Brenda's Bargain Part 16

Now Maggie had her own little bit of a secret, and sometimes she drew from her pocket a crumpled half-sheet of paper, and wept when she saw at the bottom:

"From your loving Tim."

What would her aunt say, what would Miss Brenda say, if they knew that at intervals she received these misspelled letters from a jail-bird.

Yes! "a jail-bird," that was what her aunt had called him, and though it was true that he had only been in the reformatory, and that his offence, as he had explained it, was due more to the fault of another man. Still he had been imprisoned, and Maggie was forbidden ever to speak to him again.

Yet he was her uncle more than Mrs. McSorley was her aunt. The latter was only an aunt-in-law, while Tim was her own uncle, and in spite of his faults she loved him. Of course he was a ne'er-do-well, but his smile was so jolly in contrast with the long-drawn, severe expression of Mrs. McSorley. The latter said that it was very easy for him to be jolly, when he never had the least care in the world for himself or for any one else. But Maggie remembered many kind things that he had done.

"Since for him I'd never have been to the circus, and it was a whole day we spent at Nantasket, and he gave me that plush box of pink note-paper;" and Maggie would wipe away one of her ready tears as she thought of Tim, and she gazed at the tintype that she kept with a few other treasures in the plush-covered box.

Many a time she pondered what she should do if he should ever come to Boston, for he was now in Connecticut looking, as he said, for work.

"And it won't be so very long," he wrote, "before I'll have me own house, and you for housekeeper; so learn all you can, for it won't be long."

For Maggie had written him once or twice since coming to the Mansion, and her letters had been more cheerful than those that had found their way to him when she was living with her aunt.

So Maggie had her day dreams; and the real secret of her patience, and her anxiety to learn everything relating to the work of the house, came from this hope, that she was to have the chance of showing her uncle what a good housekeeper she could be. Now Maggie should have realized that her aunt had done much more for her than her uncle; that Mrs.

McSorley had shown her kindness in comparison with which Tim's occasional bursts of liberality were very small indeed. Where would she and her mother have been but for Mrs. McSorley? And Mrs. McSorley was only a sister-in-law, whereas Tim was her mother's own brother. Yet the kindness of Mrs. McSorley had been so overladen with good advice and reprimands, that it did not stand out as kindness pure and simple.

Maggie was as sure that Mrs. McSorley did not love her as she was positive that Tim did love her.

Among the girls at the home she found little Haleema almost the most sympathetic. At least Concetta disliked them both, and this was their first bond of sympathy. The girls were apt to be sent in pairs on errands, and occasionally on pleasure walks, and it had come to be the habit for Maggie and Haleema to go together. They had gone together in company with Julia to present their sc.r.a.p-books and dolls to the Children's Hospital, and there it was that they had fallen in love with the prettiest little blue-eyed girl, who had been sent to the hospital with a broken leg. She was then almost well, and when Miss South saw how deeply interested the two were in her she allowed them to go each week on visiting day. Later, when little Jennie went home, the two continued to visit her; sometimes they even brought her to the Mansion to visit.

There she soon became a great favorite, and poor Maggie saw that Jennie no longer owed everything to her and Haleema. Concetta won the child's heart by dressing her a beautiful doll, and all the others vied with one another in doing things for her.

It was especially hard for her when, in answer to a request from Concetta, Brenda herself sent a box of useful and pretty things for Jennie's use.

"It might just as well have gone through me," thought poor Maggie; though, on further reflection, she had to admit that Concetta deserved these things, because she had been bright enough and quick enough to think of asking for them.

A few days later, when she went to see Jennie she took with her a beautiful bouquet, purchased with money taken from the little h.o.a.rd that she had so carefully saved. This was a real sacrifice on Maggie's part, and when she saw the joy with which the little girl received her gift she was more than repaid.

Moreover, in the hour that she spent with the little girl she was sure that Jennie cared for her as much as ever. Indeed, had she been able to reason more deeply, she would have discovered that a child discriminates very slightly as to the value of different gifts. Jennie, like other children, loved Maggie quite as well as she loved Concetta, and though she enjoyed the presents that each one brought her, she had no scale of values by which to measure them.

XII

DOUBTS AND DUTIES

"But of course you haven't given up your music. If I thought that you had, I should march straight East, and find the reason why. If it's on account of that Mansion school, you'd have to leave it instantly; so when you write tell me what you've been composing, and whom you are studying with this year. As for me, I really am rather idle, and I'm learning that a college education isn't really wasted, even if one practises only the domestic virtues. My mother has been far from well this year, and she's luxuriating in having me here to run things. Running things, you know, is rather in my line. But ah! how I wish that I could see you and Pamela and Lois again, and all the others of our cla.s.s who are enjoying themselves fairly near the cla.s.sic shades. I suppose that you go out to Radcliffe at least once a week, and do you feel as blue as I do to think it's all over? But don't forget to tell me about your music.

"Ever your

"CLARISSA."

As Julia folded up this letter from her old cla.s.smate her face grew thoughtful. She certainly was not even studying this year, nor had she composed a note. It was kind in Clarissa to remember her little talent.

Even Lois had spoken to her recently about hiding her light under a bushel. Was she doing this? Might her little candle, properly tended, shine out large enough to be seen in the world? Her uncle and aunt had remonstrated with her for neglecting her music, and Julia had promised to resume her work later. But thus far the exact time had not come, and she hesitated to tell them that she doubted that she had the talent that they attributed to her. This feeling of discouragement had come to her in the last year at Radcliffe, when she began to see that her ability as a composer had its limits. Now, with Clarissa's letter before her, she wondered if she had been right in letting one or two slight set-backs discourage her. She had continued her practising, and her rendering of the great composers was a continual uplifting to those who heard her.

But the other,--her work in harmony,--was she right or wrong in laying it aside for the present? Was this the talent that she should be called to account for? Ought she to keep it concealed in a napkin? As she thought of this, Julia longed more than ever for Ruth--Ruth, with whom she had found it easier to discuss these personal questions than with any other of her friends. But Ruth, on her wedding trip, was thousands of miles away. It would be six months, at least, before they could meet, and she glanced at the map on which she marked a record of Ruth's wanderings, and noted that now she was in the neighborhood of Calcutta.

"The other side of the world," she thought. "Ah! well, I will let things go on as they have been going, and next year, perhaps, I shall see more clearly what I ought to do."

Pamela was perhaps carrying out her ideals more thoroughly than Julia, for all her teaching was along the artistic lines that she loved the best. She was not always sure that the girls got just what she intended them to get from her little talks on the nature of beauty, and the relations of beauty to utility. She used the simplest language, however, and made her ill.u.s.trations of a kind that they could easily comprehend.

She had tried to show them the meaning of "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful," and in expounding this she saw that she must try to train them to understand the truly beautiful. For her own room she had had some mottoes done in pen and ink artistically lettered, and one at a time she would set them in a conspicuous place, sure to attract the attention of the girls at their lessons.

Ruskin's "Every right action and true thought sets the seal of its beauty on person and face; every wrong action and foul thought, its seal of distortion," put up in plain sight, though at first it was not thoroughly understood, served as the text for a little talk, and each girl for the time being decided to curb her tongue, lest her face should show the effect of backbiting.

Samples of dress fabrics, samples of wall papers, gaudy chromos contrasted with simple photographs, queer and over-decorated vases in comparison with graceful Greek shapes, were all used by Pamela to enforce her lessons. Yet she often had misgivings that her words were not accepted as actual gospel by Nellie and Haleema and one or two others, whose preference for crude colors and fantastic decorations often came unexpectedly to the surface.

Nora laughed at her efforts to develop an aesthetic sense in these girls.

"They'll never have the chance to own the really beautiful things, and they might as well think that these cheap and gaudy objects are beautiful."

But Pamela shook her head at this.

"Why, Nora, you surprise me! What I am trying to teach is the fact that beautiful things are often as cheap as ugly things. Of course, in one sense, they are always cheaper, because they give more pleasure and often last longer. But when a girl's taste is cultivated she can often find more attractive things for less money. Who wouldn't rather have a wicker chair than one of those hideous red and green plush upholstered affairs, and the wicker chair certainly costs less."

"You are absolutely correct, Pamela Northcote, and your sentiments do not savor of anarchism, though I hear that Mrs. Blair is greatly perturbed lest this work at the Mansion should interfere with the labor market, and prevent the householder of the future from getting her rightful quota of domestics."

"It would not surprise me," said Pamela, "if not more than two of the girls here actually became domestics. I think that Julia and Miss South are right in encouraging them to live up to their highest aspirations."

"Well, I doubt if any of them have begun to aspire very strongly yet. On the whole they are remarkably short-sighted, and when I ask them what they intend to be they are usually so taken by surprise that they can make no reply."

"Miss South feels that she can judge them only very superficially this year; but she hopes that next year she will know them so well that she can give them definite advice. In the mean time they are at the mercy of laymen like yourself and myself, and we have the responsibility of guiding them toward the heights of art, whether in the aesthetic or the culinary line."

Theoretically Pamela took some of the girls each Sat.u.r.day to the Art Museum; really the average was hardly oftener than every other week.

There were rainy Sat.u.r.days, there were days when Pamela had special work of her own, or an occasional invitation would come for her to go out of town. Three girls at a time were invited to go. Julia would not permit Pamela to leave the house with more than that number, lest she should be mistaken for the head of an orphan asylum.

Pamela made these trips so interesting that for a girl to be forbidden to go when her day came was the greatest punishment that could be inflicted on her. Julia and Miss South had discovered this, and the discovery had solved one of their greatest problems,--this question of punishment; for although the girls were old enough to be beyond the need of punishment, yet there were certain rules that only the very best never broke, and to the breaking of which certain penalties were attached.

Thus it happened that on this particular Sat.u.r.day afternoon Haleema, whose turn it was to go, was not of the trio, and in her place was Maggie, triumphant in the knowledge that for a whole week she had not broken a single cup or saucer, nor in fact a dish of any kind.

"That means that I have my whole quarter to do as I like with," she said as they left the house.

"That means," interpolated Concetta, "that you'll put it in your little bank. She's a regular miser, Miss Northcote."

"No, I ain't," responded Maggie, "only just now I'm saving."

"That's right," said Pamela. "'Many a little make a mickle.'"

"Yes, 'm," and Maggie lapsed into her wonted silence.

Concetta, however, was inclined to be more talkative.

"Oh, she isn't simply saving, she's mean. Why, she got Nellie to buy her blue necktie last week; sold it for ten cents. Just think of that!"

"Well, well, that is no affair of ours."

"She sold a lovely story-book that her aunt gave her Christmas. She said it was too young for her, and she'd rather have the money."

"That may be, Concetta; but still I say that this is none of our business."

Yet although she thus reproved Concetta for her comments, Pamela wondered why Maggie wished to save. Economy was not a characteristic of girls of her age; though, recalling her own past need of money, Pamela felt that thrift was not a thing to be discouraged.