WORD FROM BRENDA
Martine was at home when Priscilla called on Saturday morning.
"It's really very condescending in your ladyship to come," she began;
"and it's a wonder that you found me. I was to take a riding-lesson
to-day, but by good luck I found when I telephoned yesterday that I
could have an hour to myself then. So here I have Saturday free, with
nothing on my mind but your visit and Brenda's letter."
"Oh, have you heard again from Mrs. Weston?"
"Yes; isn't she a dear to write to me when she has so many people who
really belong to her. She says she considers I belong to her, and that
she's going to call me her ward until I really come out, and, of course,
I shall consider myself her ward always. You've no idea how much I
learned from her this autumn. If she had been a stiff, frumpy thing, I
just couldn't have paid the least attention to her. I only wish mamma
would let me do my hair up like Mrs. Weston's, but she says I'm too
young. Well, in a year I shall be a perfect model of style a la Brenda."
"But what is in the letter?"
"I can't say there's so much actual news, only it makes you just long to
get out of this cold, bleak climate. Only think of picking roses by the
bushel in March, and sitting out in the sun without a wrap."
"In San Francisco?" questioned Priscilla. "Why, I heard my cousin say
that it was always too cold for thin gowns there, and that the winds
were something terrible."
"Oh, my dear child, you are so literal. No, this is down in Monterey,
where there are wonderful gardens. Let me read:
"'We are thankful that the rainy season is almost over, for when it
rains there is apt to be a perfect flood, and we stay indoors for days.
Sometimes it rains in the morning as if it would never stop, and then in
the afternoon the sun comes out beautifully and the flowers look as if
they had grown inches. But after the middle of June there will be no
more rain until winter, and we can camp or plan excursions without
casting a thought to the weather. Life, however, is not entirely play
with us. Arthur is very busy, and often in the evenings he is too tired
to go out. Consequently we are reading together a number of improving
things, and when I get back to Boston I am almost sure that every one
will say, "How much she knows!" I feel as if my new stock of learning
must show on the surface even before anyone has time to discover it by
talking with me. Arthur says he doesn't object to it at all, and won't
do so unless I have to wear eyeglasses, which every one knows I always
did hate.'"
"The letter certainly sounds like her; when she got started she always
talked in that breathless way."
"'San Francisco is the most picturesque city I ever saw,'" continued
Martine, reading Brenda's letter, "'all up and down hills, so that you
feel as if you were riding over the waves of the ocean when you go out
in a cable-car.
"'From some of the high places where you go up to get a view, very often
you only see things dimly through a fog, and then the towers and spires
seem parts of castles and you can imagine you are in Europe.
"'But although I am perfectly contented here, I often wish I were in
Boston, and it makes me too blue for anything to remember that except
for business I might now be living in the dearest little apartment in
the world. I hope you and your mother enjoy it, Martine, as much as I
did, and that you and Priscilla are still great friends.'"
Martine let the sheet of paper fall from her hand.
"Are we good friends, Prissie dear?" she asked, leaning forward and
resting her hand on Priscilla's arm.
"Why, of course, Martine; that's why I came. You see it was all on
account of that acid, or salts, or whatever you call it, and the
ink-spot, and--yes--and Julius Caesar."
"Julius Caesar?" For a moment Martine appeared to be mystified.
"Oh, yes," she spoke with a smile, "Julius and the Roman scarf, and the
other improvements that I made in the drawing-room. Mrs. Tilworth blamed
you."
"No, no, not for that. She knew I couldn't be so silly."
"Thanks, my dear. Then she blamed me. To be honest, I had hardly thought
about my misbehavior since then. I had a vague idea that you would go
down before your aunt came in and restore things to their proper
condition. Now I perceive I must apologize. It's written all over you
that Mrs. Tilworth will believe me a reprobate until I do so. So that is
why you have been so very stiff and Plymouthy this week. Oh, Prissie,
Prissie!"
Priscilla made no reply. Now, as always, she found it difficult to reply
to Martine's teasing.
"You must stay here to luncheon, Prissie," continued Martine, "and this
afternoon we'll have some fun. You must have had a very dull week
without me. Dear me, this drawer is too full," she continued, as she
endeavored to close a drawer of her desk on the top of which she had
just placed Brenda's letter.
"Let me help you," and Priscilla rushed over to Martine's side, but
between them they only managed to pull drawer and contents to the floor.
"There, I will leave you to yourself, Prissie," said Martine; "you are
better than I at straightening things out. I am going out to the
dining-room to speak to Angelina."
As Priscilla carefully replaced the scattered contents of the drawer she
refrained from looking at the letters and other papers that lay before
her. She acted thus from habit rather than because she thought there was
any need of this carefulness just now. She had not come upon the drawer
by accident, and therefore she was at liberty to look at anything that
attracted her attention. Just as Priscilla's own reflections had taken
this turn, she allowed her eye to rest on a half sheet of foolscap that
she had last picked up. The handwriting upon it was not Martine's, and
almost without realizing what she was doing, she began to read a
sentence or two. Then somewhat startled, she folded the paper, and
quickly put it back in the drawer.
"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!" she thought. "It was Lucian's
handwriting, and yet it seemed to be an outline of Martine's essay. I
wonder if he wrote it for her. They say he does so well in English. I
wish I hadn't seen it. It doesn't seem like Martine."
Priscilla was genuinely distressed, and when Martine returned, her
feeling had taken the form of embarrassment. When Martine spoke to her,
she replied with hesitation, and her manner had some of its old
awkwardness.
"There," exclaimed Martine, with some acrimony, "you are really rather
provoking. Here I have been telephoning and planning a good time for
you, and you begin to seem as icebergy as you seemed at Yarmouth last
summer. Now listen, first of all I have apologized to your aunt by
telephone."
"Oh, Martine!"
"Yes, and she says it's all right, and she has forgiven me on condition
that I never disturb Julius Caesar again. It was really very good of her,
when you consider that she couldn't see my blushes of repentance. So
that is settled. Secondly, you are to stay here for dinner, and go with
us to a recital this evening."
"A recital, and who is 'us'?"
"Oh, Lucian, and Robert, and me, or 'I,' whichever is most grammatical.
As to the recital, why, haven't you heard that Angelina intends to
distinguish herself in elocution? All her little surplus goes for
voice-training, and things of that kind--and her recital's to-night. I
should have invited you before, only you have been so high and mighty
all the week."
"But did my aunt say I could go? She doesn't approve of evening things
generally--except parties, on Friday or Saturday evenings."
"Well, thank goodness, there's no stupid party this evening."
"But I'll have to go home to dress."
"Oh, Prissie, Prissie! surely you are not growing vain. What you have on
is suitable for any occasion. Observe that I speak as one in authority.
Mamma would say the same. The recital is not to be given at the Somerset
or the Touraine, but somewhere in the outskirts, where 'glad clothes,'
as the boys call them, would be quite out of place."
"Very well," and Priscilla resigned herself to Martine's stronger will.
"I suppose it's all right."
"There, dear iceberg, I am glad to see that you have begun to thaw. I
hope Lucian and Robert will be as amiable. They have no idea what is
before them, except that I am going to take them somewhere. Once in a
while Lucian is too amiable to refuse what I ask, and this will be one
of the times. For my own part, I shall be as thankful as mamma when the
affair is over, for Angelina has been hopping about like a chicken with
its head chopped off for a month past. What little mind she has has been
fixed on her recitations, and I only hope she'll do herself proud."
"Oh, Martine," protested Priscilla, "how can you use so much slang! Just
think how Mrs. Redmond and Amy used to talk to you last summer."
"Yes, and you too, Prissie dear, and this winter, my own mother. But
when you begin to deteriorate, you will know that there are moments when
one's spirits must have a safety valve, and slang is mine."
Priscilla shook her head.
"So now, my dear Prissie, to show that I am not lost to all refining
influences, let me suggest an hour at the Art Museum. I love pictures as
dearly as I do not love music, and there are several favorites of mine
there that I haven't seen for a month. Put on your hat and coat, and
we'll be there in five minutes."
When they were out in the clear air Martine's tone changed.
"Priscilla," she said gently, "do you know I am a little worried about
father? He writes as if his business was not going well. He does not say
it in exactly those words, but he has written only once, and the letter
was far from cheerful. Either it is his business, or he doesn't feel
well--and he is so far away. It seems to me now that we oughtn't to have
let him go."
"But could you have helped it?" asked the practical Priscilla.
"Perhaps one of us could have gone with him--Lucian or I. South America
seems so far away."
Priscilla's sympathy was readily aroused, and she gave it generously to
Martine.
"It must be very, very hard for you to have your father so far away,
especially if you think that he is not quite well. I know how it was
when papa was in Cuba. It just seemed as if I couldn't bear it, and yet
I suppose that there was nothing I could do, even if I had been there."
For a moment both girls were silent, though they realized that a bond of
sympathy was drawing them more closely together.
Then Priscilla essayed the part of comforter.
"You feel worse about your father because he is so far away. They say
far-off fields look green, but I think that far-off worries are harder
to bear than those near at hand. I mean when the people or things we
worry about are so far away that we can't understand exactly what is
going on."
"Thank you, Priscilla, for your sympathy. I dare say you are right, and
yet I cannot help wishing that I understood things better. I am old
enough to help--if only I really knew how."
"The way will show itself if you are really needed. That is one of the
small things I have learned the past year," responded Priscilla.
"Priscilla, you have helped me; you are a philosopher," cried Martine.
In their hour at the Art Museum Martine recovered her spirits. She
really knew something about paintings, and her favorites were chosen
with discrimination. She lingered long and silently before those she
loved best, and gave reasons for her preferences that would have done
credit to a connoisseur.
"I don't see how you ever learned so much," said Priscilla. "I feel like
a perfect ignoramus before you when you talk of these things."
"I did not mean to pose as an expert; you make me feel as if I had been
too bumptious," replied Martine. "It's only because we've travelled so
much that I know something of art. I have picked it up little by little;
even last summer, in spite of our efforts to devote ourselves to
history, I gained a lot from Mrs. Redmond about color values, and light
and shade."
"It's a great thing to know just what pictures to like," responded
Priscilla. "I like some paintings more than others, but I never know
why."
"Neither do I, my dear child, when we come right down to facts. I know
why I _ought_ to like certain things, but often those are the paintings
that I like least. It's with pictures as with people, we admire many
that we do not care for, and when we care very much, it's often because
we really cannot help ourselves."
"You and I are so different," mused Priscilla, "I often wonder why you
like me."
"Priscilla," cried Martine, "don't try to be a philosopher until you
have left school."
Yet hardly an hour before Martine had been praising Priscilla for her
philosophy.