"O, you don’t know, Peggy. First there was Carlton, and, of course,
Grace broke her engagement the instant she found he didn’t believe in
her. But he wasn’t the only one. Our friends were so sorry for us, but
we didn’t want them to be sorry. We wanted them to be angry and say it
was an outrage, as if they meant it. They made excuses for Grace. Said
she’d been used to having so much and that since papa’s death things had
been so different, and they pitied mamma and me because of our disgrace.
When I came here to Friendly Terrace I hated everybody in the world. I
thought I never would make a friend again as long as I lived. And I’d
have kept my word, I guess, if it hadn’t been for you, Peggy."
"You poor darling!" Peggy’s arm slipped around Elaine’s shoulder, and
tightened in a comforting hug. But her thoughts were busy still with
the account of the tragedy to which she had just listened. "How long is
your sister going to stay hidden away?" she demanded abruptly.
Elaine sighed. "As long as she lives, I guess. She doesn’t feel as if
she could face people."
"I don’t know why. It’s the ones who made the mistake who ought to hang
their heads. Grace hasn’t done anything to be ashamed of."
"I suppose we could have sued the firm," Elaine said wearily. "Mamma’s
lawyer urged it. But Grace, and all of us, for that matter, felt that
we’d gone through all we could bear, and that any more publicity would
only make things worse. Of course Grace never left the house in
daylight, but whenever mamma and I went out we were stared at as if we’d
been curiosities, and we could see people talking about us, and telling
the whole story over again. It was such a comfort to come here where
nobody knows. At least mamma and I felt so, but poor Grace couldn’t get
her courage up to let herself be seen even here."
Peggy frowned reflectively. "I don’t see how she manages to keep hidden
that way."
"It isn’t as hard as you might suppose. You notice that we always keep
both doors locked, and the shades are drawn a good deal. Grace helps in
the housework, and comes down to her meals, just as we do. The
afternoon she generally spends upstairs, especially since you girls have
got in the way of dropping in after school. And she likes you, Peggy.
She sits in a little room at the head of the stairs, and she can hear
nearly everything that is said. It’s funny, when you didn’t even know
there was such a person, but she feels real well acquainted with you."
"O!" cried Peggy, another mystery becoming luminous, by virtue of this
explanation. "I wonder if it wasn’t Grace who telephoned me--"
"On Christmas night? Yes. We’d been talking about you all day, and
saying what a dear you were, and admiring the little tree, along about
bed-time, Grace said all at once, ’I never expected to wish anybody a
happy new year again, but I’m going to wish one to Peggy Raymond.’ And
she marched over to the telephone, while mamma and I sat there too
surprised to say a word."
Peggy pressed her friend’s hand, too touched for the moment to speak.
This innocent girl, hiding from view like a criminal, held prisoner by
her own morbid shrinking, would have impressed a less sympathetic
imagination than Peggy’s, as a pathetic figure. "And she never goes out
of doors," she said, following out her line of thought.
"Sometimes she slips out on the porch when it is very late. Amy saw her
there last Halloween."
"To be sure. I think Amy always flattered herself that she really saw a
ghost that night." It occurred to Peggy as the words left her lips,
that out of all of Amy’s superstitious fancies, this was nearest the
truth. "I wish," she went on slowly, "that she’d begin to show herself,
and see people. It’s a dreadful way to live, dreadful! Don’t you think
she’d be willing to see me? You said that she liked me."
Elaine’s alarm at the mere suggestion impressed Peggy, more than
anything yet said, with the seriousness of the situation. "If she knew
I’d told you all this, she’d never forgive me in the wide world,"
declared Elaine paling at the thought. "And as for seeing you! No,
Peggy! But you can’t think what a comfort it is that you know."
"I’m glad," said Peggy, kissing her. But, as a matter of fact, she was
far from being satisfied. Anybody could listen to another’s troubles.
Peggy wanted to be something more than a sympathetic confidante, but it
seemed that for the present she must content herself with this passive
form of helpfulness.
*CHAPTER XVI*
*A BELATED INVITATION*
Priscilla’s curiosity grew over night. When she waked Saturday morning,
she found herself unable to think of anything but the singular episode
of the preceding afternoon. She recalled the absorbed faces of the
women who had watched Elaine, the suppressed eagerness of their triumph,
when she turned about, and lastly Elaine’s incomprehensible panic over
finding herself observed. Priscilla racked her brains for a possible
explanation, but her imagination was unequal to suggesting any that was
creditable to Peggy’s next-door neighbor.
It was not long after breakfast when she presented herself at Peggy’s
door in the hopes that Peggy might be able to throw light on the
situation. Peggy was doing the chamber work on the second floor, and
Priscilla was glad to assist in the ceremony of bed-making, because of
the opportunity this afforded for an uninterrupted discussion of the
mystery.
"I want to talk with you about yesterday," she said in the carefully
lowered voice which seemed appropriate to the situation, though, as a
matter of fact, she might have shouted without attracting anybody’s
attention. "I’ve thought about it all night."
"Me, too!" Peggy’s tone was enthusiastic. "Especially that _andante_
movement."
"O, Peggy!" Priscilla twitched a sheet with an energy that pulled it
away from the foot of the mattress, and sent Peggy hurrying to repair
damages. "What nonsense! As though I was thinking of _andante_
movements, or any other kind. I mean about Elaine."
"Wasn’t it nice to see how she enjoyed it? She really knows a lot about
music, and the more you know, the better you appreciate it, especially
classical music." Peggy was clearly talking against time, advancing her
by no means original views with an earnestness which was far beyond
their deserts. Priscilla was conscious of a feeling of irritation.
"She did seem to enjoy the music, I’ll admit. But apparently she
doesn’t enjoy meeting old acquaintances. Quite the opposite."
"She didn’t meet any old acquaintances," said Peggy quietly.
"Those women thought they knew her, even before she turned around, and
after that they were sure."
"They might have been mistaken for all that." Peggy smoothed the
comforter anxiously, as if to have it lie without a wrinkle was the most
important matter under consideration.
"If they were mistaken, why did Elaine run? The suspicious thing was
her being frightened to death, the minute she found anybody noticing
her. If she hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of--"
Peggy felt the time had come to discard the policy of evasion. She
straightened herself, looking across the billowing bed-clothes, straight
into her friend’s eyes. "Elaine hasn’t any reason to be ashamed of
anything she has done."
"What _is_ the matter, then?"
"There’s nothing I can tell, Priscilla."
"Nothing you will tell, you mean. If you know about it, it wouldn’t be
any more than friendly to explain."
"There’s nothing I can tell," repeated Peggy firmly. Priscilla found
the reiteration irritating.
"I suppose she’s confided everything to you, and expects that we’ll take
your word for her. Well, I won’t, for one. We don’t know anything about
her, except that she can be mighty disagreeable when she tries, and
yesterday capped the climax. I sha’n’t have anything more to do with
her till I know what it all meant."
"That’s for you to decide." Peggy’s tone was decidedly cool. Her hands
trembled as she twitched the coverlets into place. The intensity of her
sympathy, kindled by Elaine’s pitiful story, perhaps rendered her
incapable of doing full justice to Priscilla. Unfortunately her manner
fired the jealous resentment which was Priscilla’s greatest weakness.
"Of course if you’re going to take sides with her, Peggy Raymond,
against your best friends, if you’re going to throw me over just
because--"
"How silly!" snapped Peggy. "O, please, Priscilla, don’t pull those
bed-clothes up from the foot again."
Priscilla’s face was white. "I see I’m in the way. That girl has
spoiled our friendship. You’ve never been the same, Peggy, since Elaine
Marshall moved to Friendly terrace."
"How silly!" exploded Peggy, angered by the injustice of the charge and
momentarily abandoning her usual tactful methods. "As if anybody but
our two selves could spoil our friendship." She watched Priscilla’s
dignified withdrawal without protest. She was tired of these scenes,
she told herself. It was time Priscilla had a good lesson. She punched
a pillow into place with a vehemence implying that she held it solely
responsible for all that had occurred.
As for Priscilla she closed the door behind her with the feeling that
she had burned her bridges, and that no retreat was possible. All was
over. She had been very fond of Peggy, but Peggy’s fashion of losing
her head over every new girl who came to the Terrace was bound to grow
tiresome. Peggy had clearly indicated on which side her sympathies lay.
She had chosen Elaine in preference to the friend of many years
standing. By the time Priscilla was at her own door she was ready to
believe that she had been most unfairly treated.
Priscilla was not the sort of girl to rest quietly under a grievance.
Her first impulse was to assert herself, to prove to all observers how
little she cared. Accordingly she burst in upon her mother with the
request, "May I have some of the girls to luncheon next Saturday,
mother? I don’t mean two or three; I’d like a dozen or so, a real
party--"
"Let me see." Mrs. Combs was accustomed to these impulsive outbreaks on
Priscilla’s part. "What day is Saturday?"
"The thirteenth."
"I have an invitation to luncheon myself for that day; still you could
manage without me, I dare say."
"O, yes. I don’t want anything elaborate, only nice, you know. And
Susan’s cousin can come to wait on the table. She does it very nicely,
and doesn’t charge much of anything." Priscilla hurried to her writing
desk, and pulled out her note paper. A party without Peggy! Could
there be a better way of asserting herself and proving how little she
was moved by the loss of Peggy’s friendship. She dashed off the
invitations as hastily as if she were afraid to give herself time for
reflection.
Peggy was not long in hearing of Priscilla’s luncheon party, and the
non-appearance of her invitation was a secret she kept to herself. That
she was hurt, goes without saying. The two girls had been friends for
years, and, up to this time, Peggy’s ground of complaint had been the
excess of the other’s affection, rather than any lack. It was hard to
believe that Priscilla was planning so pronounced a slight. She tried to
make herself believe that there was some mistake, but the passing days
brought the conviction that the omission was deliberate, and that the
chief purpose of the little festivity was her open humiliation.
This would have been bad enough, but, to make matters worse, Peggy’s
conscience took a hand. An uncompromising monitor was this same
conscience, sternly denying Peggy the luxury of self-pity, and
arraigning her in a fashion little short of merciless. Ardently it
pleaded Priscilla’s cause. Her suspicions of Elaine were not without
foundation. Peggy herself might have shared them had it not been for
the extraordinary story to which she had listened. In any case, she had
failed to show the patience due one friend from another. She who prided
herself on her tact, had been brusque and tactless. Knowing poor
Priscilla’s weakness, she had not been on her guard. She had lost her
friend, and for her comfort had the reflection that it was, in part at
least, her own fault.
It was a blue week for Peggy, and hardly better for Priscilla. She
studied cook books, planned out her menu, and tried to think that her
low spirits were due to dreadful doubts as to Susan’s salad dressing,
while all the time she knew that she missed Peggy. She wanted to ask
her opinion as to whether to order the ices from Bird’s or Connally’s,
and to consult her about the place cards. How loyally Peggy would have
counselled and lent her aid. Many a time she had helped some distracted
hostess till she had barely time to fly home and change her dress before
the appointed hour.
Saturday was cloudless, a fact which Priscilla came near resenting.
Grey skies and a drizzle of rain would have harmonized better with her
mood. Mrs. Combs was puzzled by the overcast face her daughter brought
down to breakfast.
"What is it, child? Anything wrong with your plans?"
"No, I guess everything’s all right," Priscilla responded in the most
doleful of voices.
"A pleasant hostess is the chief factor in making pleasant guests. I
advise smoothing a few of those wrinkles out of your forehead when you
attend to the rest of your toilet," advised Mrs. Combs, smilingly, and
she was more puzzled than ever when Priscilla received her counsel with
a sigh.
The luncheon hour was set for one o’clock, but at half past twelve, the
girls began to arrive, formality never being much in evidence on
Friendly Terrace.
"Wonder if Peggy’s here yet," Ruth remarked, as she stood before
Priscilla’s mirror, giving her hair the little caressing pats whose
importance every girl understands.
"I don’t believe Peggy is coming." It was Blanche Estabrook who made
the remark, apparently without realizing its importance.
Ruth and Amy whirled about. "Not coming!" they exclaimed in a breath.
"She was on Elaine Marshall’s back steps talking to her as I came by.
She had on a blue gingham, and that didn’t look very much like going out
to luncheon." Blanche ran down the stairs, leaving Amy and Ruth gazing
blankly at each other.
"Now I think of it, I believe something has been wrong all the week,"
Amy exclaimed. "Priscilla has kept to herself, hasn’t she? I don’t
remember her walking home from school with Peggy."
"I don’t believe she has. To think of her not asking Peggy!" Ruth gave
a refractory lock a jerk which threatened to undo, all in a moment, the
result of much patient labor. "I really think I wouldn’t have come
myself if I’d known."
Downstairs the early arrivals were chatting gaily. Ruth and Amy
descended together to join them, feeling little in the mood for
festivity of any sort. "If it had been anybody but Peggy," Amy said,
angrily on the way down, and Ruth replied, "Seems as if there must be
some mistake, Amy. Perhaps she’ll come after all."
The doorbell rang several times before one o’clock, but no breathless
Peggy appeared, apologizing for the delay, and smiling on everybody.
Ruth made no effort to be entertaining, but sat watching the door, and
making absent replies to the girl who sat next her. Amy, too, was
uneasy, and curious little lulls occurred in the conversation, a
phenomenon almost unheard of when a group of girls are together.
"Well, I believe we’re all here," Priscilla announced at last. "Excuse
me for a minute, while I tell Susan." She rose and stepped into the
hall. In an instant Amy had followed, closing the door behind her.
"Priscilla!" Amy’s excited tones were plainly audible in the room where
the girls sat waiting, though not her words. "You don’t mean that these
girls are all the party."
"Certainly they’re all." Priscilla eyed her friend suspiciously.
"But there are thirteen of us. Do you think I’d sit down thirteen at
the table, and on the thirteenth of the month, too." Amy was very much
in earnest. Her plump, good-natured face was actually pale. "I tell
you I wouldn’t think of such a thing."
"I believe there are thirteen. Rae Fletcher couldn’t come." Priscilla
had recovered herself in a moment. "But that silly old superstition,
Amy. You don’t mean--"
"Yes, I do mean it. And there’s lots of other people who feel just the
same about it." Amy suddenly opened the door of the front room. "Come
here, Ruth, we want you a minute."
Ruth made her appearance, expecting to be consulted on a very different
matter. Amy’s tragic explanation took her by surprise, and she smiled a
little. "O, well," she was beginning, and then checked herself, as the
possibility of turning Amy’s superstitious terrors to good account
flashed upon her.
"I simply won’t do it," Amy was insisting. "And on the thirteenth of the
month, especially. I wouldn’t have another peaceful minute all the year.
Ruth, why don’t you say something?"
"Why don’t you ask somebody else and make fourteen." Ruth offered the
suggestion nonchalantly, though her pulse had quickened.
"There isn’t anybody I can ask at the very last minute. Mother’s gone
to Mrs.--"
"Why not ask Peggy?"
[Illustration: "’WHY NOT ASK PEGGY?’"]
Amy’s excitement over the fatal number of Priscilla’s guests had made
her temporarily forgetful of her earlier reason for disquiet. At Ruth’s
master-stroke, she gasped with admiration, and promptly seconded the
suggestion. "O, yes, ask Peggy. She’s just the one."
Priscilla stood with downcast eyes, and breathlessly her two friends
awaited her answer. For a moment the outcome was uncertain. Priscilla
was quite capable of resenting such advice, and earlier in the week
would undoubtedly have done so. But if Peggy’s conscience had been an
uncomfortable companion, Priscilla’s had not been less active, and her
anticipated triumph in having a party without Peggy had proved bitter as
Dead Sea fruit. When she spoke, her voice was tremulous, in spite of
her efforts to make it sound indifferent.
"O, I don’t believe Peggy will come. We had a little misunderstanding,
you see."
"It wouldn’t do any harm to try," suggested Ruth, still painstakingly
matter-of-fact, while Amy added with less tact, "If anybody would do it,
it’s Peggy. She’s the forgivingest thing."
Peggy was at the dinner table when an agitated knocking sounded at the
side-door. A breathless voice in the hall made inquiries of Sally.
"Somebody to see you, Miss Peggy," was Sally’s grudging announcement.
She disapproved of people who came at meal time.
To Peggy’s amazement it was Priscilla waiting in the hall, Priscilla in
her best white frock, and with a pallor that was rather appealing. "I
know you won’t do it," was her opening remark.
"Won’t do what, Priscilla?" Peggy was to be pardoned if her manner was
a little formal.
"There are thirteen of us, and Amy won’t sit down at all. But it serves
me right if my party’s spoiled, after treating you that way."
Priscilla gulped. Peggy’s manner became less dignified.
"You mean that there’s thirteen and you want me for the fourteenth."
"Of course you won’t come. But it serves me right to have you say no."
Priscilla bit her lip to keep from crying.
Peggy threw a hurried glance at the mirror. "Will my hair do? I’ve got
to change my dress, of course."
"You’re going to do it?" Priscilla fairly screamed. "O, Peggy! You’re
an angel. You can’t think how wretched I’ve been all the week, and how
ashamed. O, you darling! Can you ever forgive me?"
They rushed upstairs, their arms about each other’s waists. "Don’t make
me cry," pleaded Peggy, gulping down a sob, "because I really mustn’t
take time to wash my face, you know. I’ll wear my pink; I can get into
that in a shake."
It was only fifteen minutes after the hour named on the invitations,
that Priscilla’s guests sat down to a very dainty and highly successful
luncheon. "Do you know, I thought you weren’t coming," Blanche
Estabrook said to Peggy as they took their seats.
"I’m so sorry to be late and keep everybody waiting," Peggy answered
with gentle regret, and that was all most of them knew about the belated
invitation. But there was no doubt in the minds of any of the gay crowd
that fourteen was a peculiarly lucky number, on any day of the month.
*CHAPTER XVII*
*ELAINE UPSETS TRADITION*
Winter as a rule seems long to people in trouble. That year Elaine
Marshall found it endless. The steady cold that set in early in January
seemed to her relentless, almost vindictive. It was vain to tell
herself that spring would return as always, that the branches of the
willows by the river would become clouds of misty green, that violets
would start in the woods beyond, and the strips of lawn along the
Terrace would take on the hue of spring. Intellectually she knew all
this to be true, but in her heart was the hopeless conviction that this
winter would last forever.
Elaine was having a hard time, and the hardest part of it all was that,
however far she looked ahead, she could see no prospect of relief. Mrs.
Marshall’s economy was of the inconsistent sort, noticeable in people
who late in life have begun to realize the value of money. She scrimped
over the pennies, and then threw away dollars for something which even
to Elaine’s inexperience was plainly not indispensable.
Things counted up incredibly. There was the coal bill, for example.
Mrs. Marshall had said at first that the dealer must have made a
mistake, and then, that he evidently gave short measure, and, finally,
she had looked at her daughter with eyes half-frightened. "We can’t
freeze, Elaine."
"No, we’ve got to keep warm," the girl returned, but her voice was
absent. She was mentally calculating how far their yearly income would
stretch at this rate, and the thought of the weeks for which there would
be no provision rushed over her with sickening dismay.
She took up her embroidery and fell to work. Since filling Mrs.
Summerfield Ely’s first order Elaine had received several others from
that lady and her friends. She had outgrown her early foolish
humiliation over the idea of doing such work for pay. Mrs. Ely treated
her with as scrupulous a courtesy as she would have showed any other
girl, and gave her work the praise which to the conscientious is always
the best of the rewards of toil. At the same time, Elaine’s judgment,
sharpened by necessity, was grasping the fact that this dainty work,
well enough to fill in the leisure minutes, was a very poor dependence
when the bread and butter problem was under consideration.
Peggy came in upon her one afternoon, when the dreariness of the grey
winter sky seemed to Elaine an inadequate symbol of her own sombre mood.
Peggy’s arrival was like a rift in the clouds, letting the blue shine
through, a real sunbeam visitation. Smiles were not easy for Elaine
these days, but her face did brighten noticeably at the sight of Peggy.
"You don’t mind if I keep on, I know," she said as Peggy took the
nearest chair. "Mrs. Laughlin is in a hurry for this."
"I don’t mind your keeping on as far as I’m concerned," Peggy replied,
viewing her narrowly. "But I _do_ mind the way you’re squinting over
that embroidery. What’s the matter? Are your eyes hurting you?"
Elaine let the embroidery fall, closing her eyes, and further protecting
them by a sheltering hand. "Hurt?" she repeated. "I should think so."
"What’s the matter?"
"Too much close work, I suppose. I’ve kept at it till late two or three
nights this week."
"It isn’t going to pay you," warned Peggy, "to ruin your eyes for what
you can make out of embroidery."
"It doesn’t pay anyway," sighed Elaine. "You wouldn’t believe how many
hours it takes me to earn ten dollars." She had given herself as long a
recess as she dared, and she fell to work again, her eyes blinking and
suffused with moisture as if reluctant to reassume their duties.
Peggy’s silence was unusually prolonged. "I had a new experience this
week," she remarked casually at last. "I had a job offered me and
refused it."
"A job?" exclaimed Elaine with interest.
"A job?" echoed Mrs. Marshall, her tone indicating horror. There was a
startling vulgarity about the term, she reflected. Young ladies might
have employment, though occupation was still better. But to get a job
was not to be thought of. She shuddered.
"In my Uncle John’s office," Peggy explained. "He’s a real estate
dealer, you know, and he’s especially interested in the new suburb
they’re opening up, Lakeview, they call it. He thinks there’s quite an
opening in that work for women, and he painted the prospects in such
dazzling colors that I really hated to say no."
"Why did you say it, then?" asked Elaine, her manner proving that the
inquiry was by no means perfunctory. Mrs. Marshall uttered an
exclamation, apparently indicating that the reason was self-evident.
"O, I wouldn’t stop before I finished high school for anything. And
Uncle John wants somebody right away. If the chance had come after I
had graduated I’d have jumped at it, for I’ve got to earn some money
before I go to college."
Elaine folded her work deliberately and laid it on the table. She set
her thimble atop, with particular care that it should be exactly in the
centre of the pile. Then she looked hard at Peggy.
"What about me?" Elaine demanded abruptly. "Do you think he’d consider
me?"
"Elaine!" gasped Mrs. Marshall. But Peggy, overjoyed that the fish had
risen so readily to the bait, failed to notice the horrified protest of
the mother’s tone.
"Would you really take such a position, Elaine?" she cried. "Why, I
should think you’d have the best chance in the world. And Uncle John
would be such a splendid person to work for. He’s a fine business man,
everybody says, but not the petrified sort. He’s kind and interested and
ready to make allowances--"
"Elaine!" said Mrs. Marshall, breaking in on Peggy’s eulogy. This time
it was impossible to ignore the tone in which she spoke her daughter’s
name. It was like the crack of a whip.
Both girls looked at her. Poor Mrs. Marshall sat very straight, her
thin cheeks aflame. Her expression betokened a conflict between
incredulous anger and hurt pride.
"Elaine, you must be taking leave of your senses. What would your
grandfather have said at the idea of one of his blood"--Mrs. Marshall
hesitated, then evidently concluded that only the objectionable
commercial term Peggy had made use of, was equal to the occasion--"one
of his descendants getting a _job_ in a real estate office?"
"I think grandfather would probably have said that circumstances alter
cases," replied Elaine promptly.
Not having had the pleasure of the acquaintance of Mrs. Marshall’s late
father, Peggy was unable to surmise what that old gentleman’s attitude
would have been under such conditions. But she hastened to suggest,
"Lots of awfully nice girls go into business offices nowadays, Mrs.
Marshall."
Elaine was in a reckless mood. "I don’t know as it matters what other
girls do. It’s a question of what I’ve got to do. We can’t sit here
and starve, just because grandfather was rich."
"Elaine!" cried Mrs. Marshall with a horror which was at least sincere.
To acknowledge, even to Peggy, the pressing character of their need,
seemed to the poor lady a shocking piece of indelicacy. Her weak chin
quivered, as she struggled with her emotions. Peggy possessed enough of
the divine art of putting herself in another’s place to realize that the
consternation, so absurd from her standpoint, was justified by those
views of life to which Mrs. Marshall had always adhered. She racked her
head for something which would soften the blow.
"If Elaine is going to work anywhere, Mrs. Marshall, she couldn’t be in
a better place than Uncle John’s office. He’d be good to anybody, but,
of course, he’d be especially interested in Elaine as long as she’s a
friend of mine."
"Young people nowadays," quavered Mrs. Marshall, her sense of injury
goading her to injustice, "are not sufficiently mindful of what they owe
the family name."
Elaine’s flippant laugh jarred Peggy’s sense of propriety. She looked
at her reproachfully, but Elaine would not meet her eye.
"I suppose that’s because we have to think what we owe ourselves," she
suggested airily. "Clothes and something to eat, to say nothing of
carfare."
"And don’t you think," asked Peggy, hurling herself into the breach,
"that a girl who does hard things when she has to, and keeps brave and
plucky about it, is a credit to any family? Seems to me that her
ancestors, whoever they were, would have reason to be proud of her."
There was a clarion ring in Peggy’s voice. Mrs. Marshall looked at her
doubtfully, surprised that enthusiasm could be kindled over what to her
mind was a disgrace. But Elaine’s expression betrayed a sense of guilt.
"Don’t try to make a heroine of me, Peggy," she protested. "I’m not
brave, nor plucky, nor anything of the kind. It’s only that I’ve got to
have the money. If you think there’s any chance, let’s go to see your
uncle right away before he gets anybody else."
The process of bringing Mrs. Marshall to agree to this suggestion
occupied some time. Suspecting the weakness of her arguments, the poor
lady fell back on tears and reminiscences. The two girls listened to
detailed accounts of the lavish expenditure that had prevailed in her
father’s household, the big dinners, the imported gowns, the liveried
coachman. "And to think that my child should be--getting a job," wailed
Mrs. Marshall. "O, what would poor papa have said?" It was not so much,
perhaps, that the girls’ arguments finally had effect, as that the
violence of her emotion had reduced her to the point of exhaustion,
which accounted for the fact that Elaine and Peggy were at last allowed
to depart on their errand without protest.
Peggy’s uncle, Mr. John Mannering, was a big grey-haired man, with eyes
that twinkled boyishly, and a voice that could be kind or commanding or
both in one, on occasion. He asked Elaine a few questions which had the
result of making her feel hopelessly ignorant and incompetent, and then
sat considering her with a closeness of attention whose curious
impersonality resulted in relieving Elaine from all feeling of
embarrassment. "He’s sizing me up," she thought, and sat waiting
without much hope of a favorable verdict. The atmosphere of the real
estate office was like a different world from any to which Elaine had
been accustomed. The maps upon the wall, the business-like click of the
typewriter, the phrases which she caught as people came and went, all
were calculated to make her feel how little her life had prepared her
for fitting into so methodical a system of activity.
Mr. Mannering turned abruptly to his niece. "Well, Peggy," he exclaimed,
with the smile which was conclusive proof that, as Peggy put it, he was
not "petrified." "Do I understand that you stand sponsor for this young
woman?"
"Yes, sir," returned Peggy, without troubling herself to inquire into
his exact meaning.
"You’ll vouch for her being efficient, courteous, obliging, industrious,
quick to learn, slow to forget, and above all a sticker."
"Yes, sir," said Peggy without blinking. It was Elaine who uttered a
little protesting gasp, and looked frightened.
"Well, I’ll take your word for her. You can be on hand in the morning,
I suppose," he added, looking at Elaine.
Like one in a dream Elaine heard herself concluding the arrangements for
her plunge. She listened to the outlining of her duties, without any
clear idea of what was said, agreed to the amount of her salary, without
knowing whether it was more or less than she had hoped, and finally
found herself outside with Peggy, in the dazed, uncertain mood of one
who is not quite sure whether she has been dreaming or not.
"Isn’t it glorious?" Peggy’s enthusiastic comment sounded wide-awake
enough, at all events. "You’re a wage-earner, Elaine. Doesn’t that
sound imposing? Don’t you think Uncle John’s a dear? I’m coming down
some afternoon when I haven’t anything to do, and look at all those
blue-prints. There’s something awfully fascinating in the things you
don’t know anything about."
Elaine reflected that in this case she was likely to find untold
fascination in her new occupation. Her answers to Peggy’s cheerful
chatter were rather vague. Now that she had taken the final step her
courage was ebbing. Her mother’s warnings, which she had brushed aside
with a sense of irritation when they were spoken, sounded in her ears
with monotonous insistence. After her reckless mood of the afternoon
had come the inevitable reaction of tremulous cowardice. Why had she
ever done it? What had made her suppose herself qualified for such a
position? How was she ever going to bear it?
If this was her mood, when sustained by the cheerful companionship of
Peggy, it was worse after they had said good night. Mrs. Marshall had
received the news of her daughter’s prospective advent into business
life with a burst of tears, after which she had refused to partake of
the evening meal and had retired to her room. Elaine, herself, had
choked down her food with difficulty, and went to bed at last with the
firm conviction that dreams of the night, however unpleasant, could be
no worse than the nightmare of her waking hours. She was not quite
clear as to whether she had already disgraced the family name by the
work she had chosen, or merely was about to disgrace it, by proving her
woeful inefficiency. Whichever was true, she could see nothing but
blackness ahead, and as she tossed on her pillow, flushed and wakeful,
she wished though vainly for the relief of tears.
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*A REMARKABLE EVENING*
A wakeful restless night is not the best of preparations for launching
out in untried activities. The pale, tremulous Elaine, who presented
herself at Mr. John Mannering’s office the next morning, was far less
equal to the ordeal of being "sized up" than she had been the previous
day. A soldier, on the eve of his first battle, may have sensations
very like those of Elaine, as she seated herself at the desk and began
her unfamiliar work.
Time in a business office is a deliberate affair, Elaine soon
discovered. It was no wonder that much was accomplished when the hours
were two or three times as long as the easy-going hours with which she
was best acquainted. At ten o’clock she was impatient for luncheon. At
eleven she wanted to go home. By noon she was ready for bed.
The other girl in the office gave her information in more or less
technical terms, which left Elaine little the wiser. It was incredible
that she could ever master the meaning of the phrases Miss Newell
rattled off so glibly. Each new item, as she gave it her attention,
crowded out all that had gone before. She felt like a spent swimmer,
clutching desperately at slippery, water-soaked stalks, to find each
giving way in her hand. And when Miss Newell had finished Elaine was
gasping, like a swimmer who has come to the surface after going under.
The middle of the afternoon found her tired, bewildered and so near to
complete disheartenment that it needed only a feather’s weight addition
to her load to wreck her weakened courage. As ill luck would have it,
that trifling extra was forthcoming. About three o’clock the office
door swung ajar to admit a florid gentleman, accompanied by two young
girls. Elaine, recalling Miss Newell’s instructions, rose hastily and
approached them.
"Did you wish to see Mr. Mannering?" she began, addressing the florid
gentleman. Then all at once it flashed over her that the something
vaguely familiar in the faces of the two girls was not a misleading
fancy, as she had thought. She really knew them, for she had met them
at Peggy Raymond’s Hallowe’en party. So strong had Elaine’s feeling of
forlornness become by now that even the appearance of these mere
acquaintances gave her pleasure out of all proportion to its exciting
cause. The color rose in her cheeks, as she said smilingly, "Why, good
afternoon."
"Good afternoon," said the girls in chorus, and returned her look
blankly. It did not occur to her that her own tardy recognition should
have given her the key for interpreting their unresponsive manner. The
possibility that these acquaintances failed to recognize her, as she had
come so near failing to recognize them, was far from her thoughts. She
was being snubbed, taught her place. She would have to remember,
henceforth, that a girl who worked in a real estate office must not
expect cordial treatment from girls who, like the lilies of the field,
toiled not, and yet outdid Solomon in gay apparel.
Just what the florid man wanted, and whether he got it or not, Elaine
was never exactly sure. For in the abyss of humiliation into which she
had descended connected thought was impossible. In her misery and
confusion she was conscious of but one thing, an overwhelming longing
for the end of that dreadful day. Plenty of girls have gone home from
just such experiences, to be cheered, soothed, encouraged, and sent out
in the morning with teeth set and heart resolute. But the atmosphere of
Elaine’s home was not of the sort to revive the fainting and inspire the
discouraged. Mrs. Marshall, as well as her daughter, had spent a
wretched day, weeping at frequent intervals, and bemoaning the changed
fortunes which had brought her family to such straits. There was
nothing in her companionship to invigorate the girl who crept home at
nightfall, half crushed under a burden no less heavy because it was
largely imaginary. Elaine’s evident dejection plunged Mrs. Marshall
still deeper into melancholy, and the mother’s low spirits reacted on
the girl. Instead of the mutual helpfulness which should have been
given each was making it harder for the other.
When Peggy Raymond made her appearance at eight o’clock Elaine was lying
back in the easy chair, her eyes closed, and her face colorless. Mrs.
Marshall, sitting on the other side of the round table, had the air of
one who has expected the worst all along, and whose sole remaining
comfort is the doubtful joy of saying, "I told you so."
"Headache?" exclaimed Peggy sympathetically, yet cheerily too, for Peggy
had an intuitive shrinking from the sympathy which knocks the props out
from under a tottering courage. "Well, the first day of anything is
always a hard day. Want me to rub your head?"
"I don’t know." Elaine spoke languidly, more as if it were too much
trouble to refuse than as if she welcomed the thought of Peggy’s
ministrations. Indeed she was almost in the mood to resent the idea of
being made comfortable. But Peggy slipped behind her chair, stroking
the throbbing temples with a touch at once gentle and assured. "Uncle
John telephoned me this evening," she observed. "He says you take things
a little hard, but that you’ll be all right as soon as you’re used to
it."
Mrs. Marshall sighed heavily, and Elaine came to life sufficiently to
say with some spirit, "There are some things one never would get used
to."
Peggy’s caressing hand paused a moment. "Some things! What sort of
things do you mean?"
"Like being snubbed, for instance."
"Snubbed?" cried Peggy, startled.
"Of course it’s no more than I should have expected. When I took up
that work, I ought to have known that people would look down on me, and
treat me accordingly. But, somehow, I wasn’t prepared for it."
"Look here, Elaine," said Peggy, thoroughly aroused. "Business is
business, and when a girl goes into an office, she must expect that
she’ll be told of her mistakes. But to imagine that Uncle John is going
to look down on anybody--"
"Oh!" Elaine’s tone was apologetic, as she interrupted. "It wasn’t
your uncle. He was very kind indeed, all that I saw of him. But along
in the afternoon--" to her amazement she was obliged to pause to get
control of her voice--"two girls came in, girls I met at your house,"
she faltered. "Their name is Henderson."
"Bess and Lu! Well, what of it?"
"Why, I spoke to them before I thought, just as I would anywhere.
Everything seemed so strange that I had a silly feeling as if it were
awfully nice to see anybody I knew. And they--O, Peggy!" Elaine broke
down and sobbed helplessly. "They were so cold and distant, and all at
once I realized how they must feel to have a girl in an office acting as
if she thought she was as good as they were. I suppose I deserved to be
snubbed."
"If I had been listened to," observed Mrs. Marshall tragically, "this
could not have happened."
"Why, I never heard of such a thing," Peggy cried, finding her voice.
"Lu and Bessie are nice, sensible girls, as far as I know. I can’t
imagine their doing anything so ill-bred and silly as snubbing you for
speaking to them. I simply can’t believe it."
"It’s true, though." Elaine wiped away her tears and Peggy took a long
look at her. "Well, what of it?" she said.