PRISCILLA'S PRIDE
"Why, I never lose my temper! What do you mean?"
"That _is_ what I mean. You seldom lose your temper; I should hardly say
'never.' Neither does Priscilla."
"Well, then, why won't she let me pay for the photographs?" Martine
looked keenly at Amy, who had been spending an hour with her that
afternoon, as if she expected to read the answer in her friend's eyes.
"I cannot tell you Priscilla's reasons, but her spirit of independence."
"Spirit of independence! Boys of '76! How tired I am of American
history! Priscilla is just like one of her own Pilgrim Fathers--only
more so. Probably any one of them would have let a friend pay for one of
those neat silhouettes, especially if the friend had insisted on having
it made, or taken, or cut, or whatever it was that they did to make
silhouettes; but Priscilla is a great deal harder than Plymouth Rock,
and that is saying no little."
"All the same, you and Priscilla will have to settle this affair for
yourselves," and rising from her seat, after a few words of farewell,
Amy left Martine to reflect on the matter they had been discussing.
Now the dispute between Priscilla and Martine, if worth dignifying by so
serious a name, was not of a kind likely to make lasting trouble between
friends. For some time Martine had been teasing Priscilla to have her
photograph taken, and Priscilla had never given a decided answer. At
last one day, as they passed a fashionable gallery, Martine had insisted
that the two should go in merely to look at samples of the
photographer's work. On the impulse Martine decided that it would be
great fun for them to be taken together. Vainly Priscilla protested that
her costume was not suitable, that she didn't feel in the mood for
sitting; Martine carried her point and two or three negatives were made
of Priscilla and Martine sitting or standing, side by side. Then two or
three were made of the two girls, each by herself. When the proofs were
sent home, the photographs of Priscilla were exceedingly good. But
Priscilla hesitating about ordering the finished pictures, she did not
give the whole reason to Martine. Her hesitation came from the fact that
the artist was expensive and that she had already exceeded her allowance
for Christmas presents.
"I do not think that I can really afford them," she said at last to
Martine one day, when the latter asked her if she had made her choice
among the negatives. "I should simply love," she added, "to have some
for my mother and a few of my relations Christmas, but I shall have to
wait a little before deciding."
Yet while she spoke she retained in her hand one proof that seemed to
meet her approval.
"Then this is the one you prefer?" said Martine, taking it gently in her
own hand.
"Yes, I haven't had a photograph since I was a small girl, but I am sure
that mother would be delighted with this one."
A week later a box came by mail to Priscilla. Opening it she found not
only a half dozen of the photographs in which she and Martine were taken
together, but also a dozen of the single heads, finished in the most
expensive style. For a moment she was rather upset by the packet. "Of
course there's some mistake," she said. "The man must have thought that
I meant to give an order like Martine's, but I can never in the world
afford these, and mother would be displeased with me for ordering them.
There is only one thing--I'm sure to have some money given me at
Christmas, and I can use some, or all of it, to pay this bill."
No bill was contained in the package, and after a few days, when
Priscilla went to the photographer's to ask for it, she was told that it
was already paid. Then she sought Martine, who did not deny that she had
paid the bill.
"Why, it was the proper thing for me to do," she said. "It was I who had
the photographs taken, and I who ordered them finished. I can't see that
you have much to do with the matter now, except to send the photographs
as Christmas cards. I can tell you they'll go like hot cakes, for they
are just as good as they can be."
But Priscilla was firm, and though Martine tried to be firmer, she could
not get her friend to promise to accept the pictures as a gift.
"They are really not a gift, either," urged Martine, "for I myself
wanted to be in a group with you, and you stood there only to oblige me;
so certainly you've earned something for your trouble, and as to the
single heads, I wanted a separate picture of you, and while the
photographer was about it, it didn't cost much more for a dozen than for
one."
Again Priscilla presented her side, adding only that she must ask
Martine to wait until after Christmas for the sum she had spent.
"If I didn't like the photographs," she concluded, "the whole thing
would be different; but I do like them, and I can send them away as
Christmas gifts, and so I must pay the bill."
"But it came to me."
"For my photographs?"
"No, for mine; I had them taken. They wouldn't have been printed if I
hadn't ordered them."
"Oh, but mine are mine."
"Why, of course they are yours--at least all that were sent to your
house."
"I can't bear to be obliged to anyone else for them."
"That's one of your greatest faults, Priscilla; you hate to be obliged
to anybody for anything."
So for the present the discussion was dropped, though each friend was
determined that in the end she would carry her own point.
This steadfast holding to her purpose was what Martine called
Priscilla's "ill-temper," in describing the affair to Amy. Though she
inwardly approved of her friend's independence, she felt that after she
had approved of it Priscilla ought then to be ready to yield to her.
"It is strange," she said, "that I can never get Priscilla to accept
anything from me. 'Pride goeth before destruction,' and that will be the
way with Priscilla. Something will surely happen to her if she keeps on
like this."
In the early summer, a few months before, Priscilla and Martine had
first become really acquainted, when as travelling companions they made
a journey with Amy and her mother. For some time the two seemed far from
congenial; each looked at life from a very different standpoint.
Priscilla, brought up rather strictly and economically, prided herself,
perhaps unduly, on her unworldliness, and found it hard to understand
the extravagant, fun-loving Martine. But each girl at last accepted the
other's good qualities, and before they had left Canadian soil the two
had begun to be good friends. When Martine's plans were finally settled,
Priscilla was delighted that she and the young Chicagoan were to be at
the same school.
Now Priscilla, although for a long time she had spent several weeks of
each year in Boston with her aunt, Mrs. Tilworth, had made few friends
among the girls of her own age whose parents her mother or her aunt
knew. Her natural shyness stood in her way when they came to call on
her, and when she returned their calls she progressed no further.
Often she was invited to their parties, and when she could not escape
it, she accepted their invitations. Though she took part in their games
in a quiet way, no one paid much attention to the pale little girl who
always seemed ill at ease.
One awful day Mrs. Tilworth decided that she must give a party for
Priscilla; in vain Priscilla protested that she hated parties. The
invitations were written and sent out, and on the appointed afternoon
Priscilla, in a ruffled muslin gown, had to stand beside her aunt to
receive her guests. When she had safely passed through this ordeal she
slipped away to a corner, where she sat for a while looking on. When she
found that no one tried to draw her out, she managed to slip still
farther away. "They don't need me," she murmured. Later, when they
looked for her, that she might take her place at the head of the
table--for it was a children's party, with a sit-down supper at six
o'clock--there was a great uproar when she could not be found. At last
two or three of the children went to Priscilla's room, and entering
without knocking, they saw her seated in an easy-chair by the droplight
on the little centre table. She was so engrossed in the book she was
reading that at first she did not hear them, and when one of them
snatched the volume out of her hand to read the title, they discovered
that it was a little history of Mary Queen of Scots.
"Those children tired me," she explained later to her aunt. "They played
so hard, and I just thought I'd go upstairs and read for a while."
Somehow the story got out. Mrs. Tilworth repeated it to one of the older
girls, and for a long time Priscilla was called behind her back "Mary
Queen of Scots," only someone said, "She will never lose her head, her
neck is so stiff."
Martine, when Brenda told her of this story, could not help laughing, in
spite of her desire to be loyal to her friend.
"Priscilla is still stiff-necked," she said, "but already since she's
had my acquaintance she's been forced to unbend a little, and before
another summer comes round her education will be much further advanced."
Priscilla was conscious of her own shyness, and often envied those girls
who seemed to have so much fun together.
"I shouldn't expect Priscilla to be very cheerful while she lives with
Mrs. Tilworth; the house is really gloomy; it has plenty of windows, but
the curtains are always pulled down, and the furniture is so heavy and
primly arranged that it naturally affects Priscilla's disposition."
What Martine said was true to a great extent. Mrs. Tilworth's house was
halfway up the hill, not so very far from the Mansion School, but its
whole aspect, inside and out, was far less attractive than Mrs.
DuLaunuy's. It was furnished in the heavy style of about fifty years
ago, lacking the elegance of real antiquity. Priscilla's room was large
and overfurnished, with its great black walnut bedstead and marble-top
table and heavy rocking-chairs. But it wasn't exactly a young girl's
room, and the gilt-framed steel engravings on the wall gave her no
inspiration for study or work. Secretly she envied Martine her cheerful
room in Brenda's apartment, with its couch covered in pink and white
cretonne, its white enamelled dressing-table and oval mirror, brass
bedstead, and rattan chairs cushioned to match the divan. She did not
express her envy of these pretty belongings, lest she should appear
ungrateful to Mrs. Tilworth; for she knew that her aunt wished her to be
comfortable and happy, according to her own standard of comfort and
happiness. Indeed most people who knew Mrs. Tilworth thought Priscilla
exceedingly fortunate in having so good a home offered her at a time
when her mother was especially burdened with care.
Although Mrs. Tilworth had never expressed herself on the subject,
Martine believed that she did not approve of persons who lived in
apartments. The little original prejudice that she had against Martine
as an outsider was probably somewhat stronger from this fact.
"I should think," she had said to Priscilla, "that Mrs. Stratford must
have been greatly disappointed that Mrs. Montgomery could not take
Martine this winter; it would have been so much better for her to live
in a house."
"But an apartment is just as pleasant," Priscilla had responded, "and
it's a fine thing that Brenda Weston was able to take her. Brenda lives
in a flat because it's more economical."
"Don't say 'flat'; you've learned that from Martine; in Boston we always
say 'apartment.' But an apartment on the Avenue is not economical, my
dear child. A whole house on Chestnut Street would cost no more, and
though I would not make anyone else's business my own, I can't
understand how anyone who might live in a house can prefer a few rooms
high up in the air."
"It's very homelike there," sighed Priscilla, casting a glance around
the large, gloomy dining-room, where they sat at dinner. "I always enjoy
myself at Brenda's--"
Mrs. Tilworth, noticing the sigh, looked sharply at her niece. "I hope
you are perfectly happy with me," she said.
"Oh, yes, indeed I am; you are certainly very kind."
Yet even as she spoke, Priscilla realized that in some ways she wasn't
benefiting as she should from her aunt's kindness, and she began to
wonder if the fault might not lie a little with herself.
A few days after the discussion about the photographs, Priscilla came to
school with a letter in her hand.
"It's from Eunice," she said, as she and Martine sat together near a
window, a quarter of an hour before the time for the school to begin.
"Oh, read me what she says," urged Martine. "Her letters are always
entertaining, because they are so old-fashioned."
Eunice Airton was a young girl near Priscilla's age, whose acquaintance
Mrs. Redmond and her party had made during their stay in Annapolis. She
was especially Priscilla's friend, while her brother Balfour was
Martine's ideal of an independent college boy; and it was rather because
she hoped to hear some news of Balfour that Martine urged Priscilla to
read the letter.
"I am sorry to say," wrote Eunice, "that I hardly think it will be
possible for me to go to college. It will be very difficult for me to
overcome the prejudices of my mother, who still does not think it is
quite proper for a girl to have the same education as a man. But the
fact that you are planning to go to college will have much weight with
her, for, as you perhaps know, she thinks you quite a model and says
that she never can realize that you are an American."
Martine smiled at this expression of Mrs. Airton's opinion, which indeed
she had heard more than once before. "Eunice," she said to Priscilla,
"is too polite to repeat all that her mother said in speaking of you.
She probably contrasted you with me, whom, I am sure, she considers the
typical Yankee girl."
"Oh, no, of course not," protested Priscilla, continuing to read
Eunice's letter.
"Before I tell you of any of my own personal affairs, I must mention
something that will interest you more deeply. There is an Acadian family
living in Annapolis, and whom do you suppose they have had visiting them
lately? Why, the little Yvonne, the blind girl, of whom I have heard you
speak, who is the special protegee, if I remember, of Miss Stratford. It
is indeed due to her kindness, I understand, that Yvonne has been able
to make this journey from Meteghan, and I am told that she is to stay
here three months under the care of a physician who thinks that he can
help her eyes. She is also to take lessons on the piano, as those who
are interested in her think that it is better for her to let her voice
rest for the present, but to play the piano well enough to accompany her
songs will some time be a great advantage to her."
"There," exclaimed Martine, excitedly, "that's a fine idea! I wonder who
suggested it to the Babets. It isn't likely that the doctor can do so
very much for her eyes, but it will be splendid for her to get a start
in music. When I see papa at Christmas I intend to persuade him to have
Yvonne brought to Boston for a year."
"Oh, that would be a great expense," said Priscilla, "and someone would
have to take care of her."
"That could be managed easily enough, if I can only get papa thoroughly
interested."
"I think he has already done his part, for it's through the money he
gave you for Yvonne that she is able to be in Annapolis now."
"I wonder how Eunice used her money; did she ever tell you, Priscilla?"
"No," replied Priscilla; "but she may have helped her mother about the
mortgage, and perhaps she may have put a little aside for a college
nest-egg. She is so practical."
"It's wonderful--isn't it, Priscilla?--that you should have met a girl
you approve of so thoroughly in a corner of the world that isn't
Plymouth or even Boston."
Priscilla, as she folded up her letter, looked questioningly at Martine.
There was something that she did not quite understand in Martine's
attitude toward Eunice.
Whatever question she had in mind remained for the time unspoken. It was
time for school to begin, and they hurried to their places.