On the very afternoon when Nora and Belle had their falling out, Julia, after finishing her practising, had gone for a walk. It was a bright, clear day, and she wished that she had some other girl to walk with her. For when by herself she never ventured beyond the entrance to the park, although if her cousin or one of her school friends could go with her, her aunt had no objection to her walking in the park itself. One of the disadvantages of her friendship with Ruth Roberts lay in the fact that they could seldom be together in the afternoons. Their homes were too far apart. Sometimes on Saturday Julia would go to Roxbury to spend the half day with Ruth, and on other Saturdays Ruth would come in town to stay with Julia. It was hard to tell which was the pleasanter thing to do. At Roxbury, there were Ruth's ponies to drive, and in snowy weather a chance to coast down a quiet side street. Out of town there are many more chances for fun for girls past sixteen than can possibly be found in town or the city. When Ruth visited Julia the two usually went to a concert accompanied by Mrs. Barlow, or when she could not go, by one of their teachers. Of late Julia had been in the habit of inviting Miss South to go with them. Brenda never went to these concerts. She was not fond of music, and she did not pretend to be. The only matinee that she cared for was the theatre, and as her parent were decidedly opposed to her going often to the play, she could not indulge herself half as much as she wished.
On this particular afternoon Julia felt especially lonely. Doubtless no small part of her loneliness came from the fact that she was perfectly well aware of the presence of the "Four" in the house, and though she had tried not even to say to herself that she felt slighted, she would have been less than human not to feel that her cousin had slighted her in not asking her to the club. "To look up and not down, to look out and not in," had been one of the lessons which her father had been most careful to teach her. It was therefore not very often that she let her thoughts dwell too long on her own affairs. But on this particular day she felt a little low-spirited and inclined to regard herself as rather ill-used. Without realizing it she had walked some distance into the park, and pausing to admire a bit of distant view that she was able to get from a slightly elevated point, she lingered a moment or two longer to decide whether it was an animal or a child that she heard crying behind a small clump of bushes near by. When she found that there was no other way of satisfying herself, she walked up to the bushes, and there, standing forlornly on three legs, was a tiny Italian greyhound.
"Why, you poor little thing!" she cried, "what is the matter?" and as she spoke she took the little creature in her arms.
"Is your leg broken, or sprained, or what?" she continued, though of course she did not expect any reply from the dog. The greyhound showed great joy at the sound of a friendly voice, and looked up in Julia's face with an expression of confidence and gratitude.
"Come, I am going to put you down on the ground for a minute to see whether you are hurt, or only pretending." So, suiting the action to the word, she stood the little dog on its feet. As if understanding her purpose, the little creature limped in front of her for a few steps, but the limp was so slight as to assure Julia that no serious accident had befallen the leg, which the dog still seemed inclined to hold off the ground.
"Now let me see if your collar tells who your owner is," added Julia, and she bent down towards the dog. There to her surprise, she read in clear letters, "Fidessa, Madame du Launy." Now immediately Julia decided that the owner of the dog must be the mistress of the large house near the school, about which her friends were so curious. In an instant, too, she remembered that she had seen this little animal, or one very like it, taking its exercise in front of the great, mysterious house. Julia had always been fond of dogs, and the little trembling creature appealed strongly to her. For a moment she almost wished that there were no name on the collar, so that she might have kept it with her for a day or two while finding the owner. "O, if only it had no owner, what joy!" she thought, as she gazed into its dark eyes, "to keep it for myself!"
As things were, however, she felt that she ought to try to return it as soon as possible, and taking the little Fidessa in her arms, she retraced her steps to the other side of the city where Madame du Launy lived.
As she stood in front of the house which Nora and Brenda had tried so unsuccessfully to enter a few weeks before, the old timidity which at one time had been the trial of her life returned to her. Nevertheless, she rang the bell bravely, and was welcomed almost with open arms by the serious-faced servant who opened the door. He had seen Fidessa instantly, and if he had not, the little creature would have made herself quickly known. When Julia released her, she jumped about in the greatest excitement, whirling around in a circle and then rushing ahead up the stairs. All trace of the lameness seemed to be gone, greatly to Julia's surprise.
While Fidessa was running ahead, the man, asking Julia to follow him, had shown her into a large room, rather dimly lighted. At first she thought that she was alone, but far at the other end of the apartment she saw a slight figure arise from the depths of a large armchair, as the man said solemnly, "Madame du Launy, here is a young lady who has found Fidessa." At that moment the truant dog bounded into the room, and leaping up towards the old lady almost knocked her over. At the same moment a plain, elderly woman entered behind Fidessa, and Julia could see as she stood in the doorway that her eyes were rather red around the edges as if she had been weeping.
"Draw up a blind, or two, James," said Madame du Launy, querulously, "we are not at a funeral. Come nearer, my dear, I am sure that I am very much obliged to you for your trouble. Where did you find my poor little dog?" By this time, the "poor little dog" was seated calmly on a cushion with its slender front legs crossed as if it had never given any one a moment's uneasiness. As Julia looked at the lady who had addressed her, she saw that she was, or had been tall. Her figure, though somewhat bent, gave the impression of stateliness. This aspect was increased by the large towering structure which she wore on her head, whether to be called cap, or turban, it was hard to tell with its folds of black silk, its border of white lace and with two or three jeweled pins sticking in it.
In answer to Madame du Launy's question, Julia described finding the little dog in the park, and her fear at first lest it had hurt its leg.
"That is an old trick of Fidessa," said her mistress smiling, "when she is at all unhappy she limps about on three legs as if really lame. She does not know her way about the city, and she is never supposed to go anywhere without her leash. As nearly as I can understand from Jane, Fidessa went out for a drive to-day under her care. When Jane left the carriage to call on a friend of hers, who lives near the park, she forgot all about my dog. Fidessa probably jumped out of the carriage to take a walk herself. But I must say that it seems most extraordinary that no one saw her, neither the coachman, the footman nor Jane. When the carriage started home none of them took the trouble to look under the rugs to see if she was there." Here Jane began to sniffle a little. "Well," continued Madame du Launy, "it is a great wonder that she was not stolen or run over, poor little thing! It's no thanks to you, Jane," and she looked daggers at the unfortunate maid. "It is a wonder, too, that none of you could find Fidessa. For I don't believe that the little thing was actually hiding, and you all three have come back with the report that it was impossible to find her."
While Madame du Launy was speaking Julia said to herself that she would be very sorry to bring on herself a scolding from so sharp-voiced an old lady, and she could not help feeling sorry for Jane, even though the latter had probably been careless.
But now, with a sudden change of manner, Madame du Launy turned toward the young girl. "There is no reason, however, why you should suffer for Jane's misdeeds.
"Jane, ring the bell," she cried, and then in what seemed an incredibly short time, a man entered with a butler's tray, which he placed on a table in front of Madame du Launy, while the latter invited Julia to come nearer and take a cup of tea.
Now as Julia sat there drinking tea from the quaintest of old-fashioned china cups, and eating slices of thin bread and butter, and cakes that almost melted in her mouth, she could not help wondering what her friends and her cousin would say to see her actually seated in the house which most of them considered absolutely impossible to enter. In spite of the fact that the curtains at one or two windows had been raised a little the room was still rather dark, and as she glanced about, Julia could see the pictures and furniture rather indistinctly. She noticed, however, that one wall was quite covered with large pieces of tapestry representing medieval battle scenes, and that on the opposite wall on either side of a long mirror there hung a number of family portraits. One of these in a heavily gilded oval frame represented a young girl of perhaps eighteen years, whose features, for some reason or other, seemed strangely familiar; in fact there was something in the bright and earnest face that drew Julia's eyes so constantly towards it that she began to fear lest Madame du Launy would think it strange that she should pay such close attention to it.
It seemed a remarkable thing to Julia that she should find herself drinking tea under the roof of the mysterious house about which the schoolgirls had shown so much curiosity. It seemed even stranger that Madame du Launy should prove to be altogether less of an ogre than she had been represented. Although a trembling hand and a rather weak voice betrayed her age, she talked brightly of various things, asking Julia about her school, and her studies, and drawing the young girl out to talk about the western country in which she had spent so much time. On one subject, however, the old lady was silent. She said nothing in praise of Boston, either ancient or modern. She never alluded to a single individual as "my friend" or "my neighbor." She spoke only of things, and for the most part of things that had no connection with New England. Her questions about the school were evidently prompted by politeness in accordance with the general rule that one should show an interest in whatever probably interests the one with whom she is talking.
Jane who stood not far from her mistress' chair, and James who kept his post near the drawing-room door, looked in amazement on Madame du Launy and her young guest. In all their remembrance,—and both had lived in the house more than twenty-five years—they had never seen a young girl in conversation with their mistress. Indeed, they had seen very few guests in that gloomy old drawing-room, and certainly they had never known any one else to be asked to drink tea. It was as pleasant as it was novel to Madame du Launy to have Julia sitting with her, and as for Fidessa, she altogether forgot the strict discipline under which she had been reared, and instead of sitting calmly on her cushion, she jumped up in Julia's lap, and from time to time planted a cold, moist little kiss on her cheek. When at last Julia rose to go she had made a much longer visit than she should have made in view of the fact that the end of the afternoon was near at hand, and that she had some distance to go to reach her uncle's house. When, however, she rose to go, Madame du Launy begged her to wait a moment. "I have ordered my carriage," she added, "for it is altogether too late for you to go home alone. Let me thank you very much for your kindness to my little Fidessa, for it would have been a very serious loss for me, had she fallen into the wrong hands." Then when she saw James returning to announce that the carriage was ready, she added, "and if you will come again some afternoon, and spare an hour or so for me, you will add more than you can imagine to relieve my very monotonous life." Thus Julia as she bade the old lady good-bye felt that she had made a new friend, and in a very unexpected way. The carriage in which she rode home, though old-fashioned in shape, was delightfully comfortable, and when she descended from it at her uncle's door, still another surprise awaited her. The footman placed in her hand a little box "with Madame du Launy's compliments," he said. This when she opened proved to contain a delicately chased little envelope opener, shaped like a tiny scimitar. "Really," she thought, "I have had a most exciting adventure. Better than I deserve, for it was only this afternoon that I was feeling so cross and so disheartened because the Four would not include me in the club. But if I had been with them this afternoon I could not have had this adventure."
"Well, I certainlyshouldcall it an adventure," said Mr. Barlow that evening, when she told him her experience with Mme. du Launy. "Why, even I, in all my years of residence here, have never had a glimpse of the old lady. I have sometimes thought it a pity that she should lead so solitary a life, but it's her own choice. They say she has a regular hermit disposition. How did it strike you, Julia?"
"Not that way, uncle, at all, not at all, though she seemed very sad."
"Perhaps she's repenting for the way she has neglected her grandchildren," interposed Brenda.
"Are you sure that there are any grandchildren?" enquired Mrs. Barlow.
"Why, yes, of course, at least I suppose so," answered
Brenda.
Mr. Barlow laughed, "I am afraid that you cannot make out a very strong case of cruelty to children unless you can prove the existence of the children."
"Oh, well," interposed Mrs. Barlow, to prevent that ruffling of Brenda's feelings which was sure to follow when she felt that some one was laughing at her, "There is not much doubt that there are one or two grandchildren for whom Madame du Launy ought to do something. I forget what I have heard about it myself, but I could make enquiries."
"Oh, Julia will soon be able to tell us more about Madame du Launy and her grandchildren than anybody else ever dreamed of," said Brenda, a little spitefully, as she left the room.
"Poor Brenda," murmured Mr. Barlow, "will she ever overcome that spirit of jealousy?"
"You can say what you like," said Belle to Brenda when the latter told her of Julia's adventure with the dog, "but I think that it was downright mean in her to go to Madame du Launy's in that sneaking kind of way."
"Why, Belle, it wasn't sneaking. What was she to do with the little dog? She couldn't leave it on the street."
"Well, she knew how anxious we all were to see the inside of that house, and the least that she could do was to invite some of us to go with her."
"Oh, Belle, if you are not the most unreasonable girl in the world," exclaimed Nora, who had heard the latter part of this speech. "You couldn't expect her to invite one of us Four, when at that very moment we were having our meeting; and it's you who won't let the rest of us invite her to sew with us. For my part, I am glad that Julia has got ahead of us."
Here Brenda spoke up in a tone rather more judicial than she was accustomed to employ. "I think that you are wrong, too, Belle; I don't believe that Julia had ever given Madame du Launy a thought before, and I'm almost sure that she didn't expect to be invited into the house when she took the little dog home."
"Oh, she knew what she was doing," replied Belle; "you can't make me believe anything else, and I only hope she'll invite you to go there with her some day. You must be sure to let me know if she does."
"Oh, of course," responded Brenda carelessly, "but then I am not so anxious myself to see Madame du Launy, I never did care so very much for old ladies."
"It isn't Madame du Launy," interposed Belle, "it's the house. Didn't Julia tell you that it was perfectly beautiful?"
"I don't know that she said so very much about it. She hasn't said much to me. You'd better ask her yourself, if you wish to know all about it," said Brenda in reply, while Nora added a little mischievously, "Yes, here she comes, with Edith and Ruth."
But Belle with a scornful "No thank you," passed on into the house.
As a matter of fact Brenda was just a little envious of what to her seemed Julia's good fortune in this particular instance; but her cousin's charm of disposition and manner had already begun to have an effect on her, and she was also weary of hearing Belle so constantly find fault with her. After all blood is thicker than water, and Brenda had a little more than her share of true family pride. By noon, however, her annoyance with Belle had disappeared, and she listened eagerly to some plans which Belle was arranging for the afternoon.
It happened that very day that Miss South and Julia were to make one of their journeys to the North End, and on the way Julia very naturally told her teacher of her visit to Madame du Launy. The latter listened with great interest, but made rather less comment than Julia had expected. Yet she asked one or two questions that surprised Julia. "Did you like the picture of the young girl over the drawing-room mantelpiece?"
"Why, is there one there, did I speak of it?" said Julia.
Miss South, Julia could not help noticing it, really blushed as she replied,
"Well, you may not have mentioned it, but I had heard——"
"Oh, yes," interrupted Julia, without waiting for her to finish. "Oh, yes, I do remember; a young girl with long, fair curls. I sat just where my eye fell on it, and I could not help thinking that it was rather a sad picture, at least the girl had a sad expression, and it seemed too, as if I had seen some one who looked very much like her. Why, have you ever seen that portrait, Miss South?"
"Oh, no," answered Miss South. "Oh, no, but I have heard of it, and—" but she did not finish the sentence, and altogether she seemed to be in a rather silent mood, although she encouraged Julia to talk freely about Madame du Launy.
"Madame du Launy must be dreadfully lonely," said Julia, "living alone in that great house. I believe it is true as the girls at school say that no one ever goes to see her."
"Not to see a great many people does not always mean loneliness," replied Miss South. "You know that I have not a great many acquaintances in Boston, but still I am never lonely. Of course," she continued, "I have you girls, but that is not the same thing as having friends of my own age to exchange visits with me."
"Yes," responded Julia sympathetically, "and since I have known so much about you I have often thought that it must be very hard to be alone this way in a large city. Of course you have your brother to think about—but he is so far away, out there on the railroad in Texas,—why you are worse off than I am, for I have my uncle and aunt—and Brenda—" she ended with a smile.
"As I have said, Julia," continued Miss South, "I am not so very lonely, although I have not a single relation in Boston, at least not one to whom I can turn; yes, I might as well say, not one."
"How did you ever happen to come here, then?" asked Julia.
"Oh, I had just finished my normal course in New York, when I met Miss Crawdon one summer. She needed an assistant, and made me a very good offer. Besides I had always wished to come to Boston, and as long as Louis and I had to be separated, it seemed to me that I might as well be here as anywhere else. I should have liked to go to Texas with Louis, but his work keeps him so much on the railroad that we should not have been much good to each other. Of course when he is a railway president we shall live together—but he is only twenty-two now, and it is foolish to think of that at present."
For the first time since the beginning of her acquaintance with Miss South, Julia felt decidedly anxious to ask questions about her early life. Perhaps Miss South had an insight into her mind. At any rate she said, in a half tone of apology, "Since you are interested, Julia, I will tell you a little about myself. When my brother was ten years old, and I fourteen, our father died. Our mother had died several years before. The little bit of money which our father left was hardly enough to support us until we were educated. Fortunately he had a friend, a lawyer, who looked after it very carefully, and although he had to spend most of the capital for us as well as the interest, we were both able to live comfortably, though in a very economical way, until I was eighteen. At this time we had but a few hundred dollars left, and Louis was glad enough to take a situation in a railroad office offered to him by the efforts of the same kind friend. He was soon earning his board, and every year he has had an increase of salary, with a steady promotion. I went first to the State University in the state where I had grown up and was able to afford myself a good normal course. Since I came to Boston I have been able to save a little from my salary. You can see, then, that I am not very badly off—only I do wish sometimes that I had a few relations."
"Haven't you any, really?" asked Julia.
"None—at least practically none near enough to take any interest in me. You see my mother was an only child, at least her brother and sister died young, and so was my father. Besides he was an Englishman, and what distant cousins of his there are, live in England."
Julia would have liked to ask more, but just at that moment a little figure darted into view, and flung himself upon her. It was Manuel, in all the glory of a new pair of trousers, new at least to him, though even an eye inexperienced in tailoring could see that they had been cut down from garments originally made for a much larger person. But to him they were absolutely the finest pair of trousers that he had ever seen, because they were the first that he had ever worn. After this there was no danger that any one could imagine that he was his own little sister, a mortifying mistake that strangers were in the habit of making.
Miss South and Julia followed him down the crooked street, which their several visits had made very familiar to them, and stood behind him as he pushed open the narrow door. At the very first glance into the room, Miss South, who was ahead, felt a little disheartened. Everything was in disorder, although she had been making such efforts this winter to get Mrs. Rosa to see the necessity for cleanliness and neatness. But when she and Julia went inside she felt that perhaps she had been a little too severe in her judgment. Mrs. Rosa lay back in her chair looking sicker and weaker than they had ever seen her, and though she put out her hand in greeting, she seemed unable to rise.
"How is this?" exclaimed Miss South.
"Oh, miss, I believe I'm real sick," was the reply; "I haven't eaten nothing for such a long time. I can't eat nothing, and I can't hardly raise my voice to the children. Here you, Manuel, don't eat that bread and molasses before the ladies."
Then Mrs. Rosa lay back in her chair in a fit of violent coughing brought on by her efforts to be polite and parental at the same time.
"Aren't you almost ready to go to the hospital, now, Mrs. Rosa?" enquired Miss South, sympathetically. "I think that it is altogether too hard for you to try to stay here to manage these children and take care of yourself."
Mrs. Rosa shook her head. "Not the hospital, miss; I should die, I'm sure, if I should go there."
"But you can't stay here, if you grow worse, and indeed, I am sure that you cannot get any better, if you stay here. Then your children would be much worse off than they would be if you should be parted from them for a little while. The doctors at the hospital might make you perfectly well." Mrs. Rosa shook her head feebly, and Miss South felt decidedly discouraged. Even when Julia added her voice in a gentle persuasive way, Mrs. Rosa refused to be convinced. No, she would stay where she was for a while. By and by perhaps she would go somewhere, but she could not tell; she couldn't leave the children, and the nurse had told her that she could not take them with her to the hospital.
"Well, wouldn't you go to the country if we could find a place for you there?" asked Julia gently; "perhaps we could find a house where you and the children all could go, for you can't get well if you stay here."
At this suggestion, Mrs. Rosa's face brightened a trifle, but from her reply it was hard to tell whether she would be perfectly willing to leave her own unwholesome abode, even for the country.
"You ought to make Angelina keep this room cleaner," said Miss South.
"Oh, I can't make Angelina do nothing," she answered; "Angelina is so lazy I don't know what to do with her. She just reads library books all the time."
Again Mrs. Rosa leaned back in a fit of coughing, and Miss South and Julia, after leaving one or two little delicacies that they had brought her, went away less cheerful than they had been.
"It's rather dreadful, isn't it?" said Julia.
"Yes," replied Miss South, "especially as it would not require a great deal of effort or money to make that family perfectly comfortable."
"How much?" asked Julia.
Miss South laughed. "You are very practical," she said. "Perhaps I ought to have said that it is effort in the right direction that is needed rather than money."
"Nobody can do very much, I am afraid," said Julia, "while Mrs. Rosa is so obstinate. It seems as if some one ought to have the right to oblige her to move."
"Well, personal liberty is one of the privileges that foreigners living in this country appreciate the most. Yet Mrs. Rosa ought not to feel that she can do just as she likes, since she is living on charity altogether now."
"I was wondering—" began Julia.
"Yes," continued Miss South, "her church pays half her rent, and provides her coal; the Provident Association supplies her with groceries. Some of her Portuguese neighbors help her with food from their own table, and one or two charitable people give shoes and old clothes to the children. The dispensary doctor treats her without charge, and she has the occasional services of a district nurse. If Angelina would only follow out some of the directions left by the nurse, the whole family would be much more comfortable."
"I had no idea," said Julia, "that so much would be done for one poor family; and you haven't spoken of what you do yourself, Miss South."
"Oh, my part is very small; I just keep a general oversight, and by calling on Mrs. Rosa once or twice a week, I try to see that things run smoothly."
"There isn't so very much, then, for Brenda and the other girls to do. You know that they are working for a sale from which they hope to raise a lot of money for Manuel and his family."
"Yes, I have heard about it," replied Miss South, "and I should be the last one to discourage them in their efforts; but I am sure that if Mrs. Rosa had been depending on their help she would have suffered this winter. They are too spasmodic."
"What do you think then that there will be for them to do with the money they raise at the Bazaar, for I am sure that they have large expectations?"
"Oh, there are many practical things. This matter of moving the family to the country, for example. To accomplish this will take more money than you might think, and I do not myself know any charitable agency with money to expend in this way."
"But do you think that you can move them?"
"Why not? It may be hard, but if Mrs. Rosa should find it impossible to get help from the people who have been helping her, she may be glad to fall in with our plan."
"Well, it's all very interesting," said Julia, "and it may be that I can help you in some way. Of course I do not wish to interfere with Brenda's plans, and I shall have to find out what she intends to do. If I were going to have anything to do with the Bazaar directly, it would be different."
"Haven't you been admitted yet into the sacred circle of 'The Four'?" said Miss South, smiling. "I thought that you would have been before this."
"No," replied Julia a little sadly. "No, I suppose that they think that I should not have so very much time for fancy work, and I dare say it is better that I should spend what spare hours I have in some other way, but still——"
"But still," said Miss South, finishing out her sentence, "but still it isn't altogether agreeable to be left out."
"No," answered Julia, "it isn't."
While they were talking they had been riding up Hanover street, and leaving the car in Washington street, they did two or three errands in one of the large shops.
"Shall we walk home now, or ride?" enquired Miss South.
"Oh, I would much rather walk," answered Julia, "if it is all the same to you;" and so they walked on through Winter street, intending to cross the Common. Leading off Winter street there is a side street on which is the back entrance of the music hall. Now just as they reached the corner of this street, they saw two girls near the theatre door, walking in their direction.
"Why, how much that looks—why it is Brenda," exclaimed Julia, "and that is Belle with her," she continued in surprise; "I wonder what they are doing down here."
Even as she spoke, the two figures at which she had been looking a moment before disappeared within a doorway.
"Would you like to meet them and ask them to walk home with us?" enquired Miss South.
"Why, I don't know," replied Julia. "I am afraid that they may not wish to come with us; it almost seems as if they are hiding from us. You saw them, didn't you, that first time, Miss South?"
"Yes, indeed, I recognized them both, but isn't it unusual for them to be down town alone?"
"It's against the rules for Brenda, I know, at least I have heard my aunt say that she did not care to have her go down town without her. I imagine that probably they have some one with them. Brenda is rather careful about disobeying, as a general thing."
"Oh, then it's probably all right," said Miss South, "and we might as well go on."
Julia had not been long in the house after her walk with Miss South, when she heard her aunt at her door. In reply to her "Are you here, Julia?" the young girl ran forward, with a "Yes, indeed, auntie, come right in."
"Why, how pretty your room looks," exclaimed Mrs. Barlow; "I had almost forgotten that it could be so pleasant."
"That sounds as if you had not been up here for some time, and indeed I was thinking myself only this morning that you had rather neglected me lately—at least in the matter of visiting me."
"I know it, dear child, but you know that I have been very busy this winter. There are many things to occupy me, and the Boston season is so short. We haven't had one of our pleasant chats here for several weeks. But I hope that you are perfectly comfortable. I am sure that you would tell me if you should need anything that I had overlooked."
"Nothing has ever been overlooked, Aunt Anna, that could add in any way to my comfort."
"Then you are perfectly contented. Sometimes I fancy that I see an expression on your face that seems to indicate—well, not discontent, but something of the kind, as if you were a little unhappy."
"Oh, no indeed, Aunt Anna. You are all too kind, and I enjoy every moment in Boston. Of course I miss poor papa, but he had expected to leave me for so long a time, that I was prepared, and he himself always said that he wished me to think of him as only gone away for a time, yet of course I miss him. But then you and Uncle Thomas have been everything to me, and so thoughtful. I can't imagine a more delightful room than this with the view of the river, and these dainty, artistic things about me, and my own piano and books. You have no idea how I have enjoyed it."
"Well, I am glad that it all pleases you, for perhaps we could not have done as well for you if Agnes had been at home. You know that this was her studio, and no other room in the house is so large and cheerful. Now it has always seemed hard that you could not have kept Eliza with you this winter; she had been a part of your old life, and you would have been much happier with some one to talk with about it."
"Of course I should have been glad to have had her with me, but I couldn't insist on her staying when her brother needed her so much after the death of his wife. I had such an amusing letter from one of her little nieces the other day, thanking me for lending them their Aunt Eliza, and saying that they did not know when they could return her."
"Then she can't come to spend the summer at Stormbridge?"
"I do not exactly know, for Eliza has not written to me herself; but I half believe that it is better for me to do without a maid; I feel ever so much more independent, although naturally Idomiss Eliza."
Mrs. Barlow smiled at the philosophic tone which
Julia had assumed, for she had quietly made her own observations on the state of Julia's mind when at the very beginning of her stay in Boston Eliza had been called away.
"Another year you may need somebody, even if you cannot have Eliza. The older a girl grows the more stitches there are to be taken for her, and next season you will have less time than at present to do things for yourself."
"But I like this feeling of independence, or rather I like to feel that I have to depend almost entirely on myself; I am just so much more of a person than I should be if I had Eliza to wait on me constantly, as I used to."
"A certain amount of independence in a young girl is a good thing," replied Mrs. Barlow, "and I am glad that yours takes a somewhat different form from Brenda's. I wonder, for example, where she is this afternoon. She had an appointment at her dressmaker's, but when I went there to make a suggestion or two about her new coat, they told me that she had not been there, and here it is near dinner-time with no sign of Brenda. Probably she is with Belle or some of the girls, but still I do not like her going off in this way."
While Mrs. Barlow was speaking Julia hoped that she would not ask her if she had seen Brenda, and fortunately she did not do so. To be sure, Julia had nothing special to tell, and indeed had not her aunt spoken of the broken appointment at the dressmaker's, she might have mentioned the glimpse of Brenda that she had had down town, but now she began to suspect that something was wrong, at least it was strange that Brenda should have deceived her mother about the dressmaking appointment. The dressmaker's rooms were not down town, so that it was not this appointment that had taken her to the neighborhood of Winter street.
"But where have you been, yourself, this afternoon, Julia?" asked Mrs. Barlow; and Julia told her of her visit to the Rosas, and of the plans that Miss South had suggested for raising them out of their present trouble. "I am afraid that Brenda won't agree with her," she said, "for she has the idea that the one thing needful is to give Mrs. Rosa a large sum of money to spend just as she likes."
"Brenda isn't very practical," replied Mrs. Barlow. "I only wish that she had your common sense; or if she were more like Agnes, it would be better, for although Agnes is an artist, she is decidedly practical."
"Oh, Brenda is so much younger," said Julia apologetically.
"Yes, I know it, that is undoubtedly one reason for her heedlessness, but it sometimes seems as if her wilfulness increases every day. I am afraid, too, that she has not always been considerate of you; I have been wishing to speak of this for a long time, though it is not an easy thing to do. It would pain me very much to have you feel that any of us—even Brenda had been inhospitable."
"Oh, no indeed, Aunt Anna, I am not likely to think anything of that kind. I make allowances for Brenda, and I honestly think that she is getting to like me better."
"There ought not to be any question of that kind. If it were not for Belle, Brenda would be inclined to throw herself more upon you, but I am sure that Belle keeps her stirred up all the time. But there—I ought not to talk so much about this, at least to you, only I have thought that I ought to tell you that your uncle and I have feared that you have had several experiences this winter that were not altogether pleasant, and I should fail in my duty if I did not express our appreciation of your patience."
Then rising from her chair, Mrs. Barlow leaned over Julia, and kissed her on the forehead, saying as she turned to leave the room, "We have barely time now to get ready for dinner."
Just as Julia opened her door to go down to the library where she usually talked with her uncle for a few minutes before dinner, she saw Brenda rushing upstairs to the floor above.
"Where's Brenda?" asked Mr. Barlow, as they took their places at the table. There was a note of severity in his voice, that Mrs. Barlow and Julia detected at once.
"Why, she has been out all the afternoon," replied the former; "but I have sent word for her to hasten downstairs."
At this moment the delinquent entered the dining-room, and took her place at the table. Although she had changed her street dress, she had apparently dressed in a great hurry, and her hair looked almost disheveled, as she had evidently not had time to rearrange it.
Hardly responding to the greetings of her parents and cousin, Brenda began to talk very rapidly about—well about the subject to which many of us turn when we are embarrassed,—the weather.
"Yes," said her father, in a kind of general response to her very vague remarks. "Yes, I will admit that it has been a fine day, almost the first really springlike day that we have had, that it is a delightful day to have been out in the open air, but all this does not prevent my asking you why you should be so late to dinner; you know my rule, and that I shall have to punish you in some very decided way if this happens again."
"For once Brenda has no excuse ready," added Mrs. Barlow; "nowIam anxious to know where you have been this afternoon?"
Brenda turned very red before replying, "Oh, Belle and I have been together."
"I dare say," said Mr. Barlow, "but that does not tell us where you have been?"
"Any one would think," cried Brenda, almost in tears, "that I was a girl of ten years of age. I do not know any one who has to account for everything she does; there is not a girl at school who is watched in this way."
"Sometimes I think that it would be better if you were under closer guardianship. Some one has been telling me that you need it."
Brenda flashed a glance at Julia as if she might be the informant, and Julia rejoiced that she had not even mentioned having seen Brenda down town.
"You were not at the dressmaker's this afternoon," said Mrs. Barlow reproachfully.
"I hope that you were not on the bridge, looking at the crews," said Mr. Barlow.
"No," said Brenda quickly, "I was not. Why did you think of that?"
"Because some one has been telling me that a number of foolish girls are in the habit of going where the Harvard Bridge is building on fine afternoons, just as the class crews are out exercising, and that some of these girls always wave their handkerchiefs, and even cheer, as their favorites come near—and more than this some one has told me that you are often to be seen among these girls; now, Brenda, I tell you frankly that this won't do."
"Oh, papa, you are so particular; a great many girls think that it is perfectly proper to go there, and no one ever says a word about it. I wonder who told you; some old maid, I am certain of that."
"No, indeed, no old maid, but a young man, and a student, too. He felt very sorry that you should be seen there; he says that there is always a great mixture of people in the crowds on the bridge, and that it must be far from an agreeable place for a young lady, besides not being a proper one."
"Well I only wish that I could tell who that young man is," cried Brenda. "I should call him a perfect goose."
"He is far from that," responded Mr. Barlow; "and I ought to say that I agree with him thoroughly. I only wish that I had heard about this before, and now I hope that you will understand, Brenda, that you are forbidden to go near the Harvard Bridge in the afternoon."
"Not to the bridge at all!" cried Brenda, in a most doleful voice. "Why, I can't see the harm."
"Well, I can, and that is enough."
"You can go to the races themselves, Brenda, when they actually come off," interposed Mrs. Barlow, "but if you think it over, you will see good reasons for not hanging about the bridge, as a boy might, merely to see the crews pass."
Brenda made no attempt at further argument, and one result of the little discussion that there had been about the bridge and the crews was to divert her father and mother from asking further questions about the way in which she had spent this particular afternoon. She was rather relieved when the evening passed without Julia's referring to having seen her down town. She was almost sure that Julia and Miss South had recognized her, and Belle and she were in dread lest in this way her father and mother should learn that she and her rather mischievous friend had gone alone to a matinee.
For this was now Brenda's secret,—she had not only gone down town alone, but she had gone to the Music Hall without an older person accompanying her. With parents as indulgent as hers there seemed no need for her to try to secure forbidden pleasures. Nor would she probably have done this but for Belle. It had been the study of Belle's life to get what she wished in a clandestine way. Her stern old grandmother was constantly forbidding her to do this thing or that, and her commands were often really unreasonable. No one was quicker to detect this than Belle herself, and it was on this ground that she often excused her own disobedience. "Why even mamma does not expect me to mind everything that grandmamma says," and as her mother was rather timid, as well as half-ill all the time, she gave her self-possessed daughter very few commands of her own.
"I don't believe that I should be so ready to disobey mamma," Belle would say to Brenda when the latter on occasions remonstrated with her, "but with grandmamma it is different, for I do not consider that she has any right to lay down the law as she does."
Nevertheless when Brenda and Belle sat in the front row in the large Music Hall—for Brenda had bought expensive seats—both girls felt that old Mrs. Gregg was pretty nearly right in saying that places of amusement were not proper for a young girl. They had both been at similar performances before, but always some older person had selected the entertainment. This one, which they themselves had chosen from the glaring posters decorating the bill-boards of the city, and from the conversation of the Harvard freshman of their acquaintance was altogether different from anything that they had seen. It was advertised as an exhibition of ventriloquists, but it had a general air of vulgarity that was extremely displeasing to them. Brenda wished more than once that she had not joined Belle in this adventure. She did not like the loud jokes, and the scant costumes of the performers, and she hoped that there was no one in the audience who would recognize her. Of course there were times when she laughed at the funny things on the stage—for who could help it—but many of the jokes and the incidents at which the rest of the audience laughed the loudest fell rather flat on the ears of the two young girls. This was as it should be, for neither of the two was anything worse than heedless and a little too fond of having her own way. In Belle this wilfulness took the form of a willingness to use subterfuge, both in word or deed to gain her own way. Brenda did not follow her very closely in this direction, although there was danger that her conscience would be dulled, before she realized it, under Belle's influence. Brenda indeed felt so uncomfortable during the performance, that if she could have done so without observation, she would have left the hall. But she did not quite dare to go out in the face of the great audience, and besides when she made the suggestion to Belle, the latter would not hear of her going. "No, indeed," she had said, "why should we go. You are a regular baby, Brenda; it isn't so very bad, only a little vulgar, and just see what crowds of people there are here, and some of them seem just as good as we are, and you know I read you that newspaper clipping that said that this was one of the successes of the year. You and I are not used to this kind of thing, but dear me! we can't expect to stay children all our lives." So Brenda sat there with an uneasy conscience, wondering what her mother would say, or her father—or Julia who never by any chance did anything that she ought not to do.
Stolen sweets are apt to taste a little bitter, and when the performance was over, Brenda and Belle went out with the crowd. On the way out rough people, or people whom Belle called "rough," pushed against them, while one or two rude boys made saucy remarks to the young girls who seemed conscious of being in the wrong place. It wasn't at all an agreeable experience, especially as they were both wondering if any of their friends were likely to see them.
Then there was that chance glimpse of Julia and Miss South, and the rather silly action on the part of Brenda and Belle of hiding in the doorway. Really they needed all the consolation they could get from their visit to the confectioner's around the corner. There they drank great glasses of chocolate, sipping the whipped cream at the top, as if they were young ladies of twenty loitering in the shops after the symphony. As they stirred the chocolate with their long spoons, and lingered on the settee at the end of the shop to watch the lively young men and women who were constantly coming in and out to buy bonbons, or to get refreshment, they forgot all that had been disagreeable at the music hall, and for the time being imagined that they were young ladies themselves. Yet when Brenda reached home with hardly time to dress for dinner, conscience began to prick again.
Now however slowly time appears to pass, the end of any period of waiting is sure to come, and its last days or hours generally seem to melt away. Thus, when The Four realized that less than two weeks lay between a certain April afternoon when they met to sew, and the day appointed for the opening of the Bazaar, they began to feel a little nervous. "I wish that we hadn't set any particular day," exclaimed Brenda, "we might just have waited until we were all ready, and then we——"
"Oh, Brenda, how unpractical you are," cried Edith, "that would have been perfectly ridiculous. You know that we have to advertise a little, and engage music and people to help us, and make all kinds of arrangements."
"Oh, I dare say," responded the unpractical Brenda, "but still it takes all the fun out of it to think that we must be ready by a particular day; I feel exactly as if some one were driving me on, and you know that is not pleasant."
"Oh, nonsense," interposed Nora, with a smile. "Just think how long we were working without any special object. I am sure that we had all the time we wished, and we had hardly a thing to show for it. For my own part I shall be awfully glad to have the Bazaar over with. The weather is altogether too fine to waste indoors on fancy work, but until we have that money for Manuel I suppose that none of us will feel free to do as she likes in the afternoons. There are so many things to attend to that I don't see how we are ever to get ready even in two weeks."
Now the plans for the Bazaar had received much attention from the older persons in the families of the young workers, and the encouragement that they had had from their elders was now their chief incentive. Edith's mother had offered them the use of a large drawing-room in her house which was just adapted to an affair of this kind. It was a long room with hard wood floor, intended really for dancing. Its walls, paneled with mirrors, would reflect the tables of fancy work in such a way, as to make it seem "as if we had twice as much as we really have," said Brenda. As to other things there was a great deal to be decided. Brenda and Belle wished a small orchestra engaged to play during the evening of the Bazaar, and furnish music for dancing at the close of the sale. Edith and Nora were afraid that this would eat up too much of their profits, but Brenda was very decided in her views. "You can't expect that we are not to have any fun out of it ourselves, after all the trouble we've had, and I know that there is going to be plenty of money for the Rosas. We shall make lots out of the flower table; we have quantities of plants and cut flowers promised us from the greenhouses of our friends—just quantities, and then the refreshment table, and—well you know yourselves that we shall have more than we can sell."
"What good will that do?" enquired the practical Nora. "We can't make much out of things that we can't sell."
"Oh, I mean sell in the regular way; of course we'll have an auction, and get ever so much in that way. I shouldn't wonder if we should have more than $500 to give to Mrs. Rosa."
"Don't count your chickens too soon, Brenda," said Belle; "suppose it should rain on the day of the sale, or suppose,——"
"Oh, how tiresome you are!" cried the sanguine Brenda, "you are just as bad as the others, and it's quite as much your Bazaar as mine, and if it doesn't succeed, you'll be just as much to blame."
The fretful note in Brenda's voice warned her friends that she was taking things too deeply to heart.
"Why, Brenda, no one is probably going to be to blame, for the Bazaar will be a great success," interposed the peace-loving Edith. "All we have to do now is to try our very best to make it go off as well as possible."
Now the Bazaar was to be the Wednesday of the week following Easter, and this year Easter fell almost in the middle of April. During the last days of school preceding the Easter vacation the four did much canvassing among their friends to see whether all the articles promised were finished. Of course there were several disappointments. Some girls who had promised special things either had not finished them or had forgotten all about them. On the other hand, there were some who had not only done much more than they had promised themselves, but had collected many pretty, and even valuable articles from their friends. All the school girls near the age of the four were invited to assist at the tables. The four resolved themselves into an executive committee, adding to their number Julia, and Frances and one or two others. Each of these girls was to have special charge of a table or department, and she in turn was to call on others to assist her.
Julia had invited Ruth Roberts as her chief assistant, rather to the distaste of Frances, who thought that this was going too far out of their set.
"What do we know about Ruth Roberts?" she had said in a contemptuous way; "nobody ever heard of her, I am sure, until she came here to school."
"We have nothing to do with that," replied Nora, to whom the remark happened to be made. "I dare say that there are a great many good people in the world of whom we have never heard; I know all that I need to about Ruth Roberts, that she has good manners and a pleasant disposition, and an agreeable family. I know, for I have visited them——" Then, throwing a little emphasis into her voice, she concluded, "Really, Frances, you are growing very tiresome, and if I were you I should try to be less narrow-minded. Any one to hear you talk, would think that no one in the world is worth considering who does not happen to live in certain streets in your neighborhood."
"Perhaps that is what I do think," answered Frances. "We can't make intimate friends of every one in the world, and we might as well have nothing to do with those who are not in our own set. I hate these people who are always trying to push in."
"If you mean Ruth, you are entirely wrong. She is the last girl in the world likely to try to push in. She thinks quite as well of herself as you do of yourself, and I dare say that she had some ancestors, even if they were not governors of Massachusetts."
Now despite the fact that this speech, when quoted, sounds rather acrimonious, Frances took no offence at it. She could not afford to quarrel with so popular a girl as Nora, and besides she knew that the Gostars had a good claim to the same kind of pride of descent that she had herself. So, although both girls turned away from each other with an annoyed expression on their faces, their next meeting was perfectly amicable.
When Nora repeated this conversation to her mother, Mrs. Gostar smiled.
"If I were you, Nora, I would not take anything that Frances says too seriously. She has been brought up rather unfortunately."
"But it is so tiresome to have her going around most of the time with her head in the air, saying, 'Oh, I cannot do this, or I cannot do that, because I am a Pounder.'"
Mrs. Gostar laughed at this speech, and the gesture and tossing back of the head with which Nora emphasized it.
"Frances hardly says that, does she?" she enquired.
"Yes, she does, she really does—sometimes," replied Nora, "and I am sure that she feels like saying it all the time. Of course we all know that there have been two governors, and one or two generals, and other people like that in her family somewhere in the dim past. I am sure that we have heard enough about it. But there is nothing very great about Frances' own family so far as I have ever heard, and some one told me that her father could not even get his degree at college. If they hadn't so much money——"
"There, there," interrupted her mother, "aren't you growing uncharitable yourself? It is really true that Frances had ancestors who were of great service to the country, and her family has had position for a long time, and all the advantages of education. But among your schoolmates and hers there are probably other girls of good descent, who have had advantages hardly inferior to those that Frances has enjoyed. They may have names that are not so well known, and yet their ancestors may have been almost as useful in building up this country as those of Frances."
"Well," said Nora, "I don't value people for their ancestors, but for what they are themselves."
"That is the right spirit, and yet neither you nor I should blame Frances for having pride in what her ancestors have done. It is well to remember such things, if remembering them makes one more ambitious or more helpful to those around him. But when this pride in his own people leads one to belittle all others whose part in making history may have been almost as important, if less conspicuous—then I would rather see a girl or a boy without family pride. In connection with this, let me tell you a story. Years ago a murder was committed by a member of a good, old family, and sometime afterwards a lady who bore the same name, though she was not closely related to the murderer, was out shopping. It seemed to her a certain clerk was not sufficiently deferential, and so to reprove him, she said, in a rather haughty tone, 'Perhaps you do not know who I am.' 'No, madame, I do not,' was his reply. 'I am aBlenkinsop,' she responded, thinking probably that this would overwhelm him. 'Indeed,' he answered, 'you surprise me. I thought that all the Blenkinsops had been hanged.' So you see that it does not always do to boast of one's family name. Of course this does not apply to Frances, and I should be sorry if either she or you should forget all the good things which her ancestors did for the commonwealth. Yet it would be a great deal better to forget it than to have the remembrance of the distinction of your ancestors so elate you as to make you contemptuous of your schoolmates."
"I know that, mother dear," replied Nora, "and I believe that some day I may be able to have a little talk with Frances, and perhaps I can get her to see things as I do."
"You might tell her," responded Mrs. Gostar, with a smile, "about the Virginia lady of whom I was reading the other day. Her little niece was remarking with pride that her grandfather had been the son of a baronet, and that in consequence she had a right to feel superior to many of her neighbors. 'Yes,' responded the aunt, 'he was the son of a baronet, who was the son of a manufacturer, who was the son of an apothecary's apprentice.' 'Oh, dear,' sighed the niece, 'is it really true? Am I descended from an apothecary's apprentice? I thought that all my ancestors were gentlemen.'
"'I haven't finished,' returned the aunt. 'The apprentice was the grandson of a baronet, who in turn was said to trace his descent from a king of England.' The aunt smiled at the expression of relief on her niece's face on hearing this, as she said, 'I always knew that we were of good family.' My own moral," concluded Mrs. Gostar, "would be the same as that which the aunt tried to impress on her niece. We all can trace our descent through a variety of families, and while we can often find ancestors to boast of, as often we find others who are what Frances might call 'very plain people.'"
Nora realized that she was fortunate in having a mother who was always ready to advise her in the small matters that seem so important to schoolgirls, as well as in those larger things that really are of consequence. Without encouraging anything approaching gossip or tale-bearing Mrs. Gostar always permitted Nora to talk very freely on all the subjects that interested her, and the confidence between mother and daughter was almost ideal. Mrs. Blair and Mrs. Barlow were also ready to advise their daughters, although they both were a little more occupied with society than Mrs. Gostar and had less time at home. The wilful Brenda, too, was more apt to seek her mother's advice after she had done a certain thing than to ask it in advance. Yet although her doings were sometimes a little annoying to others, she always admitted to herself that she could depend on her mother's sympathy. Edith, with a rather phlegmatic disposition, seldom did anything wrong. She had been brought up rather strictly in accordance with prescribed rules, and she was always confident that whatever her mother had arranged or advised was exactly right. Belle alone, of the Four, was unfortunate in her home surroundings. Her mother, a nervous invalid, had permitted Belle's grandmother to rule the household with a rod of iron, and knowing that the old lady was often unjust the former did not reprove Belle sufficiently when she broke some of her grandmother's rules. Belle in this way came to be a law to herself. She obeyed her grandmother when there was no escape for it, but oftener she took the chance of disregarding her authority, saying to herself,—or even to others—"If mamma could do as she liked, she would let me do this." It was not always a legitimate excuse, although the conditions in her family enabled many of her acquaintances to make excuses for Belle.
As to Frances, those who knew her best, realized that her family pride had been nurtured at home, and that her unfortunate way of looking at things was not wholly her own fault.
Yet that Nora had been able to influence her somewhat was proved by a slight change in Frances' demeanor towards others. The latter was even known one day to offer to go out to Ruth Roberts' house to help her finish a piece of work for the Bazaar. In those last days, too, before the Easter vacation there seemed to be an unusual unity among the schoolgirls. Even those in the older classes, who seldom interested themselves in the "small fry," as they called the Four and their contemporaries, came forward with many contributions for the Bazaar.
"Dear me!" moaned Brenda one day, "I am afraid that we won't have people enough to sell all these things to, and a while ago I was afraid that we shouldn't have things enough to sell to all those who might come to our Bazaar."
"That shows," said Miss South, who had come up behind Brenda while she was talking, "that it is never worth while to borrow trouble about anything."
"That is true," interposed the placid Edith, to whom Brenda had been talking. "For my own part, I am never surprised or disappointed about anything, for I never expect too much beforehand. I find that I can always put up with things when they come."
"Then you are really a philosopher, Edith," said Miss South, "some persons take almost a lifetime to learn this simple lesson, and indeed some persons never learn it at all."
As the preparations for the Bazaar advanced it was very pleasant for Julia to find herself counted in among the band of workers.
It is true that she often had to take a sharp word from Brenda, or a cold glance from Belle, but these things did not disturb her.
She had become accustomed to her cousin's little ways, and she realized that her "bark was worse than her bite," as Nora was in the habit of saying.
There was one thing about which Brenda was very decided, and that was that no older person, that is no parent or teacher, was to have any part in managing the Bazaar.
"We want all the credit ourselves, and I think it will be a fine thing to show how much we can do all by ourselves." If she could have had her own way, I believe that she would have refused the offer of Edith's mother to provide a room for the Bazaar, and she would have been quite willing to pay for a hotel drawing-room from her own allowance—although to do so would have run her several months in debt. But this was evidently so unwise a plan, that she contented herself with simply broaching it to her friends. "The idea!" had been their criticism, "of throwing money away like that when we can have such a beautiful room for nothing."
"It certainly would be foolish," said Belle, "and besides my mother would not think a hotel a proper place for girls like us to hold a bazaar; it would be different if we were in society, or if some older women were managing it."
"Oh, I suppose you are right," Brenda acknowledged with a sigh, "but I should be ever so much better pleased with a hotel. It would seem so much more as if we were grown up. I hope that this won't seem like a children's party. You know that Edith always had her birthday parties in that room."
"Yes, but she'll have her coming out party, there, too, I heard her mother say so the other day, and really I think that it is very, very kind in her to offer the room, because there will be strangers coming and going all day long through the house." So Brenda had to profess herself grateful for the room, and was obliged to turn in other directions for an outlet for the energy which she was anxious to show in managing the Bazaar.