A DROP OF INK
"Somehow I find it awfully hard to settle down to work," said Martine to
one of the girls at school a day or two after Washington's Birthday. "I
don't know whether it's the holiday--or what."
"It's 'what,' I think; vacations ought not to hurt us, they are meant to
set one up."
"How literal you are! Look at Priscilla; she's as busy as can be. She
knows how to study at school; but then of course there couldn't have
been anything very exciting in a Plymouth holiday; but although she was
away only two days I do wonder that she can study so in school."
"It's a sensible thing, all the same, and saves home study. I begrudge
more than an hour a day out of school, and if you don't work here, you
surely have to spend three or four hours there."
"You'll have to spend more than an hour a day on home work if you are
going to prepare that essay. Isn't it outrageous?"
"Well, it's as fair for one as for another. There's no use in talking
about it now; we must keep at this translation." And for the next ten
minutes the two girls kept their eyes on their Virgils.
Martine and Grace had gone into a small room off the main schoolroom,
where a certain amount of conversation was permitted to two girls who
happened to be studying together. They were not expected, however, to
wander far from the lesson they had set out to prepare, and idle
conversation, if overheard, would have carried a reproof. Yet the
special essay to which Grace had referred was for the time uppermost in
the minds of most of Miss Crawdon's pupils, and to Martine the necessity
for writing it was peculiarly disagreeable; she did not pretend to be
literary; her brightness and energy expressed themselves in far
different ways. She could talk better than most girls, but when it came
to putting her thoughts on paper in an extended form, she was really at
sea. No one sympathized with her when she protested that it was
absolutely impossible for her to write a ten-page essay on the question
"Is the pen mightier than the sword?"
"Why, it's what I call the simplest kind of a subject," said Priscilla.
"We all know that war is a terrible thing and ought to be done away
with, and that a good book accomplishes a great deal more than the most
famous battle. That's all the subject means."
"Oh, is it?" queried Martine, somewhat sarcastically. "Well, I'd like to
see you fill ten large foolscap pages proving it."
"That's easy enough; just get your thoughts together."
"I can get a few of them together, but when it comes to putting them on
paper, that's quite another thing."
Yet in the face of Martine's evident despair, Priscilla still insisted
that the subject was not difficult, and that if Martine would simply
collect her thoughts, she would soon find words to fill ten pages.
"Of course you've got to look up authorities on peace and war and some
of the poets like Whittier and Tennyson, and Longfellow's 'Ship of
State,' and say something about 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and look over your
English history pretty carefully."
"Oh, Priscilla, with all my other lessons? It's quite natural for you to
know where to find all these authorities and poems, but it's quite
another thing for me, and there's likely to be some splendid skating
this month; and it's odious to have to stay cooped up in the house when
the afternoons are short enough at the best."
But at last Martine had to yield to necessity, and less than a week
before the day when the essays were to be handed in she sat down for one
last, and it may be said first, great effort.
Lucian, happening in from Cambridge, laughed as he saw her forlorn face
as she sat at a table littered with papers.
"What a ridiculous fuss," he cried, "about a little composition."
"It isn't a little composition; it's an essay."
"Well, what's the difference? You ought to have daily themes, then you'd
know."
"We do, we have them once a week, every Monday morning."
"Daily themes,--once a week!" and again Lucian laughed.
"You needn't laugh, Lucian. Of course it's easy enough to write; that
isn't the trouble; but it's getting things together."
"What things?"
"My ideas. Oh, if I were only Priscilla."
"Well, you are not; she's altogether different. But what's this?" cried
Lucian, picking up a paper from the table.
"Oh, that's one of Priscilla's last year's essays. It's perfectly
splendid, and she thought it might help me to look it over."
"Why don't you get her to help you in some other way?"
"Oh, that wouldn't do. We're supposed to do this all alone. It's a kind
of test. You see the little themes are different. We write accounts of
things we see, or that somebody tells us; but Miss Crawdon likes things
we observe, and I am always seeing something funny. Everyone laughs at
what I write. But I just can't do a long logical essay, and I don't want
mine to be the very worst in the class."
"Of course not." Lucian's tone was more sympathetic than usual. "There
can't be any harm in my helping you." And he took up a pencil.
"I'm not sure," responded Martine; "but still a brother, I suppose, is
different from anyone else."
"Naturally," said Lucian, undisturbed by any scruples.
In a moment the two were at work, or rather Lucian was working, while
Martine listened intently.
"First of all," he began, in a professorial manner, "you must think out
your subject carefully and sub-divide it--so--and so. Then, well,
whenever you have a thought, write it down on a piece of paper or a
card--if I were you I'd buy a box of blank cards." Martine instantly
resolved to pay a visit to a wholesale stationer's, and Lucian spent a
few moments in cogitation and then wrote down a number of headings on
small squares of paper. He had never before had so good a chance to
expose the methods of his favorite English course.
"See, now, you kind of shuffle and arrange your headings, and you begin
to think of other funny little things to put in, and write them out on
large sheets, and before you know it, it's almost done. Now try."
Martine tried. Lucian's method was something like a game, and under his
guidance she made a fair beginning. Before they had fairly started on
the essay, Lucian talked learnedly about "clearness," and "force," and
"elegance," and Martine listened, somewhat dazzled by her brother's show
of knowledge.
"Well, Harvard has done you some good, after all, Lucian. As a sophomore
you seem to be making up for what you lost in your freshman year."
"There, there, child, no twitting on facts. Of course Harvard has done a
great deal for me. Why else should I go to college?"
"I wonder what college would do for me. What would you think of my going
to Radcliffe, for example?" Martine looked anxiously at her brother; she
had known boys who positively opposed their sister's ambitions in this
direction.
"Well, if you could get in," said Lucian, "I think it would be a mighty
good thing."
The "if" nettled Martine.
"What other girls do I suppose I could do too."
"Oh, yes; and if you should turn out like Miss Amy Redmond, or if you'd
work like Priscilla, why I'd be proud enough of you."
"Ah, Amy's a brick," responded Martine, "but I didn't know that you
really admired Priscilla. Robert Pringle says she's just the kind boys
don't like."
"Oh, Robert is too fresh; he can't settle everything, though he thinks
he can. But here, we can't waste time. Remember that you're trying to
prove your point."
"Yes, the point of the sword," said Martine.
"No frivolity, child." And by their united efforts they made a draft of
the essay, which Lucian copied out in his peculiar back hand, and later
Martine, still further expanding what he presented to her, was able to
produce ten pages that were not only fairly logical, according to
Lucian's standards, but in addition had various humorous little touches
from the hand of Martine. Priscilla was so busy with her own work that
she hardly had time to observe that Martine had ceased to complain at
what she had at first called "an outrageous task."
On the morning when the essays were handed in, Miss Crawdon made a short
speech to the class. "You will be interested, I am sure, to hear that I
have decided to award a prize for the best essay. I did not suggest this
in advance, because in a general way I do not approve of school
competition. You have worked under natural conditions, and although only
one girl will have a prize, I am sure all the others will see nothing
unfair in this distinction, since all have had an equal chance. All have
worked independently without help from anyone, and none have been
tempted to put themselves under too severe a strain. I ought to say that
the prize, which consists of the new two-volume 'Life of Tennyson,' is a
gift from Mrs. Edward Elton. You remember that she was one of our
teachers here a few years ago and that English was her specialty. When
she left this school she helped establish the Mansion School in the
house of her grandmother, Madame DuLaunuy. For more than a year she and
Mr. Elton have been travelling abroad, but she writes to me often about
the school, and her interest in our English work still continues."
In the brief interval following Miss Crawdon's speech, those girls who
had known the former Miss South said one or two agreeable things about
her to the others, and it pleased Martine to recall that Mr. Elton was a
cousin of Brenda's. But she was not altogether pleased that the essay
with which Lucian had helped her was to compete for a prize. In this
special case Martine was not quite sure of the precise line between
right and wrong, and until she could decide this for herself, she
thought it not worth while to discuss the matter with others.
Now it happened, strangely enough, that the essay which in a small way
had been a snare for Martine also caused some trouble for Priscilla. The
beginning came on the Friday after the essays were handed in. In the
early afternoon Priscilla had an errand to do for her aunt at the
farther end of Commonwealth Avenue. There was no Symphony this week, and
she enjoyed the change. As she walked homeward, she was in an unusually
happy mood. It was one of those mild days in late January that seemed to
be preparing the way for an early spring. The path under the trees in
the middle of the park was rather wet from melting snow and ice, and
after trying it for a few steps, Priscilla preferred the sidewalk. There
she walked down between the rows of nurses with their baby carriages, or
little children in charge. "A prize baby show" Martine had called it.
Priscilla enjoyed the show and thought of her little brothers and
sisters at home as she stopped at intervals to speak to some child she
knew. From the Avenue she crossed the Garden and stood for a moment on
the bridge to watch the ice breaking in the pond; and she continued her
walk along the mall of the Common, until she was opposite Spruce Street.
Turning into the narrower streets, when at last she reached her aunt's
house, it seemed particularly gloomy, and she wished that she might have
stayed out in the sun an hour longer. But she realized that the task
before her could not be postponed. The weekly theme must be ready on
Monday, and nothing could be accomplished unless she set herself at
work. Filling her fountain pen carefully she sat down at a small table
near the window and began her task.
Although Priscilla frowned slightly, as almost any girl will frown when
writing a theme, the frown was not very deep. She expected no real
difficulties at the present stage of her work, as she had already made a
good draft in pencil, and it only remained now for her to copy it.
At first her pen fairly flew over the paper, but after a time, as it may
happen even with more accomplished authors, she grew a little weary, and
rising, she walked to the window. Then she took a few steps around the
room, at the same time idly flourishing her pen. The habits of fountain
pens are indeed hard to understand. There certainly seemed to be no
reason why Priscilla's pen should have chosen the particular moment when
she stood beside her bureau for a catastrophe. Priscilla herself was
almost petrified with horror as she gazed at the great black spot on the
immaculate bureau-scarf. How could one little drop of ink, falling
carelessly from a pen held upside down, spread itself into such a big
spot?
After her first resentment against the pen, which she quickly laid down
on the blotter on her table, Priscilla's irritation took a new form.
"I always hated that bureau-scarf. I always thought it foolish of aunt
Tilworth to put it in my room. She has told me a dozen times that it was
made by a favorite cousin who can never make any more like it because
she's dead. I can't bear to think what she will say when she sees this."
Priscilla went closer to the bureau. Fortunately the spot was on the
plain material, some distance from the embroidery. It almost looked as
if she might wash it out--if ink ever could be washed out. If it should
stay, how could she ever explain the accident to her aunt, since it was
an unwritten law of the house that ink was to be used only in the
library?
"This might help a little," she murmured, tearing off a small piece from
her blotter, and applying it to the spot. But the ink had been so
thoroughly absorbed that her efforts made no impression. Then she
remembered something she had read and rushed to the kitchen.
"A glass of milk, is it?" exclaimed the crabbed old cook; "and why
didn't you send the housemaid?" But Priscilla secured the milk, and
while she was busily mopping the spot, Martine appeared on the scene.
"You queer child, what are you doing? That milk will certainly spoil the
bureau."
"Oh no, it's marble underneath."
"But what are you doing? Oh, that spot? But you'll never get it out that
way. You must use salts, salts of something, I forget its name, only
it's deadly poison. They'll know what it is when you ask at the
druggist's."
"Nothing would induce me to touch poison. Please don't suggest such a
thing."
"But you're not going to taste it or give it to anyone. Just think what
your aunt would say if she saw that spot!"
"That's just what I have been thinking," said poor Priscilla, feebly. "I
hate to have her know how careless I have been."
"Then let me go--no, I am going anyway, I want to see how surprised the
druggist will be when I ask for this salts of something or other."
"He can't appear very surprised if you don't know its name."
"Oh, I'll tell him it's a deadly poison, and that I want it immediately.
Good-bye, Prissie dear, I'll soon be back, alive or dead."
"Now cheer up, Miss Doleful," cried Martine, when she returned ten
minutes later. "I got it easily enough, and the man hardly seemed
surprised, though he put a little poison label on the box."
Priscilla handled the box gingerly.
"There, there," cried Martine, "it won't hurt you! Give it back!" And
taking off the cover, she disclosed some innocent looking crystals.
Moistening a few of these, she spread the pasty mass on the spot.
"My, how it stings! My tongue is burning."
"You didn't taste it! I thought you said it was poison?"
"Oh, I got some on my fingers. But I know it won't hurt. But there,"
scraping the crystals from the spot, "it hasn't done a bit of good."
"Yes, it has done a little. I think the ink is not quite so black. But a
brown spot is about as bad as a black one."
"I'll tell you what we ought to do," and Martine read the label on the
box.
"We should spread this out in the sun. Then something chemical will
happen, and the ink will fade away."
"This ink will _never_ fade. I am sure of that, and besides there's no
sun to-day, and there won't be, because it's after four o'clock."
"To-morrow will do just as well," said Martine.
"If aunt Tilworth doesn't happen to come in."
"What are you afraid of, my dear Prissie? You surely don't expect your
aunt to whip you like a baby?"
"Of course not. My aunt doesn't mean to be unkind, only she is very
particular."
"I should say so. Her house shows that she was meant to be a regular old
maid. How I should love to stir things up a little. I don't suppose you
dropped that ink on purpose, though the room certainly looks far less
prim than when I saw it a day or two ago."
Priscilla bore Martine's teasing fairly well, but at last she said
firmly, "I have wasted a lot of time over this ink-spot. Now I must go
back to my work. I haven't even prepared my lessons for Monday. I know
you will excuse me, Martine, and I am ever so much obliged for your
help."
"On this hint I'll act," replied Martine, gayly. "Your spot is certainly
worse than the one in Macbeth, though I won't use the language that
Macbeth--or was it her Ladyship?--used regarding it. But don't worry,
Prissie dear. I will arrange things so that no one will know what
happened." And suiting her action to her words, Martine carefully
replaced the scarf on the table and set a large pincushion over the
ink-spot, so that not a vestige of the spot, or of the attempts to
remove it, could be seen.
Then with a word or two more of absurd advice to Priscilla, Martine,
bidding her friend good-bye, tripped lightly downstairs.
When Martine reached the lower story all was still. Priscilla had said
that her aunt was at a meeting. Evidently she had not yet returned.
On her way downstairs a mischievous plan had been forming in Martine's
brain.
"I'll never have a better chance," she said to herself, and she tiptoed
into the drawing-room.
A noise from the direction of the dining-room made her start. Then
glancing around she took heart.
"I think I can do it," she murmured, "before any one appears on the
scene."
Again she felt discouraged as she noted how massive, how immovable most
of the furniture appeared. A large centre-table in the middle of the
room pleased her; she pushed it from its place into a distant corner.
Over it she threw a scarf that had decorated a sofa. Then from the great
bookcase in the hall she took two or three volumes that she laid on the
table open and face downward.
"Everything seems glued to the walls," she murmured, "and these tidies
are so ugly. There can't be much harm in folding them up and putting
them under the sofa."
Then she paused. "This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just the
thing for Julius Caesar." And tying the striped scarf around the neck of
the great conqueror, she bolstered the bust on an easy-chair, draping an
afghan around him to conceal his lack of body and limbs.
[Illustration: "'This little scarf--it is Roman, too,--is just the thing
for Julius Caesar.'"]
Then with one or two minor touches to the room she hurried away.