PLANNING AND WISHING.
"Mrs. Anna Oldham, the famous suffragette, will speak in the gymnasium
on Saturday afternoon, at four o'clock, on 'Woman's Suffrage.' All those
interested in this subject are invited to be present."
Molly and Judy, with a crowd of friends, on the way from one classroom
to another one busy Friday had paused in front of the bulletin board in
the main corridor.
"Mrs. Anna Oldham?" they repeated, trying to remember where they had
heard the name before.
"Why, Judy," whispered Molly, "that must be Nance's mother. Do you--do
you suppose Nance knows?"
"If she does, she has never mentioned it. You know she never tells
anything. She's a perfect clam. But this, somehow, is different."
Both girls thought of their own mothers immediately. Surely they would
have shouted aloud such news as Nance had.
"Shall we mention it to her, or do you think we'd better wait and let
her introduce the subject?" asked Molly.
"Surely she corresponds with her own mother," exclaimed Judy without
answering Molly's question.
"Her father writes to her about once a week, I know; but I don't think
she hears very often from Mrs. Oldham. You see, her mother's away most
of the time lecturing."
"Lecturing--fiddlesticks!" cried Judy indignantly. "What kind of a
mother is she, I'd like to know? I'll bet you anything Nance doesn't
know at all she's going to be here. I think we ought to tell her,
Molly."
"Poor Nance," answered Molly. "I don't know which would mortify her
most: to know or not to know. Suppose we find out in some tactful
roundabout way whether she knows, and then I'll offer to go in with you
Saturday night and give her mother my bed."
Judy cordially consented to this arrangement, having a three-quarter bed
in her small room, although secretly she was not fond of sharing it and
preferred both her bed and her room to herself.
It was not until much later in the day that they saw Nance, who appeared
to be radiantly and buoyantly happy. Her usually quiet face was aglow
with a soft light, and as she passed her two friends she waved a letter
at them gayly.
"You see, she knows and she is delighted," exclaimed Judy. "Just as we
would be. Oh, Molly, wait until you see my mother, if you want to meet a
thing of beauty and a joy forever. You'd think I was her mother instead
of her being mine, she is so little and sweet and dainty."
Molly laughed.
"Isn't she coming up soon? I'd dearly love to meet her."
"I'm afraid not. You know papa is always flying off on trips and mamma
goes with him everywhere. I used to, too, before I decided to be
educated. It was awfully exciting. We often got ready on a day's
notice to go thousands of miles, to San Francisco or Alaska or Mexico,
anywhere. Papa is exactly like me, or, rather, I am exactly like him,
only he is a hundred times better looking and more fascinating and
charming than I can ever hope to be."
"You funny child," exclaimed Molly; "how do you know you are not all
those things right now?"
"I know I'm not," sighed Judy. "Papa is brilliant, and not a bit lazy.
He works all the time."
"So would you if you only wanted to. You only choose to be lazy. If I
had your mind and opportunities there is no end to what I would do."
Judy looked at her in surprise.
"Why, Molly, do you think I have any mind?" she asked.
"One of the best in the freshman class," answered her friend. "But look,
here are some letters!"
She paused in the hall of Queen's Cottage to look over a pile of mail
which had been brought that afternoon.
There were several letters for the girls; Judy's bi-weeklies from both
her parents, who wrote to her assiduously, and Molly's numerous home
epistles from her sisters and mother. But there were two, one for each
of the girls, with the Exmoor postmark on them.
Molly opened hers first.
"Oh, Judy," she exclaimed, "do you remember that nice Exmoor Sophomore
named 'Upton?' He wants to come over Saturday afternoon to call and go
walking. Dodo has probably written the same thing to you. I see you have
an Exmoor letter."
"He has," answered Judy, perusing her note. "He wishes the honor of my
company for a short walk. Evidently they don't think we have many
engagements since they don't give us time to answer their notes."
"Judy!"
"Molly!"
The two girls looked at each other for a brief moment and then broke
into a laugh.
"Nance's letter must have been from one of the others, Andy McLean,
perhaps, that was why she was so----"
Judy paused. Somehow, it didn't seem very kind to imply that poor Nance
was elated over her first beau.
"Dear, sweet old Nance!" cried Molly, her heart warming to her friend.
"She will probably have them by the dozens some of these days."
"I'm sure I should camp on her trail if I were a man," said Judy
loyally. "But, Molly," she added, laughing again, "what are we to do
about old Mrs. Oldham?"
"Oh, dear! I hadn't thought of that. And poor Nance would have enjoyed
the walk so much more than a learned discourse on woman's rights."
Just before supper time Nance burst into the room. She was humming a
waltz tune; her cheeks looked flushed, and she went briskly over to the
mirror and glanced at her image quickly, while she took off her tam and
sweater.
The girls had never seen her looking so pretty. They waited for her to
mention the note, but she talked of other things until Judy, always
impatient to force events, exclaimed:
"What was that note you were waving at us this afternoon, Nance?"
"Oh, that was from----"
A tap on the door interrupted her and Margaret Wakefield entered.
"Oh, Nance," she cried, "I am so excited over your mother's coming to
speak at college to-morrow afternoon. Isn't it fine of her? It's Miss
Bowles, Professor in Advanced Math., who is bringing her, you know, of
course?"
Except that her face turned perfectly white, Nance showed no sign
whatever that she had received a staggering blow, but her two friends
felt for her deeply and Molly came to her rescue.
"By the way, Nance, dearest," she said, "I thought you might want to
have your mother with you to-morrow night, and I was going to offer you
my bed and turn in with Judy."
"Thanks, Molly," answered Nance, huskily; "that would be nice."
Very little ever escaped the alert eyes of Margaret Wakefield; but if
she noticed anything strange in Nance's manner, she made no comment
whatever. She was a fine girl, full of sympathy and understanding, with
a certain well-bred dignity of manner that is seldom seen in a young
girl.
"It will be quite a gala event at Queen's if Mrs. Oldham eats supper
here," she said gently; "but no doubt she will be claimed by some of the
faculty." Then she slipped quietly out of the room, just in time, for
quiet, self-contained Nance burst suddenly into a storm of weeping and
flung herself on the bed.
"And she never even took the trouble to tell me," she sobbed brokenly.
"She has probably forgotten that I am even going to Wellington."
It was a difficult moment for Molly and Judy. Would it be more tactful
to slip out of the room or to try and comfort Nance? After all, she had
had very little sympathy in her life, and sympathy was what she craved
and love, too, Molly felt sure of this, and with an instinct stronger
than reason, she slipped down beside her friend on the couch and put her
arms around her.
"Darling, sweetest Nance," she cried, "I am sure the message will come.
Perhaps she'll telegraph, and they will telephone from the village. Judy
and I love you so dearly, it breaks our hearts to see you cry like this.
Doesn't it, Judy?"
"Indeed, it does," answered Judy, who was kneeling at the side of the
couch with her cheek against Nance's hand.
It was a comfort to Nance to realize that she had gained the friendship
and affection of these two loving, warm-hearted girls. Never in her life
had she met any girls like them, and presently the bitterness in her
heart began to melt away.
"Perhaps she will telegraph," she said, drying her eyes. "It was silly
of me to take on so, but, you see, I had a little shock--I'm all right
now. You're dears, both of you."
Judy went into her own room and returned in a moment with a large bottle
of German cologne. Filling the stationary wash basin with cold water she
poured in a liberal quantity of the cologne.
"Now, dearest Nance," she said, "bathe your face in that, and then
powder with Molly's pink rice powder, and all will be as if it never had
been," she added, smiling.
The others smiled, too. Somehow, Nance's outburst had done her more good
than harm. For the first time in her life she had been coddled and
sympathized with and petted. It was almost worth while to have suffered
to have gained such rewards. After all, there were some pleasant things
in life. For instance, the note which had come to her that afternoon
from young Andy McLean, son of Dr. McLean, the college physician. To
think that she, "the little gray mouse," as her father had often called
her, had inspired any one with a desire to see her again. It was almost
impossible to believe, but there was the young Scotchman's note to
refute all contrary arguments.
"DEAR MISS OLDHAM," it said, in a good, round handwriting, "I
have been wanting so much to see you again since our jolly day at
Exmoor. I am bringing some fellows over on Saturday to supper at
my father's. If you should happen to be in about four o'clock,
may I call? How about a walk before supper? I can't tell you how
disappointed I'll be if you have another engagement.
"Yours sincerely,
"ANDREW MCLEAN, 2D."
Of course, she would have to give up the walk now, but it was pleasant
to have been remembered and perhaps he would come again.
That night at supper Nance was unusually bright and talkative. She
answered all the many questions concerning her famous mother so easily
and pleasantly that even Margaret Wakefield must have been deceived.
The two sophomores at Queen's were giving a dance that evening, and
while the girls sat in the long sitting room waiting for the guests to
arrive, Judy took occasion to whisper to Molly:
"Why should she have to appear at the lecture, anyhow?"
"Because it would be disrespectful not to," answered Molly. "She must be
there, of course. Would you go gallivanting off with a young man if your
mother was going to give a lecture here?"
"I should say not; but that's different."
"No, no," persisted Molly; "it's never different when it's your mother,
even when she doesn't behave like one. Can't you see that Nance would
rather die than have people know that her mother isn't exactly like
other mothers?"
The next day was one of the busiest in the week for Molly. Two of her
morning hours she spent coaching Judy in Latin. Then there were her lace
collars to be done up, her stockings to be darned; a trip to be made
to the library, where she stood in line for more than twenty minutes
waiting for a certain volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, and spent
more than an hour extracting notes on "Norse Mythology." It was well on
toward lunch time when she finally hastened across the campus to Queen's
to fill some orders for "cloud-bursts," which were intended to be part
of the refreshments for certain Saturday evening suppers.
So weary was she and so intent on getting through in what she called
"schedule time," that she almost ran into Professor Edwin Green before
she even recognized him.
"Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed, a wave of color sweeping over
her pale face.
"Why are you hurrying so fast on Saturday?" he asked pleasantly. "Don't
you ever give yourself a holiday?"
"Oh, yes; lots of them," she answered; "but I'm a little rushed to-day
with some extra duties."
She thought of the "cloud-bursts," which must be made and packed in
boxes by the afternoon.
"You are overdoing it, Miss Brown. You are not obeying the doctor's
orders. When I see you there to-night I shall confront you in his
presence with the charge of disobedience."
"There to-night?" repeated Molly.
"Certainly. Have you forgotten about the supper to-night?"
"But I'm not invited."
"Oh, yes, you are," answered the Professor, with a knowing smile.
"You'll probably find the note waiting for you. And you must be sure and
come, because the McLean's are real characters. They will interest you,
I am sure."
"Poor Nance," was Molly's first thought. And her second thought was: "If
her mother is invited out to dine, she can accept." Her face brightened
at this, and without knowing it, she smiled.
Molly led such a busy, concentrated life, that when she did relax for a
few moments, she sometimes seemed absent-minded and inattentive. The
Professor was looking at her closely.
"You are pleased at being asked to the McLean's?" he said.
"I was thinking of something else," she said. "I was wondering if, after
all, Nance couldn't arrange to go. Of course, she'll be invited, too;
but, you see, her mother is to be here."
"Is Mrs. Oldham, the Suffragette, her mother?" he asked in surprise.
"Yes."
"Mrs. Oldham is to dine at the President's to-night. I know, because I
was asked to meet her, but"--he looked at her very hard indeed--"I had
another engagement."
"Then Nance can go. Isn't it beautiful? I am so glad!" Molly clasped her
hands joyously.
Professor Green gave her such a beautiful, beaming smile that it fairly
transfigured his face.
"You are a very good friend, Miss Brown," he said gently; "but would
not Miss Oldham rather be with her mother, that is, in case the
President should invite her, too, which is highly probable?"
"Oh, I hope she won't. You see, Nance has never had much pleasure with
young people, and"--it was difficult to explain--"and her mother----"
she hesitated.
"Her mother, being the most famous clubwoman in America, hasn't spent
much time at home? Is that it?"
"Well, yes," admitted Molly. "In fact, she hardly remembers she has a
daughter," she added indignantly, and then bit her lip, feeling that she
was bordering on disloyalty.
The Professor cleared his throat and thrust his hands into his pockets.
He was really very boyish-looking to be so old.
"So you have set your heart on Miss Oldham's going to the supper
to-night?" he said gravely.
"If there is any fun going, Judy and I would be sorry to have her miss
it," she answered. "And I don't suppose it would be thrilling to dine at
the President's with a lot of learned older people."
"I'm just on my way to President Walker's now," pursued the Professor
thoughtfully. "In fact, I was just about to deliver my regrets in
person regarding dinner to-night, and having some business to attend
to with Miss Walker, I thought I would call. While I am there, it is
possible--well, in fact, Miss Brown, there should be a good fairy
provided by Providence to grant all unselfish wishes. She would not be
a busy fairy by any means, I am afraid, except when she hovered around
you. Good morning," and lifting his hat, the Professor hastened away,
leaving Molly in a state of half-pleased perplexity.
On the table in her room she found a note from Mrs. McLean, inviting her
to supper that evening. Two other invitations from the same lady were
handed to Nance and Judy, but Nance was at that moment seated at her
desk accepting an invitation from Miss Walker to dine there with her
mother at seven. She was writing the answer very carefully and slowly,
in her best handwriting, and on her best monogram note paper.
"Do you think that's good enough?" she demanded, handing the note to
Molly to read.
"Why, yes," answered Molly, looking it over hastily while she prepared
to write her own answer to Mrs. McLean, and then she threw herself into
the business of "cloud-bursts."
Just as the lunch gong sounded, Bridget, the Irish waitress at President
Walker's house, appeared at their half-open door.
"A note for Miss Oldham," she said; "and the President says no answer is
necessary. Good afternoon, ma'am; they'll be waitin' lunch if I don't
make haste."
"'MY DEAR MISS OLDHAM,'" Nance read aloud. "'I have just learned
that you are invited to a young people's supper party to-night at
Mrs. McLean's, and I therefore hasten to release you from your
engagement to dine with me. Your mother will spare you, I am sure,
on this one evening, and I hope you will enjoy yourself with your
friends. With kindest regards, believe me,
"'Cordially yours,
"'EMMA K. WALKER.'"
"Isn't she a brick?" cried Judy, dancing around the room and clapping
her hands.
"It was awfully nice of her," said Nance thoughtfully. "I wonder how
she knew I was invited to the McLean's?"
"Some good fairy must have told her," answered Molly, half to herself,
as she stirred brown sugar into a saucepan.