Helen Grant's Schooldays Part 25

So it had been a fortnight. She found a good deal to say. She liked the school very much and described her room-mate, her new studies, the little she had seen of the town. And there was an enthusiastic grat.i.tude that satisfied the waiting and doubtful heart.

There was a good deal to say to Uncle Jason, and yet it was rather difficult not to write too rapturously. When she had finished that she bethought herself of Mr. Warfield. He had asked her to write.

She found no trouble here. Indeed the luncheon bell rang before she had quite finished.

"You can go down to the post-office," Daisy exclaimed. "I want some stamps and some sewing cotton. Roxy borrowed mine."

She hurried her letter in the envelope. Daisy had asked permission. She sent her letters on their way with a light heart, though as she came back it was rather heavy. Such a golden day as it was. And several of the pupils were going out botanizing with Miss Grace. They all liked Miss Grace very much. A girl less used to giving up would have considered it very hard. But she enjoyed every moment of this brief walk and came home with a great bunch of asters.

"If you only _were_ going! I should take twice the pleasure. Helen Grant, I do believe I have fallen in love with you."

"I am very glad," returned Helen with shining eyes.

To think how she had run around the woods in Hope and never thought of the wonderful beauty G.o.d had scattered so lavishly everywhere. This delight was knowledge. Jenny never felt it as she walked in and out to the factory. And Aunt Jane called it nonsense!

Madame Meran had some needlework and sat by her counting time, fingers and thumbs. Helen was so in earnest she could not help being interested in her.

"Oh, do you suppose I ever shall learn?" she inquired with a discouraged sigh. "And I love music so."

"That is my hope about you. I have seen worse beginnings. You will never make a wonderful pianist, but you have a really fine voice, and it is nice to be able to play your own accompaniments."

"And someone I care for very much desires me to learn, someone to whom I owe a debt of grat.i.tude. So I shall do my best."

Then she went on steadily and did master two or three points.

"Now you may go in the study and practice, as I have to take Miss Craven in hand, and I can trust you."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Helen delightedly. She was just as honest as if Madame's eyes were on her. She gave the full hour although her wrist ached, and her thumb seemed to lose its agility. But she had made a slight advance, she could see that. And there were ten months to be given to study.

She went out on the back porch presently, and then almost to the edge of the flat s.p.a.ce. One _could_ go down the hill, even that was school grounds, fenced in at the sides, and up here where there was a gate, kept locked for the most part. The sun was going down behind the next hill, and across in the other State, almost as if there were two suns.

What gorgeous coloring, changing, melting into new and indescribable tints and burnishing here, making scarlet shades there as if the tree-tops were on fire, and the rocks molten silver. How could it take on or give out so many colors?

She had an impression someone was near and turned. It was the new scholar. There was a wistful expression in her eyes that touched Helen.

No one had taken any special notice of her. Helen remembered her own warm welcome. Of course, now everyone was busy with lessons and had settled upon her friends and chums.

What could she say? To ask her if she felt at home would be a plat.i.tude, and Helen knew she did not come any nearer, as if she might be intruding. What a slim figure she had, and her frock was of fine, soft material that clung like the draperies in some of the "studies." She wore a very handsome chain and the watch edge just showed above her belt. Her hands were long and thin and she had a nervous manner of using them. She wore two beautiful rings.

Helen took a step towards her. "I wonder if you had such a battle with music as I did," she began, with girlish gayety. "It seemed as if I must have tried Madame's patience until there was nothing left for you. I am beginning to wonder how an excellent player who has an ear attuned to harmony can endure such stupidity."

Miss Craven stared with a sort of uncertainty.

"I should not think you were stupid. You look so bright and vivacious."

"I am afraid I wasn't born with the art of music along with the love for it."

"I have studied a little, alone mostly, and find I have some bad habits.

And I like it beyond everything."

If she only wouldn't be so stiff and distant!

"I never touched a piano until I came here. And one can't expect to be an expert in four lessons," Helen said in a half-humorous tone.

Miss Craven flushed and it was not a pretty color.

"You like it here? Were you a new scholar this year? You look very young."

"I was fourteen in the summer. Yes, I am a new scholar. But I have grown very much at home."

Then there was a pause. Helen bethought herself of the other question.

"Yes, I like it extremely. It is such a beautiful place. I've been studying the sunset and wishing I could paint a picture of it. I've come to wish so many things of late," laughing at herself. "And I like the teachers. I don't know many of the seniors, and I am in junior B."

"I am taking some private lessons," hesitatingly.

Poor girl! She could not even have pa.s.sed a junior B examination.

"There's such a pretty girl at your table. Her hair is the color one sometimes gets in a sunset, a bright gold, and yet it isn't the color so much as the curious waviness and stir all about it. It seems alive. And her complexion is beautiful, her eyes fairly laugh."

"That is Miss Mays. She isn't really in our cla.s.s. She's an 'A' scholar.

Every month someone new is elected for hostess. You are at the head of the table. You see that everything is served, that no one is--well, not exactly rude or awkward, but not up to the mark. And you keep a certain order."

"I spilled my coffee this morning. My spoon was in my cup and I just touched it with my cuff. I wish I could have gone through the floor or run away. But one has to learn all these nice things if one means to--to be anybody."

"I learned some of them in the summer. I was with a friend," and Helen flushed without quite knowing why. "I was a regular country girl--on a farm."

"I was too. I begin to think I ought not have come here, but I did not want to go where there were one or two hundred girls, and I did want to learn nice ways," hesitatingly.

"Then this is the very place to come."

"Only I did not imagine they were all rich girls; that is, society people," awkwardly.

"Oh, they are not. Two of the seniors mean to teach next year, so they cannot be rich. And one girl is going to an art school and means to work her way through. Of course most of them have fathers to care for them."

"I have never had anyone to care in that way. And it is curious, but on my father's side I have not a single near relative, perhaps none at all.

And my mother was an only child."

"I have neither father or mother," returned Helen. "But I have some very kind relatives on my mother's side."

"It is dreadful to be all alone, and to think----"

Miss Craven paused and compressed her lips, looked indeed as if she would cry, but winked very hard. And then Helen noticed that she had lovely long lashes, much darker than her hair and that her upper eyelids were thin, almost transparent. It was queer how she was beginning to see these little points of comeliness.

"Oh, there are the girls!" she said.

They were winding round into Elm Avenue, with great bunches of wild flowers and bright leaves, and one girl with an armful of golden-rod.

"I am much obliged for the talk," and with a sudden abruptness Miss Craven disappeared.

Helen looked after her a moment. She was lonely and unhappy. She would like very much to know her story. The girls speculated upon her and decided that she was a n.o.body come into a fortune. Private lessons, of necessity, cost more, so she must have money. Then her clothes, though not showy, were expensive and had a true _modiste_ air. There was evidently something she did not want the world to know; she had not been used to society, and she was hopelessly plain. Miss Mays made rhymes about her on the Lear nonsense pattern. You really couldn't help laughing at a great deal of bright criticism she indulged in if her comments were rather sarcastic.