JUST SIXTEEN.
[Illustration: "We will have luncheon here close to the fire," she said,
"and be as cosey as possible."--_Page 28._]
JUST SIXTEEN.
BY
SUSAN COOLIDGE,
AUTHOR OF "THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN," "WHAT KATY DID,"
"WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL," "WHAT KATY DID NEXT,"
"CLOVER," "A GUERNSEY LILY," ETC.
[Illustration: QUI LEGIT REGIT.]
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1890.
_Copyright, 1889_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A LITTLE KNIGHT OF LABOR (_Two Illustrations_) 7
SNOWY PETER 63
THE DO SOMETHING SOCIETY 80
WHO ATE THE QUEEN'S LUNCHEON? (_Illustration_) 92
THE SHIPWRECKED COLOGNE-BOTTLE 110
UNDER A SYRINGA-BUSH 126
TWO GIRLS--TWO PARTIES 137
THE PINK SWEETMEAT 154
ETELKA'S CHOICE (_Illustration_) 177
THE FIR CONES 204
A BALSAM PILLOW 217
COLONEL WHEELER 229
NINETY-THREE AND NINETY-FOUR 238
THE SORROWS OF FELICIA 258
IMPRISONED 271
A CHILD OF THE SEA FOLK 282
JUST SIXTEEN.
A LITTLE KNIGHT OF LABOR.
The first real snow-storm of the winter had come to Sandyport by the
Sea.
It had been a late and merciful autumn. Till well into November the
leaves still clung to their boughs, honeysuckles made shady coverts on
trellises, and put forth now and then an orange and milk-white blossom
full of frosty sweetness; the grass was still green where the snow
allowed it to be seen. Thick and fast fell the wind-blown flakes on the
lightly frozen ground. The patter and beat of the flying storm was a
joyous sound to children who owned sleds and had been waiting the chance
to use them. Many a boy's face looked out as the dusk fell, to make sure
that the storm continued; and many a bright voice cried, "Hurrah! It's
coming down harder than ever! To-morrow it will be splendid!" Stable-men
were shaking out fur robes and arranging cutters. Already the fitful
sound of sleigh-bells could be heard; and all the world--the world of
Sandyport that is--was preparing to give the in-coming winter a gay
welcome.
But in one house in an old-fashioned but still respectable street no one
seemed inclined to join in the general merry-making. Only two lights
broke its darkness: one shone from the kitchen at the back, where,
beside a kerosene lamp, Bethia Kendrick, the old-time servitor of the
Talcott family, was gloomily darning stockings, and otherwise making
ready for departure on the morrow. The other and fainter glow came from
the front room, where without any lamp Georgie Talcott sat alone beside
her fire.
It was a little fire, and built of rather queer materials. There were
bits of lath and box-covers, fence-pickets split in two, shavings,
pasteboard clippings, and on top of all, half of an old chopping-bowl.
The light material burned out fast, and had to be continually
replenished from the basket which stood on one side the grate.
Georgie, in fact, was burning up the odds and ends of her old life
before leaving it behind forever. She was to quit the house on the
morrow; and there was something significant to her, and very sorrowful,
in this disposal of its shreds and fragments; they meant so little to
other people, and so very much to her. The old chopping-bowl, for
instance,--her thoughts went back from it to the first time she had ever
been permitted to join in the making of the Christmas pies. She saw her
mother, still a young woman then, and pretty with the faded elegance
which had been her characteristic, weighing the sugar and plums, and
slicing the citron, while her own daring little hands plied the chopper
in that very bowl. What joy there was in those vigorous dabs and
cross-way cuts! how she had liked to do it! And now, the pretty mother,
faded and gray, lay under the frozen turf, on which the snow-flakes were
thickly falling. There could be no more Christmases for Georgie in the
old house; it was sold, and to-morrow would close its doors behind her
forever.
She shivered as these thoughts passed through her mind, and rising moved
restlessly toward the window. It was storming faster than ever. The
sight seemed to make the idea of the morrow harder to bear; a big tear
formed in each eye, blurring the white world outside into a dim
grayness. Presently one ran down her nose and fell on her hand. She
looked at it with dismay, wiped it hastily off, and went back to the
fire.
"I won't cry, whatever happens, I'm resolved on that," she said half
aloud, as she put the other half of the chopping-bowl on the waning
blaze. The deep-soaked richness of long-perished meats was in the old
wood still. It flared broadly up the chimney. Georgie again sat down by
the fire and resumed her thinking.
"What am I going to do?" she asked herself for the hundredth time. "When
my visit to Cousin Vi is over, I must decide on something; but what? A
week is such a short time in which to settle such an important thing."
It is hard to be confronted at twenty with the problem of one's own
support. Georgie hitherto had been as happy and care-free as other
girls. Her mother, as the widow of a naval officer, was entitled to a
small pension. This, with a very little more in addition, had paid for
Georgie's schooling, and kept the old house going in a sufficiently
comfortable though very modest fashion. But Mrs. Talcott was not by
nature an exemplary manager. It was hard not to overrun here and there,
especially after Georgie grew up, and "took her place in society," as
the poor lady phrased it,--the place which was rightfully hers as her
father's daughter and the descendant of a long line of Talcotts and
Chaunceys and Wainwrights. She coveted pretty things for her girl, as
all mothers do, and it was too much for her strength always to deny
herself.
So Georgie had "just this" and "just that," and being a fresh attractive
creature, and a favorite, made her little go as far as the other girls'
much, and now and again the tiny capital was encroached upon. And then,
and then,--this is a world of sorry chances, as the weak and helpless
find to their cost,--came the bad year, when the Ranscuttle Mills passed
their dividend and the stock went down to almost nothing; and then Mrs.
Talcott's long illness, and then her death. Sickness and death are
luxuries which the poor will do well to go without. Georgie went over
the calculations afresh as she sat by the fire, and the result came out
just the same, and not a penny better. When she had paid for her
mother's funeral, and all the last bills, she would have exactly a
hundred and seventy-five dollars a year to live upon,--that and no more!
The furniture,--could she get something for that? She glanced round the
room, and shook her head. The articles were neither handsome enough nor
quaint enough to command a good price. She looked affectionately at the
hair-cloth sofa on which her mother had so often lain, at the well-worn
secretary. How could she part with these? How could she sell her
great-grandfather's picture, or who, in fact, except herself, would care
for the rather ill-painted portrait of a rigid old worthy of the last
century, in a wig and ruffled shirt, with a view of Sandyport harbor by
way of a background? Her father's silhouette hung beneath it, with his
sword and a little mezzotint of his ship. These were treasures to her,
but what were they to any one else?
"No," she decided. "Bethia shall take the old kitchen things and her own
bedroom furniture, and have the use of them; but the rest must go into
Miss Sally's attic for the present. They wouldn't fetch anything; and if
they would, I don't think I could bear to sell them. And now that is
settled, I must think again, what _am_ I to do? I must do something."
She turned over all manner of schemes in her mind, but all seemed
fruitless. Sew? The town was full of sempstresses. Georgie knew of half
a dozen who could not get work enough to keep them busy half the time.
Teach? She could not; her education in no one respect had been thorough
enough. Embroider for the Women's Exchanges and Decorative Art
Societies? Perhaps; but it seemed to her that was the very thing to
which all destitute people with pretensions to gentility fled as a
matter of course, and that the market for tidies and "splashers" and
pine-pillows was decidedly overstocked.
"It's no use thinking about it to-night," was the sensible decision to
which she at last arrived. "I am too tired. I'll get a sound night's
sleep if I can, and put off my worries till I am safely at Miss
Sally's."
The sound night's sleep stood Georgie in good stead, for the morrow
taxed all her powers of endurance, both physical and moral. Bethia,
unhappy at losing the home of years, was tearful and fractious to a
degree. Sending off the furniture through the deep snow proved a slow
and troublesome matter. The doors necessarily stood open a great deal,
the rooms grew very cold, everything was comfortless and dispiriting.
And underlying all, put aside but never unfelt, was a deep sense of pain
at the knowledge that this was the last day,--the very, very last of the
home she had always known, and might know no more.
When the final sledge-load creaked away over the hard frozen crust,
Georgie experienced a sense of relief.
"The sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep,"
she sang below her breath. Everything was in order. She had generalled
all ably; nothing was omitted or forgotten. With steady care she raked
out the fire in the kitchen stove, which the new owner of the house had
taken off her hands, and saw to the fastenings of the windows. Then she
tied on her bonnet and black veil, gave the weeping Bethia a good-by
kiss on the door-step, closed and locked the door, and waded wearily
through the half-broken paths to the boarding-house of Miss Sally
Scannell, where Cousin Vi, otherwise Miss Violet Talcott, had lived for
years.
No very enthusiastic reception awaited her. Cousin Vi's invitation had
been given from a sense of duty. She "owed it to the child," she told
herself, as she cleared out a bureau-drawer, and made a place for
Georgie's trunk in the small third-story room which for sixteen years
had represented to her all the home she had known. Of course such a
visit must be a brief one.
"So you're come!" was her greeting as Georgie appeared. "I thought you'd
be here sooner; but I suppose you've had a good deal to do. I should
have offered to help if the day had not been so cold. Come in and take
your things off."
Georgie glanced about her as she smoothed her hair. The room bore the
unmistakable marks of spinsterhood and decayed gentility. It was crammed
with little belongings, some valuable, some perfectly valueless. Two or
three pieces of spindle-legged and claw-footed mahogany made an odd
contrast to the common painted bedroom set. Miniatures by Malbone and
lovely pale-lined mezzotints and line engravings hung on the walls amid
a maze of photographs and Japanese fans and Christmas cards and chromos;
an indescribable confusion of duds encumbered every shelf and table;
and in the midst sat Miss Vi's tall, meager, dissatisfied self, with
thin hair laboriously trained after the prevailing fashion, and a dress
whose antique material seemed oddly unsuited to its modern cut and
loopings. Somehow the pitifulness of the scene struck Georgie afresh.
"Shall I ever be like this?" she reflected.
"Now tell me what has happened since the funeral," said her cousin. "I
had neuralgia all last week and week before, or I should have got down
oftener. Who has called? Have the Hanburys been to see you?"
"Ellen came last week, but I was out," replied Georgie.
"What a pity! And how did it happen that you were out? You ought not to
have been seen in the street so soon, I think. It's not customary."
"How could I help it?" responded Georgie, sadly. "I had all the move to
arrange for. Mr. Custer wanted the house for Saturday. There was no one
to go for me."
"I suppose you couldn't; but it's a pity. It's never well to outrage
conventionalities. Have Mrs. St. John and Mrs. Constant Carrington
called?"
"Mrs. Carrington hasn't, but she wrote me a little note. And dear Mrs.
St. John came twice, and brought flowers, and was ever so kind. She
always has been so very nice to me, you know."
"Naturally! The St. Johns were nobodies till Mr. St. John made all that
money in railroads. She is glad enough to be on good terms with the old
families, of course."
"I don't think it's that," said Georgie, rather wearily. "I think she's
nice because she's naturally so kind-hearted, and she likes me."
The tea-bell put an end to the discussion. Miss Sally's welcome was a
good deal warmer than Cousin Vi's had been.
"You poor dear child," she exclaimed, "you look quite tired out! Here,
take this seat by the fire, Georgie, and I'll pour your tea out first of
all. She needs it, don't she?" to Cousin Vi.
"_Miss Talcott_ is rather tired, I dare say," said that lady, icily.
Cousin Vi had lived for sixteen years in daily intercourse with Miss
Sally, one of the sunniest and most friendly of women, and had never
once relaxed into cordiality in all that time. Her code of manners
included no approximation toward familiarity between a Talcott and a
letter of lodgings.
Georgie took a different view. "Thank you so much, dear Miss Sally," she
said. "How good you are! I _am_ tired."
"I wish you wouldn't call Miss Sally 'dear,'" her cousin remarked after
they had gone upstairs. "That sort of thing is most disagreeable to me.
You have to be on your guard continually in a house like this, or you
get mixed up with all sorts of people."
Georgie let it pass. She was too tired to argue.
"Now, let us talk about your plans," Miss Talcott said next morning.
"Have you made any yet?"
"N--o; only that I must find some work to do at once."
"Don't speak like that to any one but me," her cousin said sharply.
"There _are_ lady-like occupations, of course, in which you
can--can--mingle; but they need not be mentioned, or made known to
people in general."
"What _do_ you mean?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. I've never had occasion to look into the
matter, but I suppose a girl situated as you are could find
something,--embroidery, for instance. You could do that for the
Decorative Art. They give you a number, and nobody knows your real
name."
"I thought of embroidery," said Georgie; "but I never was very good at
it, and so many are doing it nowadays. Besides, it seems to me that
people are getting rather tired of all but the finer sort of work."
"What became of that nephew of Mr. Constant Carrington whom you used to
see so much of two or three years ago?" demanded Miss Vi, irrelevantly.
"Bob Curtis? I don't quite know where he is. His father failed, don't
you remember, and lost all his money, and Bob had to leave Harvard and
go into some sort of business?"
"Oh, did he? He's of no consequence, then. I don't know what made me
think of him. Well, you could read to an invalid, perhaps, or go to
Europe with some lady who wanted a companion."
"Or be second-best wing-maker to an angel," put in Georgie, with a
little glint of humor. "Cousin Vi, all that would be very pleasant, but
I don't think it is likely to happen. I'm dreadfully afraid no one wants
me to go to Europe; and I must have something to do at once, you know.
I must earn my bread."
"Don't use such a phrase. It sounds too coarse for anything."
"I don't think so, Cousin Vi. I don't mind working a bit, if only I can
hit on something that somebody wants, and that I can do well."
"This is exactly what I have been afraid of," said Miss Vi,
despairingly. "I've always had a fear that old Jacob Talcott would break
out in you sooner or later. He has skipped two generations, but he was
bound to show himself some day or other. He had exactly that common sort
of way of looking at things and talking about them,--the only Talcott I
ever knew of that did! Don't you recollect how he insisted on putting
his son into business, and the boy ran away and went to the West Indies
and married some sort of Creole,--all his father's fault?
"Now, I'll tell you," she went on after a pause. "I've been thinking
over this matter, and have made up my mind about it. You're not to do
anything foolish, Georgie. If you do, you'll be sorry for it all your
life, and I shall never forgive you besides. Such a good start as you
have made in society, and all; it will be quite too much if you go and
spoil your chances with those ridiculous notions of yours. Now, listen.
If you'll give up all idea of supporting yourself, unless it is by doing
embroidery or something like that, which no one need know about,
I'll--I'll--well--I'll agree to pay your board here at Miss Sally's, and
give you half this room for a year. As likely as not you'll be married
by the end of that time, or if not, something else will have turned up!
Any way, I'll do it for one year. When the year is over, we can talk
about the next." And Miss Talcott folded her hands with the manner of
one who has offered an ultimatum.
If rather a grudging, this was a really generous offer, as Georgie well
knew. To add the expense of her young cousin's board to her own would
cost Miss Vi no end of self-denials, pinchings here and pinchings there,
the daily frets and calculations that weigh so heavily. Miss Talcott's
slender income at its best barely sufficed for the narrow lodgings, to
fight off the shabbiness which would endanger her place in "society,"
and to pay for an occasional cab and theatre ticket. Not to do, or at
least to seem to be doing and enjoying, what other people did, was real
suffering to Cousin Vi. Yet she was deliberately invoking it by her
proposal.
Had it been really made for her sake, had it been quite disinterested,
Georgie would have been deeply touched and grateful; as it was, she was
sufficiently so to thank her cousin warmly, but without committing
herself to acceptance. She must think it over, she said.
She did think it over till her mind fairly ached with the pressure of
thought, as the body does after too much exercise. She walked past the
Woman's Exchange and studied the articles in the windows. There were the
same towels and tidies that had been there two months before, or what
seemed the same. Georgie recollected similar articles worked by people
whom she knew about, for which she had been asked to buy raffle tickets.
"She can't get any one to buy it," had been said. Depending on such work
for a support seemed a bare outlook. She walked away with a little shake
of her head.
"No," she thought; "embroidery wouldn't pay unless I had a 'gift'; and I
don't seem to have a gift for anything unless it is housework. I always
was good at that; but I suppose I can't exactly take a place as
parlor-maid. Cousin Vi would certainly clap me into an asylum if I
suggested such a thing. How nice it would be to have a real genius for
something! Though now that I think of it, a good many geniuses have died
in attics, of starvation, without being able to help themselves."
When she reached home she took a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote
as follows:--
_Things Wanted._
1. Something I can do.
2. Something that somebody wants me to do.
3. Something that all the other somebodies in search of work
are not trying to do.
Round these problems her thoughts revolved, and though nothing came of
them as yet, it seemed to clear her mind to have them set down in black
and white.
Meantime the two days' _tête-à-tête_ with Cousin Vi produced one
distinct result, which was, that let come what come might, Georgie
resolved that nothing should induce her to stay on at Miss Sally's as
proposed, and be idle. Her healthy and vigorous youth recoiled from the
idea.
"It is really good of her to ask me," she thought, "though she only does
it for the honor of the family and the dead-and-gone Talcotts. But what
a life it would be, and for a whole year too! Cousin Vi has stood it for
sixteen, to be sure, poor thing! but how could she? Mother used to say
that she was called a bright girl when she first grew up. Surely she
might have made something of herself if she had tried, and if Aunt
Talcott hadn't considered work one of the seven deadly sins for a lady!
She was handsome, too. Even I can recollect her as very good looking.
And here she is, all alone, and getting shabbier and poorer all the
time. I know she sometimes has not money enough to pay her board, and
has to ask Miss Sally to wait, snubbing her and despising her all the
time, and holding on desperately to her little figment of gentility.
People laugh at her and make fun of her behind her back. They invite her
now and then, but they don't really care for her. What is such a society
worth? I'll take in washing before I'll come to be like Cousin Vi!"
* * * * *
How little we guess, as we grope in the mists of our own uncertainties,
just where the light is going to break through! Georgie Talcott,
starting for a walk with her cousin on the third day of her stay at
Miss Sally's, saw the St. John carriage pass them and then pull up
suddenly at the curb-stone; but she had no idea that so simple a
circumstance could affect her fate in any manner. It did, though.
Mrs. St. John was leaning out of the window before they got to the place
where the carriage stood, and two prettily gloved hands were stretched
eagerly forth.
"Georgie! oh Georgie, how glad I am to see you out, dear! I made Henry
stop, because I want you to get in for a little drive and then come home
with me to lunch. Mr. St. John is in New York. I am quite alone, and
I'll give orders that no one shall be admitted, if you will. Don't you
think she might, Miss Talcott? It isn't like going anywhere else, you
know,--just coming to me quietly like that."
"I don't see that there would be any impropriety in it," said Miss
Talcott, doubtfully; "though--with you, however, it _is_ different. But
please don't mention it to any one, Mrs. St. John. It might be
misunderstood and lead to invitations which Georgie could not possibly
accept. Good-morning."
With a stately bend Cousin Vi sailed down the street. Mrs. St. John, I
am sorry to say, made a face after her as she went.
"Absurd old idiot!" she muttered. "Such airs!" Then she drew Georgie in,
and as soon as the carriage was in motion pulled her veil aside and gave
her a warm kiss.
"I am so glad to get hold of you again!" she said.
Mrs. St. John, rich, childless, warm-hearted, and not over-wise, had
adopted Georgie as a special pet on her first appearance in society two
years before. It is always pleasant for a girl to be made much of by an
older woman; and when that woman has a carriage and a nice house, and
can do all sorts of things for the girl's entertainment, it is none the
less agreeable. Georgie was really fond of her friend. People who are
not over-wise are often loved as much as wiser ones; it is one of the
laws of compensation.
"Now tell me all about yourself, and what you have been doing this past
week," said Mrs. St. John, as they drove down to the beach, where the
surf-rollers had swept the sands clean of snow and left a dry, smooth
roadway for the horses' feet. The sea wore its winter color that day,--a
deep purple-blue, broken by flashing foam-caps; the wind was blowing
freshly; a great sense of refreshment came to Georgie, who had been
wearying for a change.
"It has been rather sad and hard," she said. "I have had the house to
clear out and close, and all manner of things to do, and I was pretty
tired when I finished. But I am getting rested now, and by and by I want
to talk over my affairs with you."
"Plans?" asked Mrs. St. John.
"Not exactly. I have no plans as yet; but I must have some soon. Now
tell me what _you_ have been doing."
Mrs. St. John was never averse to talking about herself. She always had
a mass of experiences and adventures to relate, which though
insignificant enough when you came to analyze them, were so deeply
interesting to herself that somehow her auditors got interested in them
also. Georgie, used to her ways, listened and sympathized without
effort, keeping her eyes fixed meanwhile on the shining, shifting
horizon of the sea, and the lovely arch of clear morning sky. How wide
and free and satisfactory it was; how different from the cramped outlook
into which she had perforce been gazing for days back!
"If life could all be like that!" she thought.
The St. John house seemed a model of winter comfort, bright,
flower-scented, and deliciously warm, as they entered it after their
drive. Mrs. St. John rang for her maid to take off their wraps, and led
Georgie through the drawing-room and the library to a smaller room
beyond, which was her favorite sitting-place of a morning.
"We will have luncheon here close to the fire," she said, "and be as
cosey as possible."
It was a pretty room, not over-large, fitted up by a professional
decorator in a good scheme of color, and crowded with ornaments of all
sorts, after the modern fashion. It was many weeks since Georgie had
seen it, and its profusion and costliness of detail struck her as it
never had done before. Perhaps she was in the mood to observe closely.
They were still sipping their hot _bouillon_ in great comfort, when a
sudden crash was heard in the distance.
"There!" said Mrs. St. John, resignedly; "that's the second since
Monday! What is it _now_, Pierre?"
She pushed back her chair and went hurriedly into the farther room.
Presently she came back laughing, but looking flushed and annoyed.
"It's really too vexatious," she said. "There seems no use at all in
buying pretty things, the servants do break them so."
"What was it this time?" asked Georgie.
"It was my favorite bit of Sèvres. Don't you recollect it,--two lovely
little shepherdesses in blue Watteaus, holding a flower-basket between
them? Pierre says his feather duster caught in the open-work edge of the
basket."
"Why do you let him use feather dusters? The feathers are so apt to
catch."
"My dear, what can I do? Each fresh servant has his or her theory as to
how things should be cleaned. Whatever the theory is, the china goes all
the same; and I can't tell them any better. I don't know a thing about
dusting."
That moment, as if some quick-witted fairy had waved her wand, an idea
darted like a flash into Georgie's head.
She took five minutes to consider it, while Mrs. St. John went on:--
"People talk of the hardship of not being able to have things; but I
think it's just as hard to have them and not be allowed to keep them. I
don't dare to let myself care for a piece of china nowadays, for if I do
it's the first thing to go. Pierre's a treasure in other respects, but
he smashes most dreadfully; and the second man is quite as bad; and
Marie, upstairs, is worse than either. Mr. St. John says I ought to be
'mistress of myself, though china fall;' but I really can't."
Georgie, who had listened to this without listening, had now made up her
mind.
"Would you like me to dust your things?" she said quietly.
"My dear, they _are_ dusted. Pierre has got through for this time. He
won't break anything more till to-morrow."
"Oh, I don't mean only to-day; I mean every day. Yes, I'm in earnest,"
she went on in answer to her friend's astonished look. "I was meaning to
talk to you about something of this sort presently, and now this has
come into my head. You see," smiling bravely, "I find that I have got
almost nothing to live upon. There is not even enough to pay my board at
such a place as Miss Sally's. I must do something to earn money; and
dusting is one of the few things that I can do particularly well."
"But, my dear, I never heard of such a thing," gasped poor Mrs. St.
John. "Surely your friends and connections will arrange something for
you."
"They can't; they are all dead," replied Georgie, sadly. "Our family has
run out. I've one cousin in China whom I never saw, and one great-aunt
down in Tennessee who is almost as poor as I am, and that's all except
Cousin Vi."
"She's no good, of course; but she's sure to object to your doing
anything all the same."
"Oh yes, of course she objects," said Georgie, impatiently. "She would
like to tie my hands and make me sit quite still for a year and see if
something won't happen; but I can't and won't do it; and, besides, what
is there to happen? Nothing. She was kind about it, too--" relenting;
"she offered to pay my board and share her room with me if I consented;
but I would so much rather get to work at once and be independent. Do
let me do your dusting," coaxingly; "I'll come every morning and put
these four rooms in nice order; and you need never let Pierre or Marie
or any one touch the china again, unless you like. I can almost promise
that I won't break anything!"
"My dear, it would be beautiful for me, but perfectly horrid for you! I
quite agree with your cousin for once. It will never do in the world for
you to attempt such a thing. People would drop you at once; you would
lose your position and all your chance, if it was known that you were
doing that kind of work."
"But don't you see," cried Georgie, kneeling down on the hearth-rug to
bring her face nearer to her friend's,--"don't you see that I've _got_
to be dropped any way? Not because I have done anything, not because
people are unkind, but just from the necessity of things. I have no
money to buy dresses to go out and enjoy myself with. I have no money to
stay at home on, in fact,--I _must_ do something. And to live like
Cousin Vi on the edge of things, just tolerated by people, and mortified
and snubbed, and then have a little crumb of pleasure tossed to me, as
one throws the last scrap of cake that one doesn't want to a cat or a
dog,--_that_ is what I could not possibly bear.
"I like fun and pretty things and luxury as well as other people," she
continued, after a little pause. "It isn't that I shouldn't _prefer_
something different. But everybody can't be well off and have things
their own way; and since I am one of the rank and file, it seems to me
much wiser to give up the things I _can't_ have, out and out, and not
try to be two persons at once, a young lady and a working-girl, but put
my whole heart into the thing I must be, and do it just as well as I
can. Don't you see that I am right?"
"You poor dear darling!" said Mrs. St. John, with tears in her eyes.
Then her face cleared.
"Very well," she said briskly, "you _shall_. It will be the greatest
comfort in the world to have you take charge of the ornaments. _Now_ I
can buy as many cups and saucers as I like, and with an easy mind. You
must stay and lunch, always, Georgie. I'll give you a regular salary,
and when the weather's bad I shall keep you to dinner too, and to spend
the night. That's settled; and now let us decide what I shall give you.
Would fifty dollars a month be enough?"
"My dear Mrs. St. John! Fifty! Two dollars a week was what I was
thinking of."
"Two dollars! oh, you foolish child! You never could live on that! You
don't know anything at all about expenses, Georgie."
"But I don't mean only to do _your_ dusting. If you are satisfied, I
depend on your recommending me to your friends. I could take care of
four sets of rooms just as well as of one. There are so many people in
Sandyport who have beautiful houses and collections of bric-à-brac, that
I think there might be as many as that who would care to have me if I
didn't cost too much. Four places at two dollars each would make eight
dollars a week. I could live on that nicely."
"I wish you'd count me in as four," said Mrs. St. John. "I should see
four times as much of you, and it would make me four hundred times
happier."
But Georgie was firm, and before they parted it was arranged that she
should begin her new task the next morning, and that her friend should
do what she could to find her similar work elsewhere.
Her plan once made, Georgie suffered no grass to grow under her feet.
On the way home she bought some cheese-cloth and a stiff little brush
with a pointed end for carvings, and before the next day had provided
herself with a quantity of large soft dusters and two little phials of
alcohol and oil, and had hunted up a small pair of bellows, which
experience had shown her were invaluable for blowing the dust out of
delicate objects. Her first essay was a perfect success. Mrs. St. John,
quite at a loss how to face the changed situation, gave her a
half-troubled welcome; but Georgie's business-like methods reassured
her. She followed her about and watched her handle each fragile treasure
with skilful, delicate fingers till all was in perfect fresh order, and
gave a great sigh of admiration and relief when the work was done.
"Now come and sit down," she said. "How tired you must be!"
"Not a bit," declared Georgie; "I like to dust, strange to say, and I'm
not tired at all; I only wish I had another job just like it to do at
once. I see it's what I was made for."
By the end of the week Georgie had another regular engagement, and it
became necessary to break the news of her new occupation to Cousin Vi.
I regret to say that the disclosure caused an "unpleasantness," between
them.
"I would not have believed such a thing possible even with you,"
declared that lady with angry tears. "The very idea marks you out as a
person of low mind. It's enough to make your Grandmother Talcott rise
from her grave! In the name of common decency, couldn't you hunt up
something to do, if do you must, except this?"
"Nothing that I could do so well and so easily, Cousin Vi."
"Don't call me Cousin Vi, I beg! There was no need of doing anything
whatever. I asked you to stay here,--you cannot deny that I did."
"I don't wish to deny it," said Georgie, gently. "It was ever so kind of
you, too. Don't be so vexed with me, Cousin Vi. We look at things
differently, and I don't suppose either of us can help it; but don't let
us quarrel. You're almost the only relative that I have in the world."
"Quarrel!" cried Miss Talcott with a shrill laugh,--"quarrel with a girl
that goes out dusting! That isn't in my line, I am happy to say. As for
being relatives, we are so no longer, and I shall say so to everybody.
Great Heavens! what will people think?"
After this outburst it was evident to Georgie that it was better that
she should leave Miss Sally's as soon as possible. But where to go? She
consulted Miss Sally. That astute person comprehended the situation in
the twinkling of an eye, and was ready with a happy suggestion.
"There's my brother John's widder in the lower street," she said. "She's
tolerably well off, and hasn't ever taken boarders; but she's a sort of
lonesome person, and I shouldn't wonder if I could fix it so she'd feel
like taking you, and reasonable too. It's mighty handy about that
furniture of yours, for her upstairs rooms ain't got nothing in them to
speak of, and of course she wouldn't want to buy. I'll step down after
dinner and see about it."
Miss Sally was a power in her family circle, and she knew it. Before
night she had talked Mrs. John Scannell into the belief that to take
Georgie to board at five dollars a week was the thing of all others that
she most wanted to do; and before the end of two days all was arranged,
and Georgie inducted into her new quarters. It was a little low-pitched,
old-fashioned house, but it had some pleasant features, and was very
neat. A big corner room with a window to the south and another to the
sunset was assigned to Georgie for her bedroom. The old furniture that
she had been used to all her life made it look homelike, and the
hair-cloth sofa and the secretary and square mahogany table were welcome
additions to the rather scantily furnished sitting-room below, which she
shared at will with her hostess. Mrs. Scannell was a gentle, kindly
woman, the soul of cleanliness and propriety, but subject to low
spirits; and contact with Georgie's bright, hopeful youth was as
delightful to her as it was beneficial. She soon became very fond of "my
young lady," as she called her, and Georgie could not have been better
placed as to kindness and comfortableness.
A better place than Sandyport for just such an experiment as she was
making could scarcely have been found. Many city people made it their
home for the summer; but at all times of the year there was a
considerable resident population of wealthy people. Luxurious homes were
rather the rule than the exception, and there was quite a little
rivalry as to elegance of appointment among them. Mrs. St. John's
enthusiasm and Mrs. St. John's recommendation bore fruit, and it was not
long before Georgie had secured her coveted "four places."
Two of her employers were comparative strangers; with the fourth, Mrs.
Constant Carrington, she had been on terms of some intimacy in the old
days, but was not much so now. It _is_ rather difficult to keep up
friendship with your "dusting girl," as her Cousin Vi would have said;
Mrs. Carrington called her "Georgie" still, when they met, and was
perfectly civil in her manners, but always there was the business
relation to stand between them, and Georgie felt it. Mrs. St. John still
tried to retain the pretty pretext that Georgie's labors were a sort of
joke, a playing with independence; but there was nothing of this pretext
with the other three. To them, Georgie was simply a useful adjunct to
their luxurious lives, as little to be regarded as the florist who
filled their flower-boxes or the man who tuned their pianos.
These little rubs to self-complacency were not very hard to bear. It was
not exactly pleasant, certainly, to pass in at the side entrance where
she had once been welcomed at the front door; to feel that her comings
and her goings were so insignificant as to be scarcely noticed; now and
then, perhaps, to be treated with scant courtesy by an ill-mannered
servant. This rarely chanced, however. Georgie had a little natural
dignity which impressed servants as well as other people, and from her
employers she received nothing but the most civil treatment. Fashion is
not unkindly, and it was still remembered that Miss Talcott was born a
lady, though she worked for a living. There were stormy days and dull
days, days when Georgie felt tired and discouraged; or, harder still to
bear, bright days and gala days, when she saw other girls of her age
setting forth to enjoy themselves in ways now closed to her. I will not
deny that she suffered at such moments, and wished with all her heart
that things could be different. But on the whole she bore herself
bravely and well, and found some happiness in her work, together with a
great deal of contentment.
Mrs. St. John added to her difficulties by continual efforts to tempt
her to do this and that pleasant thing which Georgie felt to be
inexpedient. She wanted her favorite to play at young ladyhood in her
odd minutes, and defy the little frosts and chills which Georgie
instinctively knew would be her portion if she should attempt to enter
society again on the old terms. If Georgie urged that she had no proper
dress, the answer was prompt,--"My dear, I am going to give you a
dress;" or, "My dear, you can wear my blue, we are just the same
height." But Georgie stood firm, warded off the shower of gifts which
was ready to descend upon her, and loving her friend the more that she
was so foolishly kind, would not let herself be persuaded into doing
what she knew was unwise.
"I can't be two people at once," she persisted. "There's not enough of
me for that. You remember what I said that first day, and I mean to
stick to it. You are a perfect darling, and just as kind as you can be;
but you must just let me go my own way, dear Mrs. St. John, and be
satisfied to know that it is the comfort of my life to have you love me
so much, though I won't go to balls with you."
But though Georgie would not go to balls or dinner-parties, there were
smaller gayeties and pleasures which she did not refuse,--drives and
sails now and then, tickets to concerts and lectures, or a long quiet
Sunday with a "spend the night" to follow. These little breaks in her
busy life were wholesome and refreshing, and she saw no reason for
denying them to herself. There was nothing morbid in my little Knight of
Labor, which was one reason why she labored so successfully.
So the summer came and went, and Georgie with it, keeping steadily on at
her daily task. All that she found to do she did as thoroughly and as
carefully as she knew how. She was of real use, and she knew it. Her
work had a value. It was not imaginary work, invented as a pretext for
giving her help, and the fact supported her self-respect.
We are told in one of our Lord's most subtly beautiful parables, that to
them who make perfect use of their one talent, other talents shall be
added also. Many faithful workers have proved the meaning and the truth
of the parable, and Georgie Talcott found it now among the rest. With
the coming in of the autumn another sphere of activity was suddenly
opened to her. It sprang, as good things often do, from a seeming
disappointment.
She was drawing on her gloves one morning at the close of her labors,
when a message was brought by the discreet English butler.
"Mrs. Parish says, Miss, will you be so good as to step up to her
morning-room before you go."
"Certainly, Frederick." And Georgie turned and ran lightly upstairs.
Mrs. Parish was sitting at her writing-table with rather a preoccupied
face.
"I sent for you, Miss Talcott, because I wanted to mention that we are
going abroad for the winter," she began. "Maud isn't well, the doctors
recommend the Riviera, so we have decided rather suddenly on our plans,
and are to sail on the 'Scythia' the first of November. We shall be gone
a year."
"Dear me," thought Georgie, "there's another of my places lost! It is
quite dreadful!" She was conscious of a sharp pang of inward
disappointment.
"My cousin, Mrs. Ernest Stockton, is to take the place," continued Mrs.
Parish. "Her husband has been in the legation at Paris, you know, for
the last six years, but now they are coming back for good; and when I
telegraphed her of our decision, she at once cabled to secure this
house. They will land the week after we sail, and I suppose will want
to come up at once. Now, of course all sorts of things have got to be
done to make ready for them; but it's out of the question that I should
do them, for what with packing and the children's dressmaking and
appointments at the dentist's and all that, my hands are so full that I
could not possibly undertake anything else. So I was thinking of you.
You have so much head and system, you know, and I could trust you as I
could not any stranger, and you know the house so well; and you could
get plenty of people to help, so that it need not be burdensome. There
will be some things to be packed away, and the whole place to be
cleaned, floors waxed and curtains washed, the Duchesse dressing-tables
taken to pieces and done up and fluted,--all that sort of thing, you
know. Oh! and there would be an inventory to make, too; I forgot that.
Then next year I should want it gone over again in the same way,--the
articles that are packed taken out and put into place, and so on, that
it may look natural when we come home. My idea would be to move the
family down to New York on the 15th, so as to give you a clear
fortnight, and just come up for one day before we sail, for a final
look. Of course I should leave the keys in your charge, and I should
want you to take the whole responsibility. Now, will you do it, and just
tell me what you will ask for it all?"
"May I think it over for one night?" said prudent Georgie. "I will come
to-morrow morning with my answer."
She thought it over carefully, and seemed to see that here was a new
vista of remunerative labor opened to her, of a more permanent character
than mere dusting. So she signified to Mrs. Parish that she would
undertake the job, and having done so, bent her mind to doing it in the
best possible manner. She made careful lists, and personally
superintended each detail. Miss Sally recommended trustworthy
workpeople, and everything was carried out to the full satisfaction of
Mrs. Parish, who could not say enough in praise of Georgie and her
methods.
"It robs going to Europe of half its terrors to have such a person to
turn to," she told her friends. "That little Miss Talcott is really
wonderful,--so clear-headed and exact. It's really extraordinary where
she learned it all, such a girl as she is. If any of you are going
abroad, you'll find her the greatest comfort possible."
These commendations bore fruit. People in Sandyport were always setting
forth for this part of the world or that, and leaving houses behind
them. A second job of the same sort was soon urged upon Georgie,
followed by a third and a fourth. It was profitable work, for she had
fifty dollars in each case (a hundred for her double job at the Algernon
Parishes'); so her year's expenses were assured, and she was not sorry
when another of her "dusting" families went to Florida for the winter.
It became the fashion in Sandyport to employ "little Miss Talcott." Her
capabilities once discovered, people were quick in finding out ways in
which to utilize them. Mrs. Robert Brown had the sudden happy thought of
getting Georgie to arrange the flowers for a ball which she was giving.
Georgie loved flowers, and had that knack of making them look charming
in vases which is the gift of a favored few. The ball decorations were
admired and commented upon; people said it was "so clever of Mrs.
Brown," and "so much better than stiff things from a florist's," and
presently half a dozen other ladies wanted the same thing done for
them. Fashion and sheep always follow any leader who is venturesome
enough to try a new fence.
Later, Mrs. Horace Brown, with her cards out for a great lawn-party, had
the misfortune to sprain her ankle. In this emergency she bethought
herself of Georgie, who thereupon proved so "invaluable" as a _dea ex
machina_ behind the scenes, that thenceforward Mrs. Brown never felt
that she could give any sort of entertainment without her help.
Engagements thickened, and Georgie's hands became so full that she
laughingly threatened to "take a partner."
"That's just what I always wanted you to do," said Mrs. St. John,--"a
real nice one, with heaps of money, who would take you about everywhere,
and give you a good time."
"Oh, that's not at all the sort I want," protested Georgie, laughing and
blushing. "I mean a real business partner, a fellow-sweeperess and
house-arranger and ball-supper-manageress!"
"Wretched girl, how horribly practical you are! I wish I could see you
discontented and sentimental just for once!"
"Heaven forbid! That _would_ be a pretty state of things! Now good-by. I
have about half a ton of roses to arrange for Mrs. Lauriston."
"Oh,--for her dance! Georgie," coaxingly, "why not go for once with me?
Come, just this once. There's that white dress of mine from _Pingat_,
with the _Point de Venie_ sleeves, that would exactly fit you."
"Nonsense!" replied Georgie, briefly. She kissed her friend and hurried
away.
"I declare," soliloquized Mrs. St. John, looking after her, "I could
find it in my heart to _advertise_ for some one to come and rescue
Georgie Talcott from all this hard work! What nice old times those were
when you had only to get up a tournament and blow a trumpet or two, and
have true knights flock in from all points of the compass in aid of
distressed damsels! I wish such things were in fashion now; I would buy
a trumpet this very day, I vow, and have a tournament next week."
Georgie's true knight, as it happened, was to come from a quarter little
suspected by Mrs. St. John. For the spare afternoons of this second
winter Georgie had reserved rather a large piece of work, which had
the advantage that it could be taken up at will and laid down when
convenient. This was the cataloguing of a valuable library belonging to
Mr. Constant Carrington. That gentleman had observed Georgie rather
closely as she went about her various avocations, and had formed so high
an opinion of what he was pleased to term her "executive ability," that
he made a high bid for her services in preference to those of any one
else.
[Illustration: Recognizing an old friend, she jumped up, exclaiming,
"Why Bob--Mr. Curtis--how do you do?"--_Page 49._]
She was sitting in this library one rainy day in January, beside a big
packing-case, with a long row of books on the table, which she was
dusting, classifying, and noting on the list in her lap, when the door
opened and a tall young man came in. Georgie glanced at him vaguely, as
at a stranger; then recognizing an old friend, she jumped up,
exclaiming, "Why Bob--Mr. Curtis,--how do you do? I had no idea that you
were here."
Bob Curtis looked bewildered. He had reached Sandyport only that
morning. No one had chanced to mention Georgie or the change in her
fortunes, and for a moment he failed to recognize in the white-aproned,
dusty-fingered vision before him the girl whom he had known so well five
years previously.