Brenda's Ward Part 46

CHAPTER XXV

THE SUMMER'S END

One afternoon in late September, Martine sat under the trees in her mother's corner of the Red Knoll garden. A number of letters lay before her on a little round table, and beside her, swinging lazily in a hammock, was Priscilla, the practical, who had often been heard to say that she despised hammocks.

After a moment Priscilla, bringing herself to a full stop, leaned forward and gazed intently at Martine.

"I cannot see," she said at length, "that you look so _very_ thin."

"Why should I be _very_ thin?"

"Well, from what I heard I thought you must be. They said you weren't eating, and you are thinner than you were in the spring. I am sure your eyes look larger."

"Probably my eyes have grown; I am sure my waistbands have."

There was a twinkle in Martine's brown eyes, as she pushed back a wavy lock of hair.

"You are just a little paler, too," persisted Priscilla, "but except for that, no one would believe that you had been so ill."

"I don't believe it myself," replied Martine, "though I am perfectly willing to take the word of those who say they know. To tell you the truth, I am rather ashamed to hear that I barely escaped nervous prostration, just because I tried to stop a horse from running away."

"But you _did_ stop him."

"Then he wasn't running away. It was only that Carlotta had let go the reins."

"Well, they all say that if you hadn't seized the bridle, he would have gone straight down the little embankment."

"Nonsense--at any rate I spoilt the effect of it all by fainting, and yet I shouldn't have fainted if I hadn't been following your example.

The horse had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, Martine!"

"Yes, my dear Prissie. I had been following your old example of borrowing trouble, and I had been keeping my tribulations to myself, until I just couldn't bear them. You see it was this way. I was sure that father wouldn't get well, and that the shock of his death would kill mother, and Lucian would have to leave college, and I would have to start out at once to earn my living. Then little things were bothering me too, like Carlotta's being mean, and Angelina's leaving us with no one to help, and I was tired of being economical, so the horse was just the last straw."

Though Martine's explanation was not very lucid, Priscilla certainly understood her.

"I believe Clare was disappointed," she continued, "that I hadn't at least one bone broken. She wanted to make a heroine of me, and she isn't at all pleased when I tell her I wasn't in danger."

"Well, if you were not, Carlotta was. She is very grateful."

"I know, I know," said Martine, hastily. "But when you are not very fond of people, it is rather disagreeable to have them grateful, especially for nothing at all. I was really sorry that the person in the carriage was Carlotta. I suppose this sounds very hateful, for she has written me a fine letter--says she is sorry she couldn't see me before she went to the mountains, but still--"

"But still," echoed Priscilla.

"Oh, nothing, except that I like Mrs. Brownville's letter so much better. She says that I have been a great help to Herbert this summer--keeping him away from a set of young men the family didn't care for, and giving him ideals. I shouldn't expect Mrs. Brownville to know an ideal when she saw it. However, I dare say she's right, only it was unconscious goodness on my part. I didn't know Herbert had to be kept away from any set of foolish companions. I simply found him good company, and I am so used to giving advice to Lucian and Robert that I naturally favored Herbert in the same way. Then he was tremendously good in reading Latin with me. Except for this accident I should have been ahead of you, Prissie dear."

"I should like to have seen Herbert Brownville."

"Yes, it's a pity he had to go back to college before you came. But you'll see him in Boston some time."

"When do you expect your father?" asked Priscilla.

"Oh, in a week--just think of it--in a week, and he is almost well, and although he has lost money, things are not going to be so very dreadful,--not at all as I feared. I looked too far ahead."

"Yes," said Priscilla, mischievously, "jumping at conclusions is almost as bad as borrowing trouble. They mean much the same thing."

"I am not so sure. I cannot imagine a slow, deliberate person like you jumping at conclusions, though I have known you to borrow trouble."

"Sometimes I am very hasty," responded Priscilla, slowly, as if reflecting on something. "There is one thing I ought to tell you. Do you remember your prize essay last spring?"

"Oh, yes, but I didn't set out to get a prize."

"I know. If you had, I suppose you would have written it all alone."

"What do you mean? I did write it alone."

Then remembering Lucian's help, Martine flushed to the roots of her hair.

"I did not mean to offend you," continued Priscilla, "for even if Lucian helped you a little, this was all right; I was only thinking how unfair I had been. I accidentally saw some notes for your essay in Lucian's handwriting, and for a little while I felt that you had acted unfairly.

Do you remember one week last spring, when I was stiff and disagreeable and wouldn't go anywhere with you?"

"_One_ week!" exclaimed Martine, roguishly.

"Oh, I dare say there were others. Only I remember the why of that particular week."

"But it's so long ago," cried Martine, "Let's not remember it now."

"It's only fair that you should know that I sometimes jump to conclusions."

"As long as you are ready to jump away from them again, there's no great harm done."

"That's what I wanted to say. I realized after all that there was no rule in school against getting help in an essay, and that you didn't know a prize was to be given when you wrote yours. But I always thought you ought to know how unfair I had been."

"Then we are friends again," said Martine, laughing, "though I didn't know we had ever been anything else." Secretly, she thought Priscilla had made a great ado about nothing. "It's the Puritan way, I suppose,"

she said to herself. Then aloud,--

"As I have forgiven you, we may call it square about those Christmas photographs. Thus far I have always been able to prevent your paying me for them. But to-day, when I found your note with this money on my bureau--really, Priscilla, I was almost offended. So here, child," and she held out an envelope, "if you will take back this money, I will forgive you for your unfair thoughts."

Under the circ.u.mstances Priscilla could not refuse Martine, and thus both girls were satisfied.

"There's one thing," said Martine, to change the subject, "I have had some lovely letters lately. Just think of little Esther's writing me.

Nora must have told her where I was. She hopes I will be able to go on with the Mansion Cla.s.s next year--but dear me, Priscilla, she has got far beyond me; only look at this pen and ink," and she displayed the last page of the letter, in which Esther had drawn a picture that Priscilla at once recognized as Martine herself. "Then Alexander Babet has written me about Yvonne, that she is much stronger, and so happy with her music lessons,--and would you believe it, they still have some of that hundred dollars left. It's wonderful how far some people can make a little money go."

Here Martine sighed, recalling the time when she would not have thought a hundred dollars too much to spend in gratifying a single small wish.

"Do you know," she continued, "it may be that I can really do something for Yvonne next year. If papa can't spare the money, why I can give up something of my own--riding lessons, for example,--and spend what it would cost for Yvonne. This year I have been so frightfully useless; it seems as if I hadn't done anything for anybody."