A BROWN DRESS FOR ELSIE
Christmas, for Genevieve, was not a happy time that year; and when the
day was over she tried to forget it as soon as possible.
She had stayed all night with the Butterfields--which had not been
unalloyed joy; for, though they obviously tried to be kind to her, yet
they could not help showing that they regarded her sudden appearance
among them, dinnerless and moneyless, as most extraordinary, and
certainly very upsetting to the equanimity of a well-ordered household.
In the morning she went back to Sunbridge. At the house she found Miss
Chick ill. Her cold, and her fright over Genevieve, had sent her into a
high fever; and Mrs. Kennedy was scarcely less ill herself.
Certainly it was not exactly a cheerful Christmas Day for the one whose
heedlessness had brought it all about. But Genevieve mourned so
bitterly, and blamed herself so strongly, that at last, out of sheer
pity, Mrs. Kennedy, and even Miss Jane Chick, had to turn comforter;
for--as Mrs. Kennedy reminded her sister--it was, after all, aside from
her thoughtless lack of haste, only Genevieve's unselfish forgetfulness
of her own possible wants that led to the whole thing. Then, and not
until then, did Genevieve bestow some attention upon her Christmas
presents, of which there were a generous number.
Fortunately no one outside the house had known of Genevieve's
nonappearance that Christmas Eve, so she was spared any curious
questions and interested comments from others of the Happy Hexagons.
The short Christmas vacation sped rapidly. The young people spent much
of it on the river, skating, when the ice was good. Genevieve, it is
true, was not often seen there. Genevieve was playing nurse these days,
and so devotedly attentive to Miss Jane Chick was she, that both the
ladies had almost to scold her, in order to make her take needed
exercise. Even Harold Day reproached her one morning, when he met her
coming from the post-office.
"You don't let any of us see anything of you--not anything," he
complained. "And you look as if you were doing penance, or
something--you've got such a superior expression!"
Genevieve dimpled into a sudden laugh.
"Maybe I am," she retorted. "Maybe I did something bad so I could do
something good; and now I'm trying to do enough good to take out all the
taste of the bad."
"Well, what do you mean by that, Miss Mystery?"
She would not tell him. She only shook her head saucily, and ran into
the house.
By New Year's Day Miss Jane seemed almost like her old self, and
Genevieve was specially happy, for on that night Harold Day gave the
first dance of the season; and, with Miss Jane better, and her own heart
lighter once more, she could give herself up to full enjoyment of the
music, fun, and laughter.
All the Happy Hexagons were there, together with O. B. J. Holmes,
Charlie Brown, and many other of the young people, including even Tilly
Mack's big brother, Howard, who--though quite twenty-one--was a prime
favorite with the Happy Hexagons.
Genevieve was wonderfully happy that evening. Never had the music
sounded so entrancing; never had her own feet felt so light. With Harold
she "opened the ball," as Tilly airily termed it; then Charlie and O. B.
J. had their turn.
"Oh, Genevieve, you do look just too sweet for anything in that pale
pink," panted Elsie, stopping at her side between dances.
"Not any sweeter than you do in that white," tossed back Genevieve,
affectionately.
Elsie sighed.
"I love this white, too, but it's got kind of frazzled now. Aunt Kate
says she is going to make over Fannie's brown silk for Miss Sally's
wedding," she went on, sighing again.
"I'm sure that will be nice," rejoined Genevieve, with hasty politeness.
"Y-yes," admitted Elsie; "only brown sounds kind of hot for April.
Still, I suppose I ought not to mind. Just one girl wore it, anyhow, so
it'll be faded even, and I sha'n't look like two folks in it," she
finished wistfully, as Howard Mack came up to claim his dance with
Genevieve.
It was three days after the party that there came a letter from Mr.
Jones in reply to Mrs. Kennedy's Christmas note. It was a very grateful
letter, but it was a disappointing one. It said that Mr. Jones did not
see how he could let Quentina accept the kind invitation of Mrs. Kennedy
and Genevieve. All the way through it, very plainly was shown the
longing of a man who desires advantages for his daughter, and the pride
of one who cannot bear that outsiders should give them to her.
Mrs. Kennedy saw this--and wrote another letter. In due time came the
answer; and again Genevieve almost cried with disappointment. But Mrs.
Kennedy smiled and comforted her.
"Yes, he says 'no,' I'll admit, Genevieve; but I don't think it's quite
so strong a 'no' as it was before. One of these days I think I'll write
Mr. Jones another letter, my dear--but not just now. We'll let him
think a little--of how good it would have been for Quentina if he'd said
'yes.'"
Genevieve gave Mrs. Kennedy a big hug.
"Aunt Julia, you're a dear, and a veritable Solomon for wisdom. I'm
going to write at once to the President, too. Your place is in the
diplomatic service, I'm sure," she finished, as she danced from the
room.
As January passed and February came, a new subject came uppermost in the
thoughts of the Hexagon Club. For the first time in years there was to
be a prize contest in the Sunbridge High School. The principal, Mr.
Jackson, was to give a five-dollar gold piece to the writer of the best
essay, subject to be chosen by the author.
"Well, I sha'n't try for it," announced Tilly on a Saturday afternoon
late in February, as the Hexagon Club were holding their regular meeting
at the parsonage.
"Why not?" asked Elsie.
"Because I don't like defeat well enough," retorted Tilly. "Imagine _me_
winning a prize contest!"
"Oh, I shall try," almost groaned Cordelia. "I shall always try for
things, I suppose, till I die. I think I ought to; but of course I
sha'n't win it. Dear me! How I would love to, though," she cried, almost
under her breath.
Genevieve, looking at her momentarily illumined face, was conscious of
a sudden fierce wish that Cordelia might win that prize.
"Genevieve, of course, will try," she heard Tilly's teasing voice say,
then. "Genevieve loves to write, so!"
Genevieve turned with a laugh, and an uptilted chin.
"I take it, Miss Mack, that your very complimentary remarks refer to my
magazine notes; but just let me assure you that this prize essay is
quite another matter. _That_ isn't _printed_!"
"Then you _are_ going to try?--of course you are," interposed Bertha.
Genevieve laughed lightly as she reached for a piece of fudge.
"I suppose so. I'm afraid everybody will expect me to. Aunt Julia has
already expressed her opinion of the matter."
* * * * *
February passed, and March came. A new topic of conversation now arose,
specially of interest to the Hexagon Club. Miss Sally was to be married
early in April, and the Happy Hexagons were to be bridesmaids.
Naturally, even the new prize contest had to step one side for that
month, in the minds of the six joyously excited girls.
It was on a particularly windy Saturday toward the end of the month,
that Cordelia literally blew up to the Kennedys' front door and rang the
bell.
Genevieve herself, passing through the hall, opened the door.
"Br-r-r!" she laughed, as she banged the door shut after admitting the
whirling draperies from which Cordelia's anxious little face finally
emerged. "Why, Cordelia!"
"Yes, I know; I'm going to be at the club this afternoon, of course,"
panted Cordelia; "but this is for something I wanted to say to you--and
I knew there wouldn't be a chance this afternoon. It--it's private,
Genevieve."
"Good! I love secrets. Come into the sitting room. There's no one there
this morning. Now, what is it?" she demanded, as soon as Cordelia's coat
was off, and they were comfortably seated.
"It--I suppose you might call it missionary work, Genevieve," smiled
Cordelia, wistfully.
"_More_ missionary work? Who in the world wants to go to Texas now?"
laughed Genevieve.
"Nobody. It isn't Texas at all. It's--Elsie."
"Elsie!"
"Yes. Of course, dear, I don't know as you can do anything; but you've
done so many things, and I'm sure if you could, it _would_ be missionary
work of the very nicest kind."
"What _are_ you talking about?"
Cordelia drew a long sigh.
"I'll tell you. You know the rest of us bridesmaids are all going to
wear white, but--but Elsie's got to wear Fannie's brown silk."
"I know," nodded Genevieve. "Elsie told me."
"But, Genevieve, just think--brown silk for a bridesmaid at a wedding,
when all the rest of us wear white! Besides, Elsie says brown is so
hot-looking for April. She feels awfully about it."
"Can't she do something? I should think she'd tell her aunt."
"She has. But her aunt doesn't seem to understand. She says that the
brown silk is whole and good, and far too valuable to throw away; and
that it's all just Elsie's notion that she'd rather wear white."
"Oh, but if she'd only understand!"
"But that's just it--she doesn't understand. And it isn't as if they
were poor," argued Cordelia, earnestly. "Now auntie has to make over
things, of course, for me and for Edith and Rachel, and we expect it,
and don't mind. We're all glad to be economical and help out, for we
know it's necessary. But it's different with Elsie. She _says_ she
wouldn't mind so, if they were poor and had to. But the Gales are real
well off--Fannie and the twins have lots of new clothes. Poor Elsie says
sometimes it seems as if her aunt actually bought things for them, so
she _could_ make them over for her. Elsie says she's never so happy as
when she's doing it, and that she makes a regular game of it--cutting
them out and putting them together--like picture puzzles, you know."
Genevieve laughed, though she frowned, too.
"But what can I do?" she demanded. "I tried, once, to--to lend Elsie a
dress; but she was horrified."
"Mercy! Of course she was," shuddered Cordelia. "I don't know _what_
Mrs. Gale would do if she knew that! They're fearfully--er--er--proud, I
suppose you call it," hesitated the conscientious Cordelia.
"But what _can_ I do?"
"I don't know; but don't you suppose you could--could say something,
somehow, to Mrs. Gale that--that would make her understand?"
"Why, Cordelia Wilson, of course I couldn't," gasped Genevieve,
indignantly. "A pretty picture I'd make going to Mrs. Gale and saying:
'Madam, why don't you give your niece a new dress when you know she
wants one?'"
"N-no, I suppose you couldn't do that, of course," sighed the other.
"Very likely you couldn't do anything, anyway. It's only that I
thought--well, I knew you were going home with Elsie after school Monday
night to study; and I didn't know but you'd get a chance to say
something. But I suppose, after all, there won't be anything you could
say."
"No, I suppose there won't," echoed Genevieve, still plainly appalled
at the task Cordelia had set for her.
"Well, it's only that I was so sorry for Elsie," sighed Cordelia, as she
rose to go.
"Of course! I reckon we're all sorry for Elsie," sighed Genevieve in her
turn.
And she was sorry. All the rest of the morning she kept thinking how
very sorry she was; and when afternoon came, and when she saw Elsie's
lips quiver and her eyes fill with tears, as the others happily
discussed whether they would wear colored sashes or white belts with
their white dresses, Genevieve's heart quite overflowed with sympathy
for Elsie. And she wondered if, after all, it were possible to make
Elsie's aunt--understand. Determinedly, then, she declared to herself
that, regardless of consequences, she would try--if she had the
opportunity.
Genevieve's opportunity came very soon after she arrived at Elsie's home
Monday afternoon. Even Genevieve herself had to admit that she could not
have had a better one. But so frightened was she that she wished--for a
moment--that there were none. Then before her rose a vision of Elsie's
tear-dimmed eyes and quivering lips--and with a quick-drawn breath
Genevieve rose and followed Mrs. Gale to the sewing-room.
"Come with me," Mrs. Gale had said to Genevieve--Genevieve had picked up
a scrap of brown silk from the floor. "That's a piece of the dress I'm
making for Elsie to wear to the wedding. The silly child has got a
notion she wants white, but you'll think this is pretty, I'm sure." And
it was then that Genevieve knew her opportunity had come.
In the sewing-room Mrs. Gale proudly spread the silk dress over a
chair-back.
"There! What do you think of that?" she demanded.
Genevieve's heart beat so loudly she thought Mrs. Gale must hear it.
"It--it's very pretty, isn't it?" she stammered, wetting her dry lips
and wondering what good it did to say that.
"Pretty? Of course it is. It's silk, and a fine piece--I thought when I
got it how splendidly it would make over. I'm sure any girl ought to be
proud to wear it!"
Genevieve caught her breath sharply. "Proud"--Mrs. Gale had said
"proud"; and Cordelia had said, that morning, that Mrs. Gale herself was
very proud, and that she would be very angry if she knew that Genevieve
had offered Elsie a dress to wear. In a flash of inspiration, then, came
a wild plan to Genevieve's mind. If only she had the audacity to carry
it out!
She wet her lips again, and took desperate hold of her courage. Even as
she did so, she almost smiled--she was thinking: was this another case
when she was doing something bad to do something good? Never mind; she
must go through with it now. She _must_!
"Yes, it is a very pretty dress, indeed," she stammered; "and it was
Fannie's, too, wasn't it?"
Mrs. Gale beamed.
"Yes!--and didn't I get it out finely? You know sleeves are smaller, so
that helped, and the breadths were so full last year! I think I never
got a dress out better," she finished proudly.
Genevieve touched the folds lightly.
"And this isn't faded at all, is it?" she murmured pleasantly.
"What?" Mrs. Gale's voice was a little sharp.
Genevieve wet her lips twice this time before she could speak.
"I say, isn't it nice that this one isn't faded? You know Elsie had such
a time with that chambray last summer!"
"What do you mean, please?" There was no doubt now about the sharpness
in Mrs. Gale's voice.
Genevieve managed a laugh--but it was not a very mirthful one.
"Why, 'twas so funny, you know; it was made from the twins' dresses, and
they weren't faded alike. It was just as Elsie said--she didn't know
whether to turn Cora or Clara toward folks. It _was_ funny; only, of
course it did plague poor Elsie awfully, and I felt so sorry for her."
"You felt sorry--_sorry_ for _my niece_?" The voice was so very angry
this time that Genevieve trembled. She was sure now that it was
bad--this thing she was doing--that good might come. But she kept
bravely on.
"Why, yes, of course; all of us girls were sorry for her. You know Elsie
does so love new dresses, and of course she doesn't have them very
often. Last summer, when she was feeling so bad over her chambray, I--I
offered her one of mine, but--"
"You--you offered my niece one of _your_ dresses?" gasped Mrs. Gale.
"Yes, but she wouldn't take it; and, of course, _that_ wasn't _new_,
either," finished Genevieve, with what she hoped would pass for a light
laugh as she turned away.
Behind her, for a moment, there was an ominous silence. Then a very
quiet voice said:
"Thank you; but I hardly think my niece needs one of your dresses--yet,
Miss Genevieve."
Genevieve fled then, ashamed, and very near to crying.
"I wouldn't have said it, of course," she whispered to herself as she
stumbled back to the sitting-room; "I wouldn't have said it if the Gales
had been poor and _couldn't_ have given Elsie new things to wear once in
a while!"
In the Chronicles of the Hexagon Club a fortnight later, it was Elsie
Martin who wrote the account of Miss Sally's wedding. She wrote as
follows:
"I had a beautiful white dress for Miss Sally's wedding--a brand-new
one. All of us girls wore white and looked so pretty--I mean, the rest
looked pretty, of course. Miss Sally was married the tenth of April. It
was quite a warm day, and I was so glad I did not have to wear my brown
silk. Aunt Kate says I needn't wear it anywhere if I don't want to--and
after all her work, too! I don't know what has got into Aunt Kate,
anyway, lately. She doesn't seem half so interested in making over
things, and I have three other brand-new dresses, a pink-sprigged
muslin, and--but, dear me! This isn't telling about Miss Sally's wedding
one bit.
"She was married at four o'clock, and looked too sweet for anything in
light gray silk with a pink carnation in her hair. Everybody went, and
wore their best things and looked very nice. We had sandwiches and
chicken salad and olives and three kinds of cake and ice cream for
refreshments. The ice cream was the brick kind, different colors, like
lovely striped ribbon.
"At six o'clock they started for Boston to begin their journey West, and
we all stood on the steps and gave them a lovely send-off with rice and
old shoes. Just at the last minute Tilly says, 'Let's give her our
Texas yell, and end with "Miss Sally,"' and we did. And everybody
laughed and clapped. But not until the carriage drove off did we
suddenly remember that she wasn't 'Miss Sally' at all any more, and we
felt ashamed.
"And that's all--except that Miss Sally's going-away gown was gray,
too."