Martine's voice.
"Not a thing that could break." Brenda's smile was reassuring. "Silver
or brass, everyone of them. That's one thing I have already learned, not
to have breakable things, if one values them, within anyone's reach.
It's awfully disagreeable to have to blame anyone for what you could
have prevented by a little care, and I never can let anybody replace
what she has broken. Maggie is rather a breaker, and so my china and
glass ornaments I set on high shelves."
The noise of the falling table brought Angelina upon the scene. She had
made what Martine called a "lightning change," and appeared in a dark
gown and spotless collar and cuffs.
"Why, are you in?" she said innocently, as she entered the room. "I
didn't know but what it might be a burglar or something--" She looked
from one to the other anxiously, and then catching sight of the
overturned table, began to busy herself picking up the scattered
ornaments.
"Oh, dear," sighed Brenda, "will Angelina ever learn to be perfectly
honest?" But her only words alone were. "Yes, we have been in some time;
I thought you might have heard us." The implied reproof silenced
Angelina, and soon the three separated without a word having been said
about the private rehearsal.
That the volatile Brenda Weston should undertake the charge of Martine
Stratford for the winter at first surprised many of their friends, and
yet this had come about in a perfectly natural way. When Martine
returned from her summer with Amy in Acadia, her mother, who met her in
Boston, was so much better that it seemed almost possible for her to
spend the winter at home. But at last her physician prescribed a few
months of travel, and as Martina's school work had already been unduly
interrupted, it was thought wiser for her to carry out the plans already
more than half formed that she should stay in Boston to attend Miss
Crawdon's school. It was therefore a disappointment to Mrs. Stratford
just before school opened to hear that Mrs. Montgomery, Martine's
so-called "dragon," was ill. For several years the latter had been in
the habit of having a few girls from a distance board with her while
they attended school in Boston. When Mrs. Montgomery could not take her,
Martine's parents thought that they must altogether give up the Boston
plan. Mrs. Blair, a cousin of Martine's mother, with whom she had stayed
in the spring, was now in Europe. Mrs. Redmond, in whose charge they
would have liked to put Martine, had engaged a boarding-place in
Wellesley, to be near her daughter in college; and had there been no
other reason against Martine's living in Wellesley also, her parents
objected to her going back and forth daily on the trains. The case
seemed hopeless for Martine's staying in Boston until Brenda Weston came
to the rescue.
Brenda was for a few days at the large hotel overlooking the park, where
also Mr. and Mrs. Stratford and Martine were staying. Martine had heard
much of Brenda, though she had never met her until one afternoon when
Amy came to call. Delighted to have the opportunity, she immediately
introduced Brenda to her Chicago friends. This happened to be the very
day when Martine was feeling most discouraged regarding her school
plans. For although the young girl sometimes scoffed at Boston, she
really wished to spend the winter there. Her summer's companionship with
Amy and Priscilla had increased her ambition, and she was anxious to
study at Miss Crawdon's.
Very naturally, then, she confided her troubles to Brenda. Brenda
sympathized with her, but made no suggestion until she had talked the
matter over with her own family and with Martine's mother. When Mrs.
Stratford told Martine that Brenda had offered to take her under her
wing for the winter, Martine, overjoyed, rushed to Brenda's room to
express her thanks.
"I can't tell you how delighted I am at the thought of living with you
in that dear little flat. It will be much more fun than anything else I
could possibly do."
Brenda looked at her keenly, shaking her head in mock reproof.
"You are not coming to me just for fun. Your mother says that this must
be a very serious year for you, that you did not do so very well in
school last year, and that--"
"There, there, Brenda,--I mean Mrs. Weston, dear,--I can be terribly
serious. You will see for yourself. But still you want me to have a
_little_ fun, just a little--"
"Oh, yes; I am not a regular dragon, but I understand the importance of
work."
With a sudden movement Martine, who had been standing behind Brenda,
threw her arms over Brenda's head, placed her hands over Brenda's mouth,
thus silencing her for the moment.
"Now listen, listen," she cried; "listen, please! Of course I am only
too glad to be your ward, and I will be as good as good can be. I would
promise anything rather than go to boarding-school, or live with Mrs.
Blair, or board in a house full of girls. Lucian hopes I'll stay in
Boston because he is a little lonely sometimes at college, and I wish to
stay with you, and you are so sweet to give me the chance that I really
won't make any trouble for you."
So it was settled, and Mr. and Mrs. Stratford went home, quite satisfied
to leave Martine in Brenda's care. They would have been better pleased
had Mrs. Redmond been able to take complete charge of their daughter;
but as it was, Mrs. Redmond promised to have Martine constantly in mind
and to help her when any emergency arose.
It was Martine's one regret, when she took up her abode with Brenda,
that she had not become Brenda's ward early enough in the season to help
her furnish.
"It must have been such fun," she said one day soon after her arrival,
"to shop for all these pretty things, and decide on wallpapers and rugs,
and fit them into their little corners and nooks."
"You know I didn't have to go shopping for all my belongings; you have
no idea what quantities of things were given me."
"Oh, I can imagine, just by looking around. Wedding presents are so
fascinating."
"But still," continued Brenda, "there were certain things I had to buy,
chairs and tables, for example, and it was hard sometimes to decide
between Mission styles and mahogany, and whether the bedstead should be
brass or painted iron for the smaller rooms; and then the kitchen
furnishings were puzzling. Of course I'm not perfectly satisfied with
everything, but, on the whole, we must be contented until we have a
house."
"Oh, how can you speak of a house! This is ever so much better. It's the
prettiest flat I ever saw; don't you just love to be up here in the top?
You can see over everything, even to the river, and down the avenue and
up the avenue; it's more like Paris than anything I've seen since I was
in Europe."
"I do enjoy the view," replied Brenda. "I should hate to be shut in in a
narrow street. I don't like it here quite as well as in our old house on
the water side of Beacon street, where my room had such a broad
outlook."
"You must have hated to leave home."
"In a way I did, but though mamma tried to persuade me to stay with her
this winter, I felt that I just must begin to keep house myself."
"You ought to be very happy that you are so near your mother." Martine
spoke wistfully; although she wouldn't have admitted it for the world,
she was beginning to be homesick. Chicago seemed altogether too far
away.
"It is pleasant," replied Brenda, "to be able to run in and out there
when I please. Besides, my sister and her children are there, and I am
awfully fond of the little girls."
"Naturally. But that reminds me, though there isn't any real connection
with what we've been talking about, you haven't shown me your kitchen.
Can't we go out there now?"
"Why, yes,"--then Brenda's face clouded,--"if the cook--"
"Oh, Brenda Weston! You are afraid of the cook."
Brenda colored. "Not afraid; only you know cooks are so queer, and of
course dinners have to be just so, and she's apt to spoil things if
anything annoys her. But this is her afternoon out."
"Then we can go and look through everything," and Martine thereupon
followed Brenda through the long narrow hall to the little kitchen at
the very end of the suite.
"You see," explained Brenda, as they entered the cook's domain, "though
this is not an old house, the kitchen needed some improvements that I
learned are necessary when I lived at the Mansion. It's astonishing how
many things men forget when they build houses. Now, out here, there was
an old-fashioned closed-in wooden sink, but I had it replaced with this
open one at our expense, and this tiling put all around the walls, and
here, this was my idea and this," and one by one she pointed out many
little things that might have escaped Martine's notice.
"I learned so much," continued Brenda, "that year at the Mansion School.
You see a year ago last spring I was very low-spirited. Everything
seemed so gloomy after the war began, so I went for a while to help
Julia with her girls; and hardly anyone, hardly Julia herself, realized
that I was learning. But I was, and somehow things that I didn't know I
had noticed sank into my mind, and when we began to get this apartment
ready, I was really practical; even my mother said so. Arthur was
pleased, and my sister Anna was perfectly astonished. You know she has
lived mostly in studios, or in houses where someone else did the
planning, and this year at home with mother she has no responsibility,
so she can't understand how I know so much about housekeeping."
"It _is_ strange, it seems strange to me," responded Martine. "No one
would ever expect you to know a thing."
"Why not? Do I appear a perfect ignoramus?" There was indignation in
Brenda's tone.
"Oh, no, of course not; only kitchens are so different, so--well, I
shouldn't expect you to know about kitchen work."
"Then, I confess, there's one thing I don't understand very well. I
really cannot cook. Sometimes I think it's on account of the cooking
class we used to have; it was too much like work, and so I didn't try to
remember what I was taught. That's why I'm afraid of the cook, for if
she should leave suddenly, I don't know what I should do."
"I know what _I'd_ do," responded Martine, quickly. "I'd go to a
restaurant; it's ever so much more fun than dining at home. Why, when I
was visiting my cousin in New York, we went somewhere nearly every
evening. Of course there isn't a Sherry's or a Waldorf-Astoria here--"
"Oh, I don't want to dine at restaurants when I've a house of my own.
Besides, I'm going to learn--look!" and Brenda opened the door of a
small closet. "These are all electric things," and she pointed to a row
of silver kettles and chafing-dishes. "We have two plugs in the
dining-room wall and can cook almost anything without going into the
kitchen. But come, I've something to show you in my own room now." As
they turned away Martine exclaimed, "If you have a good receipe book,
with all those shiny saucepans, I'm sure you needn't care whether you
have a cook or not."
"I'm not so sure," responded Brenda, "and I can't help being just a
little afraid."
"Pshaw! How absurd!--as if you could really be afraid of anything,"
retorted Martine with a smile.
Now, interesting though Martine found her life under Brenda's roof, she
soon realized that her winter was not to be one wholly of pleasure. Her
studies had been carried on so irregularly for a year or two that she
now perceived that she must settle down to regular work. School had been
in session a week or two before she returned to Miss Crawdon's; this
fact was not altogether in her favor, and she found herself a little
behind the girls in her class. But Martine was resolute, and when she
once set herself at a task in genuine earnest, she was likely to go
ahead with a will. So, for the first month she studied diligently; it
was to her advantage that she had not many Boston acquaintances.
Brenda, in her new position of guide and philosopher as well as friend,
gave Martine much good advice. One day in a serious mood she expressed
the hope that Martine would not think of ending her studies at Miss
Crawdon's school.
"It's astonishing," she said, "how many girls are beginning to fit for
college, though when I was in school many of us thought my cousin Julia
queer because she studied Greek and wished to go to Radcliffe; yet
really she wasn't queer at all, only rather more interesting than most
people."
"I should like so much to see her, everyone seems so fond of her,"
responded Martine. "When will she come back from Europe?"
"Not before summer, I think. She worked so hard at the Mansion School
last year that we all hope she'll get all she can out of this journey.
She's studying, of course, for she never can be perfectly idle; but I am
glad to say that she has gone back to her music, for that is the thing
she has the most talent for."
"Oh, dear," sighed Martine, "how delightful it must be to know that you
have a talent for anything. It seems to me sometimes that I haven't a
particle of talent. I can do several things passably well, but no one
thing better than another. Mother thinks that the Boston air is going to
develop some special talent of mine, but which or what, nobody knows.
For my own part, as I said before, I am sure that I have no talent."
"Don't be so severe toward yourself," expostulated Brenda. "I am sure of
one thing--you have a talent for being pleasant and amusing."
"I'm not quite sure that that is exactly a compliment."
"But, really, I mean it to be one."