A PRIZE WINNER
While Martine was thus mischievously occupied, Priscilla, unconscious of
what was going on, continued her work.
She had not heard her aunt come in, but when she went down to dinner she
instantly realized that Mrs. Tilworth was displeased. Was there any
possibility that the injury to the bureau-scarf had been discovered? At
once Priscilla dismissed that thought, knowing Mrs. Tilworth could not
have been in her room, as she herself had not left it.
As the young girl turned toward the dining-room Mrs. Tilworth laid her
hand on her shoulder.
"This way, please," she said briefly, pointing toward the room where
Julius Caesar was enthroned in his easy-chair.
Priscilla could not suppress a smile at the absurd sight.
"Then you did it?"
"I? Why of course not! I haven't been downstairs."
Then Priscilla stopped. She remembered her visit to the kitchen, and for
the present she was not anxious to explain the glass of milk.
"But who could have done this ridiculous thing? An earthquake couldn't
have done much more."
Priscilla hardly dared glance around the dishevelled room. Some of the
results accomplished by Martine were foolish, others were improvements
on the original arrangement of things.
"You must have had a visitor," continued Mrs. Tilworth, pursuing her
search for information.
Priscilla was silent. She perceived that Martine had been the
mischief-maker, and for the moment she was indignant with her friend.
Martine might have realized that an act of this kind would bring Mrs.
Tilworth's wrath on Priscilla as well as on the absent perpetrator of
the mischief.
"Then it was Martine Stratford!" continued Mrs. Tilworth. "I am glad
that you had no hand in this foolishness, Priscilla. For I take your
word that you have not been downstairs. But I am disappointed in
Martine. She has attractive manners, and lately she seemed to be toning
down. Certainly she appeared very well at the dinner the other evening.
Her mother, too, is a sensible woman. So it must be her father who
spoils Martine. The girl has had a training very different from yours,
and her sense of responsibility is small."
"She didn't mean anything, I am sure of that," protested Priscilla.
"Didn't mean anything! That's just the trouble. After this I must ask
you to see less of Martine. Really I ought not to have let you spend so
much time with her."
"Mamma knows all about Martine. She does not object."
"She _will_ object when she learns how disrespectful Martine has been to
me. As if I did not know how to arrange my own furniture."
Again Priscilla felt like smiling. Martine's hints had been understood,
even though they might not be followed.
Mrs. Tilworth was a fair-minded woman, and after expressing herself
clearly on the subject of Martine's misdeeds, she did not try to make
her niece more uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Priscilla's dinner hour that
evening was far from cheerful. She wondered if it might not be wiser, as
well as more honest, to tell her aunt of her own mishap of the
afternoon. Yet the more she thought of it, the less inclined was she to
do this. She clung to the hope that with a further effort she could make
the scarf as good as new.
That night she dreamed of wading through rivers of ink, and in her
dreams she saw the bust of Julius Caesar sitting on a bridge with many
small black ink-spots mottling the bald head.
In the intervals between her dreams she tossed about restlessly, and she
thought of all the little criticisms that she had ever heard anyone make
about Mrs. Tilworth.
"After all, she isn't my real aunt," she murmured; "only my uncle's
widow, and I suppose she just hates to have me here. But she has a kind
of family pride, and thinks that it will help mamma. I know the house is
furnished queerly. I heard mamma say that it is neither antique, nor
modern--only second-rate. Those black walnut things are always ugly,
even Martine knows better."
Yet in all her ruminations Priscilla had to admit that Mrs. Tilworth had
always treated her kindly. She had no real grievance against her aunt.
She was merely afraid of the reproof that her carelessness merited.
Now it was one of Mrs. Tilworth's theories that a girl should make her
own bed and dust her own furniture. It was a theory, too, that she put
into practice. Except on sweeping days, Priscilla took entire care of
her own room. Sometimes she begrudged the time that she had to spend in
this way. But on the morning after Martine's visit she was pleased that
no housemaid had the right to handle the things on her bureau. Now, as
this was Saturday morning, Priscilla took more time than usual dusting
and arranging things generally. She did not dare move the corpulent
pincushion lest someone should come in upon her while she was examining
the ink mark. She knew that her aunt had a morning engagement, and while
she worked she listened eagerly for the closing of the front door that
would show that her aunt had departed.
But alas for her calculations! While she was still dusting her
mantle-piece, Mrs. Tilworth, with hat and coat on, entered the room.
"My dear," began Mrs. Tilworth, kindly, "you must not take to yourself
all that I said about Martine Stratford. You and she are really very
different, and although I cannot say that her acquaintance was forced
upon you, still it came about almost by accident. Had you not both gone
to Acadia in Mrs. Redmond's care, you never would have known each other
so well. You are not careless--I see you have been putting your room in
order. It looks very well, but this pincushion is too near the edge.
Dear me, what is this?"
Poor Priscilla reddened as Mrs. Tilworth gazed in horror at the spot
that the cushion had concealed.
Her aunt's praise in the first place had been unexpected, and now she
felt that she could hardly bear her reproof.
"What is this?" continued Mrs. Tilworth, picking up one of the tiny
crystals from the cloth and touching it to the tip of her tongue. "As I
thought, oxalic acid."
"Martine called it salts of lemon."
"So this is some of Martine's work, too. Perhaps she forgot to tell you
that the salts, or the acid, whichever you choose to call it, is bound
to eat a great hole in linen--and this the most valued of all my bureau
covers. Ah, Priscilla, I thought you could be trusted." And pushing back
the smaller articles that rested on it, Mrs. Tilworth flung the scarf
over her arm and walked away with it--ink-spot and all.
Priscilla was now more deeply disturbed than before. In no way was she
willing to have Martine blamed for what she had not done. Her friend was
already sufficiently disgraced in Mrs. Tilworth's eyes. But now, even if
she wished, she could not explain. Mrs. Tilworth had gone away for the
day. In her heart of hearts Priscilla knew that even had her aunt been
at home she would have found it difficult to explain things in their
true light. For at the best she must appear extremely careless, and
quite unworthy the confidence that Mrs. Tilworth had just expressed. Few
girls are willing at a moment's notice to pull themselves down from a
pedestal on which they may have been placed.
When Mrs. Tilworth and she were together on Saturday evening, Priscilla
still found it hard to make the explanation that she knew was Martine's
due, and she found the task no easier on Sunday. Monday was the day when
the results of the prize contest were to be announced, and the usually
calm Priscilla was inwardly perturbed. Her rank in English was high, and
she could not help wondering if there might not be a chance that the
prize would fall to her.
"What became of your spot?" asked Martine, mischievously, as she met
Priscilla.
"Hush," replied Priscilla; "don't talk about it now, it's too, too
disturbing. But I finished my theme for to-day," she continued more
brightly, "and now I suppose we shall hear the result of the prize
essays."
"If I had known prizes were to be given for these essays, I might not
have sent mine in."
"Are you afraid that you'll get the prize? Really, I think there's no
danger."
Marie Taggart was noted for her sharp tongue, and Martine controlled the
quick reply that rose to her own lips.
"Come, Priscilla," she cried, turning to her friend, "let me lead you to
your seat, so that I can be free to hunt about for a laurel wreath. I
should hate to be unprepared when the prize is awarded you."
There was an expectant air throughout the class as Miss Crawdon arose to
announce the result of the essay contest. A moment or two later
Priscilla's name was called by Miss Crawdon, and as she stepped forward
to receive the prize, no one in the school begrudged her what they knew
she had gained by careful and conscientious effort. But everyone, even
Martine herself, was amazed when Miss Crawdon added, "I have here a
small card of honorable mention for two girls, one of them Martine
Stratford and the other Inez Galbraith, who are only second to the
prize-winner; and although their side of the argument, 'The sword is
mightier than the pen' is the less popular, I am glad to commend them
for the independence shown in their work."
Martine's brow contracted as she heard Miss Crawdon's words. She had
little pleasure in the commendation bestowed on her, for suddenly she
realized that in letting Lucian help her she had probably done wrong. It
is true she had thought out each point for herself, following in many
cases Lucian's suggestion, and she had added many things that her
brother had not thought of; yet, with it all, she was quite sure that,
but for Lucian's help, she never in the world could have written the
essay. Therefore the smiles of approval that met her as she went to her
seat almost stung her, and Priscilla later, at recess, was surprised at
Martine's irritability when she asked her how she had managed to deceive
them all by pretending that she could not write.
Yet Martine had no intention of cultivating an over-sensitive Puritan
conscience. She was an honest girl on the whole, never intentionally
untruthful, although sometimes lacking, perhaps, in frankness. This
latter quality was the one that Priscilla had especially criticised
during their journey through Acadia. In the present instance Martine was
not quite sure to what extent she was right, to what extent wrong. If
only she could talk it all over with Priscilla.
"Priscilla, I know, will advise my telling Miss Crawdon, and then
perhaps the whole thing would have to be explained to the school, and I
should feel awfully mortified. It isn't as if I had won a real prize, or
kept anyone else out of anything--and I have worked hard enough over my
English to get something. So I'll just imagine it's all right and let it
go."
Yet in spite of her determination to think little about the affair,
Martine's conscience was not quite clear, and at recess Priscilla
noticed a certain change in her manner.
Things were not bettered when Martine reminded Priscilla that she had
promised to go home with her after school on Monday or Tuesday.
"Monday is better than Tuesday, so you must come to-day, and we can
telephone your aunt, that she needn't wonder at your mysterious
disappearance."
"Thank you, really I cannot, I am busy, I must go downtown, and
besides--" So Priscilla stumbled along, to Martine's great astonishment.
"Oh, I thought you always enjoyed coming home with me. I am sure you
have often said so; but you needn't if you don't want to."
Martine's air of injured innocence sat ill upon her. She could not
explain to Priscilla why she was so anxious to have her spend the
afternoon with her. She could not fully explain this anxiety to herself,
although the real reason was her hope that a talk with Priscilla might
settle that little problem of right and wrong connected with the prize
essay.
If Martine was annoyed by Priscilla's refusal, poor Priscilla was deeply
disturbed by the turn of affairs. Not for a moment did it occur to her
that she might disregard her aunt's injunction in relation to Martine.
Priscilla had been brought up so strictly that, as Martine sometimes
said, she did not think it possible to disobey "the powers that be,"
whether teachers, parent, or guardian. In Boston Mrs. Tilworth stood in
her mother's place, and in consequence whatever she said was law. In the
present instance, however, obedience was a little harder than usual,
because she knew that Mrs. Tilworth's severity toward her friend came
from an error of judgment. Foolish though Martine had been, she was much
better than Mrs. Tilworth thought her, and Priscilla knew that it lay
with her to correct her aunt's impression.
"Good-bye, Martine," said Priscilla, as they parted at the corner below
the school. "Really and truly, I am sorry not to go home with you."
"There, my dear child, someway or other I always have to believe you;
but all the same you are very ridiculous and disobliging not to come
with me," and although she smiled as she spoke, Martine's voice still
held a little bitterness as she turned away from Priscilla and went down
the hill. Through the week the two went their separate ways--at least
out of school. In their classes and at recess they were still the best
of friends. But neither said a word to the other about visiting her.
Priscilla, conscious of her aunt's disapproval of Martine, was
tongue-tied, and Martine's sense of wounded dignity lasted longer than
usual.
On Friday Martine did not go to the Symphony rehearsal, and this in
itself was not strange, as she not only was not fond of music, but found
the restraint of Mrs. Tilworth's presence rather irksome. In her absence
her mother, however, usually occupied her seat, and thus the ticket was
not wasted. Martine justified her own absences by telling Priscilla that
it would be selfish in her to monopolize the seat when really her mother
enjoyed the concert far more than she did.
Nevertheless, until this particular week, it had always been her habit
to talk the matter over with Priscilla, and often at the last moment she
would yield to the persuasions of the latter that this particular
symphony, or that particular soloist was too fine for her to miss.
But when on Friday morning Martine said nothing whatever about the
rehearsal, and when on Friday afternoon neither she nor her mother
occupied the seat next Priscilla's, the latter felt that the time had
come for her to speak.
It is to be feared that that particular symphony meant little to Mrs.
Tilworth's niece. Discord, not harmony, filled her mind. She hardly
noticed the execution of the great pianist who was the soloist of the
day, and when her aunt put a question, her answers were so vague that
Mrs. Tilworth, glancing at her keenly, said,
"I fear you have been working too hard this winter. It will do you good
to go down to Plymouth Easter."
The kindness in her aunt's tone encouraged Priscilla, and that evening
after dinner she told the whole story of the spot of ink. When she had
finished, to her great surprise, the dignified Mrs. Tilworth began to
laugh.
"Excuse me, my dear, but it seems to me you have made much ado about a
small matter. It is true that I value that bureau cover, and I consider
you most careless in handling your pen, but that you should think me an
ogre--"
"Oh, I do not, only I knew I had been careless. I meant to tell you, but
I thought I could get it out first."
"That was your mistake, child. A good laundress could have removed the
ink if she had had the cover before any one else experimented with it.
As it is, the oxalic acid weakened the fibre so that we have had to darn
it. When you see it, you will admit that the work has been done very
well, but everything would have gone much better had you told me in the
first place."
"Yes, aunt, I know it, and I deserve punishment. But what I wanted to
say was about Martine. I know she was silly in doing what she did in the
drawing-room, but although she seems so grown up, sometimes she acts
just like a child. Why, I really believe she has forgotten all about
last Saturday; at least she hasn't said a word to me, and she can't
understand why I don't go to her house, and I can't ask her here, and I
do wish that you'd let me."
"I did not mean to forbid you to go to Martine's," responded Mrs.
Tilworth. "I should be sorry to do that, for, as you know, I like Mrs.
Stratford. I merely advised you to see less of Martine. There are other
girls who ought to be just as companionable--some indeed whom you might
like better, if you would make the effort."
"I had to make an effort to like Martine at first, and now that I am
used to her, I can't grow intimate with anyone else."
"Very well, my dear, I think still that you are a little tired. If
Martine sees fit to apologize for last Saturday, we can turn over the
pages of that chapter."
"Then I may go to see her to-morrow?"
"I never forbade you to go."
"Oh, thank you, aunt Sarah," and as Mrs. Tilworth watched Priscilla's
expression brighten, she wondered if in some way she had not been wrong
in thinking the child overworked.