PUZZLES
In the weeks immediately after the recital Martine and Priscilla were
both so occupied with their studies and their little duties and
pleasures that they saw less than usual of each other. Martine, on whom
care sat rather lightly, ceased for the time to worry about her father.
She noticed, it is true, that her mother did not read her father's last
letter, which arrived about a week after her conversation with
Priscilla.
"Is everything going on properly?" she asked eagerly, as her mother
folded the letter within its envelope.
"I hope for the best, dear. It seems too bad that your father had to go
away at this time. It was a long, hard journey, and there are still
difficulties before him."
"Oh, I wish we could help, Lucian and I, I mean."
"You can help; indeed you have helped me immensely, by being bright and
cheerful and--"
"Yes, and economical. Once in a while it seems strange to have to stop
and think of money. I bought two-dollar seats for the Paderewski
matinee, although the three-dollar seats were much better, but I thought
that as I had invited Priscilla and Grace--as well as Miss Mings--our
history teacher--and as we were to go to the Somerset afterwards, I
ought to be economical."
Even Mrs. Stratford smiled at Martine's intended economy, as she said,
"But my dear, I think perhaps it would have been wiser to pass this
matinee by. You are not fond of instrumental music, and the whole thing
means spending more money than you ought to spend in this way at
present."
"Then I'll take it out of my allowance. Of course I meant to anyway. I
don't honestly care much about Paderewski myself, but Priscilla does,
and most of the girls are wild about him, and everyone is going, so I
should feel very silly to have to say I hadn't been."
"Very well, my dear, I cannot criticise you, for I gave you my
permission, but in future you must think more about the cost of things."
"Yes, mamma! indeed I often think of economizing, for even though it is
pleasant here, living in an apartment with only Angelina and a cook is
very different from being in our house at home, and I know we're here to
save money. How some of the people we know would stare to see us trying
to help with the work! why, the week the cook left I actually saw you
washing dishes."
Mrs. Stratford smiled faintly; some of her Boston experiences had been
trying, but she had said little to Martine about them.
"So far as I am concerned," added Martine, "I have enjoyed everything in
Boston. I have learned lots about cooking, and if it wasn't for school,
sometimes I think we could manage just with Angelina. But I am going to
economize so that papa will hardly know me when he comes home in June. I
can get along with only one tailor-made suit, and perhaps two or three
new silks this spring. But I do hope we can plan something worth while
for the summer. Wouldn't you like the Yellowstone, with our own special
guide, papa, Lucian, and all of us, and I could invite Priscilla, and we
might have a few weeks in one of those big hotels among the mountains.
What sport it would be!"
Martine paused, almost out of breath.
"We can't make many plans until we hear from your father," replied Mrs.
Stratford, quietly, "but what you suggest isn't exactly in the direction
of economy."
"Oh, I didn't suppose we'd have to economize always. Then you ought to
speak to Lucian, mamma, he has ordered a new touring car."
"That is the worst of indulging a boy from the cradle," and Mrs.
Stratford sighed. "Last year your father told him he might have a new
car this spring, and Lucian thinks he's very moderate because he is
keeping within the two-thousand-dollar limit. I don't like to stop him,
for if things come out as well as they may, he can have it."
"Two thousand dollars!" exclaimed Martine, to whom figures usually did
not mean much. "That is a large sum! Why, it would put a boy through
college."
She was thinking of Balfour Airton, and all that this amount of money
would do for him.
"Mrs. Blair," continued Martine's mother, "calls Lucian very moderate in
his college expenses. He stands well in his classes, too. She says that
Philip spent three times as much."
"And he had to leave Harvard without a degree!"
"He has made it up since, and he is doing splendidly in business."
"Edith says it's Pamela's influence that has done so much for him."
"He was lucky enough to find a girl like her to marry him."
"She certainly is a superior woman--even if she is country-born and a
college graduate, as Mrs. Blair would say," responded Martine, smiling.
"If only they lived nearer, I should spend half my time with cousin
Pamela--if she'd let me, but Lincoln seems far away in the winter.
That's one thing we'd gain from Lucian's new car; those out-of-town
places would seem close at hand."
Lucian, when Martine spoke to him about his car, admitted that he had
ordered it, and he tried to laugh away her concern over family affairs.
But his efforts in this direction were not really successful, and he saw
that his sister was still troubled in spite of his argument that, if
things were really going badly, he would have heard more from his
father.
"He'd be the last one to wish me to countermand the order. Why, every
fellow in our set has a new machine this spring. I thought I was doing
something to send my order in so early, though of course if worse comes
to worse, I can get rid of it easily enough. Mine is to be ready in
June, and I know a fellow who would take it off my hands gladly enough,
as he can't get his until August. I'm going to pray, however, that
things won't come to that pass."
Martine, fortunately, was not inclined to borrow trouble, and although
she by no means forgot the little conversation with her mother regarding
her father's business, remembering it did not depress her. Life in the
spring, even in a bleak New England spring, holds so many pleasant
things for a girl of seventeen that intangible troubles are not likely
to prevent her enjoyment of the present.
Martine was popular at school, and her invitations far exceeded those of
the majority of her classmates. The younger girls liked her because she
was always cheerful, and never snubbed them. The older girls admired her
because she had an air of knowing the world, and was ever ready with
some amusing story. She was popular without having many intimate
friends, and Priscilla was proud of the distinction of being the one
girl who knew Martine the best. Here and there, naturally enough, there
were girls who did not care especially for Martine. There were one or
two who professed an inherent dislike of outsiders, as a class, and
there were others who found fault with Martine in particular. They said
that she was forward, that she was patronizing, and that her liberality
in the spending of money was merely a way of "showing off" of which they
did not approve. But the fact that Martine, at the beginning of the
school year, had been dubbed "Brenda's ward" was more effectual than any
other one thing in placing her within the inner circle of the school. In
spite of the years that had elapsed since Brenda was a pupil at Miss
Crawdon's, she and her doings were still remembered. Older sisters had
talked to younger sisters about her, and everyone knew that she had been
the most popular girl of her day. She was still spoken of most
habitually as "Brenda," even by those who had not known her well. For in
Boston the unmarried names of girls cling to them longer than in most
cities, and those who immediately recalled "Brenda Barlow" had to think
twice when "Mrs. Arthur Weston" was named.
Priscilla, who was nothing if not exact, remonstrated occasionally with
girls who spoke of Martine as "Brenda's ward."
"She never was really her ward, you know, only Brenda was to chaperone
her, and now that Mrs. Weston has gone away, it seems to me that the
name ought to be dropped."
The girls to whom Priscilla spoke only laughed at her.
"My dear child," said Marie Taggart, "from the way you cling to her, I
judge you would rather have Martine called 'Priscilla's ward,' but
Brenda is so far away that you mustn't be jealous of her, really and
truly you must not."
After this Priscilla said no more on this subject, although an observer
would have noticed that she herself never spoke of her friend by the
obnoxious title.
When Mrs. Stratford and Martine first took possession of Brenda's little
apartment, Brenda's mother and sister, Mrs. Barlow and Mrs. Weston,
added much to their pleasure by introducing them to their large circle
of relatives and friends and in other ways, as Mrs. Barlow put it,
"adopting" them in Brenda's place. But before January had come to an end
the whole Barlow household was itself preparing to move. His physician
had prescribed a change of air for Mr. Barlow, and after a few weeks in
Florida the family intended to travel West, to join Brenda in California
in the late spring.
It happened, therefore, that the special groups to whom Mrs. Barlow had
introduced the Stratfords felt no personal responsibility for them. This
was not because they did not find the Chicagoans interesting, but
because the latter seemed able to make their own friends without the
help of a third person.
"It would be a great bore, mamma," Martine had protested, when one or
two of Mrs. Barlow's friends urged that the young girl should join a
certain exclusive dancing-class. "It would be a great bore if we had to
act as if we were real old Bostonians. We are not, and though some of
the sewing circles and dancing-classes, and afternoon-readings are
offered us kindly, I do prefer to be independent and know only the
people I want to know and do only the things I really wish to do.
Anything else would be a nuisance, so please don't let anyone make
social engagements for me."
Mrs. Stratford herself was not strong, and she really preferred a quiet
life. Later she saw that Martine herself had been very wise in her
attitude of independence. Martine indeed was happy enough--happy in her
school acquaintances, happy in her friendship with Priscilla, and
happier in her affection for Amy. It is true that Amy in this her last
year of college was too busy to give much time to Martine, but when
occasionally they had a half-day together, no one could have doubted
their perfect understanding of each other.
On the morning before the matinee to which Mrs. Stratford had referred,
or to be more exact, at twelve o'clock on the very day of the great
Paderewski recital, Martine ran out to the letter-box to post two or
three notes. Angelina could have taken them for her, or she might better
have followed the custom of the house, which was to give them to the
hall-boy. But Martine had not been out that morning, as illness among
her drawing pupils had occasioned a postponement of the usual Saturday
lesson. She had therefore seized on the letters as an excuse for getting
a breath of the fresh spring air that came in through the half-open
windows, tantalizing her and urging her to leave the house.
"I half wish I were not going to the recital," she said to herself, "on
a mild sunny day like this I begrudge the hours I must spend in a
crowded hall, and though I won't have to pretend to be in a seventh
heaven over the music, yet it will weary me to have to show a proper
degree of appreciation in the presence of my guests." So ran the course
of Martine's thoughts as she approached the letter-box. After a turn or
two in the mall under the trees, she walked back slowly toward the
house.
"After all," she mused, "mamma was probably right. I have been
extravagant. The tickets have really cost a pretty sum, counting
premiums and all. For what is the good in inviting guests, unless one
has the very best seats?"
This thought of the seats inclined Martine to look again at her tickets,
and as soon as she reached her room she went to her desk to look at
them.
"Mamma," she called, "you haven't by any chance seen a narrow envelope
with my Paderewski tickets?"
"No, my dear," replied her mother, "surely you haven't lost them?"
"Oh, no, I remember now, I put them in a larger envelope; they were
lying here with my letters."
A moment later Martine stood before her mother with dismay written on
her face. "What do you suppose I have done? it's too foolish and too
annoying for anything. I can't find the envelope with the tickets and I
really believe that I dropped it into the letter-box."
"Oh, Martine, I thought you'd outgrown those careless habits!"
"I thought so too, but there's no use in crying about spilled milk; I
will try to do what I can to get the tickets from the postman."
"There again you talk like a baby," said Mrs. Stratford. "Surely you
must know that no postman can give you anything from a letter-box simply
because you ask for it."
"Well, I can try, that is if there's time."
"But it's half-past twelve now, and if you are to meet Priscilla at
half-past one, you will have all you can do to dress and keep your
appointment."
"But, mamma, what _can_ I do without tickets? It will be terrible if we
can't get in, and how everyone will laugh at me. And they were such good
seats in the house."
"I am sorry for you, my child, but I can say little to help you."
While they were speaking, Martine had been making a rapid calculation.
The only result at which she arrived was the impossibility of recovering
the lost envelope.
"There's one thing I can do," she said. "I'll dress as quickly as I can
and run over to the branch postoffice; then I'll beg them to look over
their mail and see if an envelope is there with the tickets I describe."
"Of course you can try, but I feel sure that you will not succeed."
"Then what shall I do, mamma? It will be terrible to disappoint three
people I've invited to so important an affair as this."
"There is only one thing, my dear. If you fail to recover the tickets,
you can pay single admissions at the door, and if you remember the
number of your seats or in a general way where they are, you can take
possession of them."
"Thank you, mamma, that certainly is the only way, but dear me, four
single admissions at one dollar apiece; this is something I hadn't
planned for, and I intended to be so economical the rest of the spring."
As quickly as she could, Martine hastened away to the postoffice, only
to find that the mail from the box in which she had deposited her
letters would not reach the office until half-past two, and that even
then it was doubtful if the envelope would be given to her immediately.
The only way, then, of saving her reputation as a hostess was to follow
her mother's suggestion. She met her friends as she had planned, paid
for admission to the hall and after some discussion with a rather obtuse
usher at last found herself in possession of her own seats. It is to be
feared that her impressions of the great pianist were sadly blurred that
afternoon. Her brain was automatically working out problems of
expenditure. She was trying to plan in what way she could economize to
make up for the extravagance of this Paderewski matinee--to make up not
only for this, but for various other needless expenses that she had
lately incurred. So abstracted was she that she failed to join in the
applause repeatedly showered on the musician, and on leaving the hall,
she had very little to say to her friends. At the hotel afterwards,
however, she brightened up and confided to Priscilla and Grace the way
in which she had lost the tickets.
"I think you managed very well," said Priscilla, "I should not have had
the least idea what to do if anything like that happened to me."
"Neither should I," added Grace, "but you are always clever about
things, Martine."
"Oh, no, it was all mamma; I felt quite sure at first that I should have
to telephone you not to meet me, but 'all's well that ends well,' and
I'm so glad that that stupid usher let us have our seats; for you know
they told me at the box office that actually there wasn't a seat to sell
in the whole house, and ours were about the last admissions."
"You were fortunate enough," said Miss Mings who had listened with
considerable amusement to Martine's entertaining account of her mistake
adventure.
"Our afternoon with you has been so pleasant that I should have been
very sorry to lose it."
"Oh, I should have made it up in some way," responded Martine. "We were
bound to have this little tea here, and we might have taken a drive
through the Park instead of hearing Paderewski. Truly, now, it would
have been more fun, wouldn't it, Priscilla?"
Honest Priscilla shook her head.
"Nothing could have been more delightful than this concert, though of
course if we had had to give it up I should have made the best of it."
"As you do of everything, Prissie dear. I only wish that I were half as
amiable as you."
Martine's economy did not extend very far. She refrained from doing some
things that she would like to have done, when to do them meant going
outside of her regular allowance. But each month's spending money was
soon laid out on the various little things that pleased her fancy, and
as she heard no more of depressing business conditions, she almost
forgot her mother's warning.
A week after the matinee Martine received a letter from Elinor Naylor.
"Listen, mother," she said, "isn't this the funniest thing? Elinor says
that a few days ago she received an unsealed letter from me--at least
the envelope was unsealed, but there wasn't a scrap of writing inside.
Instead there were four tickets for a concert by Paderewski. She
wondered why I sent them as she didn't receive them until the day after
the date on the tickets. Now she returns them--and here they are! Isn't
it ridiculous?"
"Your carelessness certainly was ridiculous."
"I understand it all now," cried Martine. "I had addressed and stamped
an envelope to Elinor, as I sometimes do when I am intending to write.
Then when I wanted to put my tickets away, I picked up this envelope
without looking at the addressed side. Of course the tickets went safely
to Philadelphia."
"'Until I looked at the date,'" Martine read from Elinor's letter, "'I
thought you had heard of my intention of coming to Boston, and meant me
to hear Paderewski. But as I do not leave home until next week, there
must be some other explanation.'"
"I had no idea that Elinor was coming here," said Martine. "But I am
delighted. If she can manage it, mightn't I have her here to spend a day
or two with me? I know you would like her."
"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Stratford, and when Elinor accepted
her invitation, Martine was delighted. Although Elinor could spare her
only two days, both girls made the most of their time, and parted the
best of friends, greatly to their own amusement. For both Elinor and
Martine, whose friendship was of sudden growth, had begun their
acquaintance with more or less prejudice. The acquaintance had developed
into friendship chiefly through correspondence, as both girls had a gift
for writing interesting letters.
A chance commission which Elinor had entrusted to Martine the day of
their drive to Cambridge had occasioned the first interchange of letters
after Elinor's return to Philadelphia, and in the succeeding months they
had continued to write once a fortnight. Thus their friendship had
developed without their having seen much of each other, and Elinor's
flying visit was delightful to them both in showing them how much they
really had in common.