Brenda's Ward Part 14

Martine was at home when Priscilla called on Sat.u.r.day morning.

"It's really very condescending in your ladyship to come," she began; "and it's a wonder that you found me. I was to take a riding-lesson to-day, but by good luck I found when I telephoned yesterday that I could have an hour to myself then. So here I have Sat.u.r.day free, with nothing on my mind but your visit and Brenda's letter."

"Oh, have you heard again from Mrs. Weston?"

"Yes; isn't she a dear to write to me when she has so many people who really belong to her. She says she considers I belong to her, and that she's going to call me her ward until I really come out, and, of course, I shall consider myself her ward always. You've no idea how much I learned from her this autumn. If she had been a stiff, frumpy thing, I just couldn't have paid the least attention to her. I only wish mamma would let me do my hair up like Mrs. Weston's, but she says I'm too young. Well, in a year I shall be a perfect model of style a la Brenda."

"But what is in the letter?"

"I can't say there's so much actual news, only it makes you just long to get out of this cold, bleak climate. Only think of picking roses by the bushel in March, and sitting out in the sun without a wrap."

"In San Francisco?" questioned Priscilla. "Why, I heard my cousin say that it was always too cold for thin gowns there, and that the winds were something terrible."

"Oh, my dear child, you are so literal. No, this is down in Monterey, where there are wonderful gardens. Let me read:

"'We are thankful that the rainy season is almost over, for when it rains there is apt to be a perfect flood, and we stay indoors for days.

Sometimes it rains in the morning as if it would never stop, and then in the afternoon the sun comes out beautifully and the flowers look as if they had grown inches. But after the middle of June there will be no more rain until winter, and we can camp or plan excursions without casting a thought to the weather. Life, however, is not entirely play with us. Arthur is very busy, and often in the evenings he is too tired to go out. Consequently we are reading together a number of improving things, and when I get back to Boston I am almost sure that every one will say, "How much she knows!" I feel as if my new stock of learning must show on the surface even before anyone has time to discover it by talking with me. Arthur says he doesn't object to it at all, and won't do so unless I have to wear eyegla.s.ses, which every one knows I always did hate.'"

"The letter certainly sounds like her; when she got started she always talked in that breathless way."

"'San Francisco is the most picturesque city I ever saw,'" continued Martine, reading Brenda's letter, "'all up and down hills, so that you feel as if you were riding over the waves of the ocean when you go out in a cable-car.

"'From some of the high places where you go up to get a view, very often you only see things dimly through a fog, and then the towers and spires seem parts of castles and you can imagine you are in Europe.

"'But although I am perfectly contented here, I often wish I were in Boston, and it makes me too blue for anything to remember that except for business I might now be living in the dearest little apartment in the world. I hope you and your mother enjoy it, Martine, as much as I did, and that you and Priscilla are still great friends.'"

Martine let the sheet of paper fall from her hand.

"Are we good friends, Prissie dear?" she asked, leaning forward and resting her hand on Priscilla's arm.

"Why, of course, Martine; that's why I came. You see it was all on account of that acid, or salts, or whatever you call it, and the ink-spot, and--yes--and Julius Caesar."

"Julius Caesar?" For a moment Martine appeared to be mystified.

"Oh, yes," she spoke with a smile, "Julius and the Roman scarf, and the other improvements that I made in the drawing-room. Mrs. Tilworth blamed you."

"No, no, not for that. She knew I couldn't be so silly."

"Thanks, my dear. Then she blamed me. To be honest, I had hardly thought about my misbehavior since then. I had a vague idea that you would go down before your aunt came in and restore things to their proper condition. Now I perceive I must apologize. It's written all over you that Mrs. Tilworth will believe me a reprobate until I do so. So that is why you have been so very stiff and Plymouthy this week. Oh, Prissie, Prissie!"

Priscilla made no reply. Now, as always, she found it difficult to reply to Martine's teasing.

"You must stay here to luncheon, Prissie," continued Martine, "and this afternoon we'll have some fun. You must have had a very dull week without me. Dear me, this drawer is too full," she continued, as she endeavored to close a drawer of her desk on the top of which she had just placed Brenda's letter.

"Let me help you," and Priscilla rushed over to Martine's side, but between them they only managed to pull drawer and contents to the floor.

"There, I will leave you to yourself, Prissie," said Martine; "you are better than I at straightening things out. I am going out to the dining-room to speak to Angelina."

As Priscilla carefully replaced the scattered contents of the drawer she refrained from looking at the letters and other papers that lay before her. She acted thus from habit rather than because she thought there was any need of this carefulness just now. She had not come upon the drawer by accident, and therefore she was at liberty to look at anything that attracted her attention. Just as Priscilla's own reflections had taken this turn, she allowed her eye to rest on a half sheet of foolscap that she had last picked up. The handwriting upon it was not Martine's, and almost without realizing what she was doing, she began to read a sentence or two. Then somewhat startled, she folded the paper, and quickly put it back in the drawer.

"Oh, I wish I hadn't seen it!" she thought. "It was Lucian's handwriting, and yet it seemed to be an outline of Martine's essay. I wonder if he wrote it for her. They say he does so well in English. I wish I hadn't seen it. It doesn't seem like Martine."

Priscilla was genuinely distressed, and when Martine returned, her feeling had taken the form of embarra.s.sment. When Martine spoke to her, she replied with hesitation, and her manner had some of its old awkwardness.

"There," exclaimed Martine, with some acrimony, "you are really rather provoking. Here I have been telephoning and planning a good time for you, and you begin to seem as icebergy as you seemed at Yarmouth last summer. Now listen, first of all I have apologized to your aunt by telephone."

"Oh, Martine!"

"Yes, and she says it's all right, and she has forgiven me on condition that I never disturb Julius Caesar again. It was really very good of her, when you consider that she couldn't see my blushes of repentance. So that is settled. Secondly, you are to stay here for dinner, and go with us to a recital this evening."

"A recital, and who is 'us'?"

"Oh, Lucian, and Robert, and me, or 'I,' whichever is most grammatical.

As to the recital, why, haven't you heard that Angelina intends to distinguish herself in elocution? All her little surplus goes for voice-training, and things of that kind--and her recital's to-night. I should have invited you before, only you have been so high and mighty all the week."

"But did my aunt say I could go? She doesn't approve of evening things generally--except parties, on Friday or Sat.u.r.day evenings."

"Well, thank goodness, there's no stupid party this evening."

"But I'll have to go home to dress."

"Oh, Prissie, Prissie! surely you are not growing vain. What you have on is suitable for any occasion. Observe that I speak as one in authority.

Mamma would say the same. The recital is not to be given at the Somerset or the Touraine, but somewhere in the outskirts, where 'glad clothes,'

as the boys call them, would be quite out of place."

"Very well," and Priscilla resigned herself to Martine's stronger will.

"I suppose it's all right."

"There, dear iceberg, I am glad to see that you have begun to thaw. I hope Lucian and Robert will be as amiable. They have no idea what is before them, except that I am going to take them somewhere. Once in a while Lucian is too amiable to refuse what I ask, and this will be one of the times. For my own part, I shall be as thankful as mamma when the affair is over, for Angelina has been hopping about like a chicken with its head chopped off for a month past. What little mind she has has been fixed on her recitations, and I only hope she'll do herself proud."

"Oh, Martine," protested Priscilla, "how can you use so much slang! Just think how Mrs. Redmond and Amy used to talk to you last summer."

"Yes, and you too, Prissie dear, and this winter, my own mother. But when you begin to deteriorate, you will know that there are moments when one's spirits must have a safety valve, and slang is mine."

Priscilla shook her head.

"So now, my dear Prissie, to show that I am not lost to all refining influences, let me suggest an hour at the Art Museum. I love pictures as dearly as I do not love music, and there are several favorites of mine there that I haven't seen for a month. Put on your hat and coat, and we'll be there in five minutes."

When they were out in the clear air Martine's tone changed.

"Priscilla," she said gently, "do you know I am a little worried about father? He writes as if his business was not going well. He does not say it in exactly those words, but he has written only once, and the letter was far from cheerful. Either it is his business, or he doesn't feel well--and he is so far away. It seems to me now that we oughtn't to have let him go."

"But could you have helped it?" asked the practical Priscilla.

"Perhaps one of us could have gone with him--Lucian or I. South America seems so far away."

Priscilla's sympathy was readily aroused, and she gave it generously to Martine.

"It must be very, very hard for you to have your father so far away, especially if you think that he is not quite well. I know how it was when papa was in Cuba. It just seemed as if I couldn't bear it, and yet I suppose that there was nothing I could do, even if I had been there."