Nancy Of Paradise Cottage Part 15

CHAPTER XI

ALMA MAKES COMPLICATIONS

Charlotte was sitting in the easy chair which she had imported to her new lodging with the rest of her belongings, munching peanuts. Her bushy brown hair was pinned up into a droll little "nubbin" on top of her head, her goggles had slipped down almost to the tip of her nose, and altogether her att.i.tude, when Nancy burst in upon her late on Sunday afternoon, gave evidence that she was in a thoughtful mood. She had often said that peanuts always disposed her to meditation. With her feet on the window-seat she gazed out upon a rather dreary scene of fog and rain, hardly blinking her big, heavy-lidded eyes, and devouring peanuts like an automaton. But the unchanging gravity of her face, as she turned around to greet her prodigal roommate, told Nancy that there was really some serious matter on her friend's mind.

"h.e.l.lo! Have a good time?" was her only greeting.

"Very. Did you like the play yesterday? I--I hope you understood why I--I mean after I had told you that I had to stay here----"

"Nancy, you know you don't have to explain anything to me. If you couldn't go with me, don't you suppose that I knew that you had your own reasons for not going?" interrupted Charlotte warmly. "My idea of real 'bosom friends,' as they call 'em, is of two people who know when not to bother each other with questions.

"The reason why most of these ardent school-girl friendships come to violent deaths is because they _will_ insist on telling each other everything, and demanding an explanation for every why and wherefore.

And that's that. Take off your things and have a peanut--or even two, if you like."

Nancy tossed her hat on the bed and began to take off her heavy clothes.

"You seemed sort of grave, Charlotte, when I came in. Has anything happened?" she asked, as she slipped into her dressing-gown and shook down her hair.

"Well, in a way, yes," replied Charlotte. "Nothing to worry you really, and it's really not my affair, except that it concerns you and Alma. It's only that I'm afraid that that donkey Mildred Lloyd got Alma into rather a sc.r.a.pe yesterday. Oh, don't look so scared--it's all fixed up. Only, if I were you, I'd have a good talk with Alma about Mildred."

"But what happened?" cried Nancy, who had turned quite pale, in spite of Charlotte's hasty rea.s.surances.

"Well, the chief trouble was that they overstayed their time in town yesterday. Ten o'clock is the very latest that any of us can come in on a holiday, As you know, and as they knew, and as that little pinhead, Mademoiselle, knew. It seems that one of the boys persuaded them to stay in for dinner and to go to the theatre again afterwards.

So they didn't get in until after twelve. Well, as you can imagine, Amelia went on a regular rampage. And I've a notion that she was a good deal harder on poor Alma than she was on Mildred. Amelia is more afraid of angering Mildred than Mildred is of angering her. Mildred always takes Mademoiselle as her chaperone because she is quite sure of being able to make that little poodle do anything she wants. And Mildred, being the daughter of Marshall Lloyd, is _persona grata_ here, and can wriggle out of any sc.r.a.pe. I know Mildred down to the ground.

I've roomed with her for a year. For some reason or other she never tried to coax me into any rule breaking--probably because we were never intimate at all, and because she knew that I don't think there's any fun or sense in that sort of thing. It doesn't take any great cleverness to break a rule, and you don't get anything much by doing so. If you want my opinion, I think that Mildred is a very unsafe sort of friend for a girl like Alma. I don't believe that Alma honestly likes her--Mildred is more than inclined to be a bully, and extremely capricious--but somehow a lot of girls feel flattered when Mildred 'takes them up,' and will do anything she tells them to, without using their own common sense for a minute. I'm saying all this to you, Nancy, when I wouldn't say it to anyone else. I don't like the idea of picking to pieces a girl whom you roomed with for a year, but I think that both of us ought to try to make Alma open her eyes before Mildred gets her into any more mischief."

Nancy sat silent for a time, staring out of the window, and biting her finger thoughtfully. She longed to ask Charlotte's advice, but she hesitated to discuss her own sister even with this very close and sincere friend. She hated to admit Alma's weaknesses even to herself, and she could not bring herself to speak of them to anyone else. But she felt very uncertain as to how she was going to approach Alma on the subject of her friendship with Mildred; for in spite of their reconciliation, she knew that Alma was not ready to take any warnings, without flying up with a lot of notions about the n.o.bility of friendship and so on; true and idealistic notions in themselves, but so unwisely applied that she stood in danger of losing them altogether through disillusionment.

"I think Alma's alone now. Have you seen her?" said Charlotte. "The poor little creature has been awfully unhappy about the scolding Miss Leland gave her--Mildred wasn't at all cast down and goes around looking as if she had done something very smart. The very fact that Alma is feeling so blue about it all, while Mildred is perfectly unconcerned, shows the difference in the sort of stuff they are made of. And we must take care that Alma doesn't change under Mildred's influence so that she, too, will think it very smart to get into silly sc.r.a.pes just for the fun of getting out of them."

Nancy sprang up, and without a word left the room.

There was no light in her sister's room, but in the gray twilight that shone in forlornly she made out a pathetic little heap on the bed. She felt a lump of pity and motherly tenderness rise in her throat; not a particle of blame was in her heart--only a desire to cuddle and comfort her thoughtless little sister.

"Alma," she called softly. A tousled head was lifted from the pillow, and even in the dim light she could see how Alma's rosy, childlike face was stained and swollen with tears.

"Oh, Nancy! I _am_ so glad you're back! Oh, don't be angry with me.

You aren't angry, are you?" sobbed Alma.

"Angry!" echoed Nancy, laughing tremulously. "Oh, you poor little darling--don't be so unhappy about it all." She hugged Alma tightly and kissed her hot cheek, feeling the tears on it.

"Then you _do_ know about it. It wasn't my fault, Nancy--that is, it wasn't Milly's, either. Don't think I'm trying to shift the blame.

Oh, I have been so _miserable_."

"Why, dearest, it wasn't anything very bad--it was only foolish. Cheer up!"

"You see,--you see--Frank was there, and another boy--and they hated to go back to Cambridge--and it all seemed perfectly harmless--and Milly said it was perfectly all right, and that Miss Leland wouldn't care a bit--and that she had often done it. I hadn't any idea--until I thought about you, and I knew you wouldn't like it. But I didn't think about that until we were coming home. But Milly just laughed."

"What did Miss Leland say to you?"

"She--she was furious. She said that she was ashamed of me, and that she was going to write to Mother--and that it was a cheap, common thing to do."

Nancy's eyes blazed. For a moment she sat perfectly still, breathing sharply, evidently trying to conquer her temper. Then she said in a quiet tone:

"She had no business to say that to you. I'm going to speak to her after dinner."

"Oh, don't, Nancy," implored Alma, timidly. "It's all right now. I--I don't want you to say anything to Miss Leland."

"Well, she should have been ashamed of herself to say that to you. She is nothing but a horrid old sn.o.b--I'll wager she thought twice over everything she said to Mildred." Nancy's eyes were still fiery. She was beginning to taste the humiliation of having to submit to the tyranny of sn.o.bs. If she went to Miss Leland it would end most likely by their having, for the sake of their pride, to pack up and go home.

And she felt that she had no right to do anything that would so wound her mother.

"Alma, dearest, I want to say something to you--please don't you be angry with me now. Please, dearest. You know that I haven't a single thought that isn't for your interest--and that I wouldn't for anything on earth try to take away from you anything that was really for your good." She paused, waiting for Alma to say something, but her sister was silent, and the room was too dim now for her to read the expression on Alma's face.

"I think that you have already seen for yourself that there is danger in a friendship where one person lacks a--well, a very keen sense of honor, and the other lacks judgment. I know you don't want to make any more mistakes--you have been very unhappy over a small one, and unless you are wise, big ones may follow."

"You mean--you want me to--to not be friends with Mildred?"

"I want you only to be independent, dear, so that you won't be afraid to do what you know is right and wise, even if she laughs at you and coaxes you. I don't like to criticize Mildred to you if you are very fond of her; but you know that I have never trusted her, and this affair ought to show you, too, that she isn't to be trusted. She has always had her own way, and she isn't a wise girl. She hasn't been a very good influence for you, as you must have seen. Partly because of her influence we quarrelled, you know. She has laughed you out of doing many things that you know well you should have done. I am not blaming you, Alma. It is only because I know that in time Mildred would make you very, very unhappy that I'm telling you not to make her your closest friend."

"She--she--I mean that in many ways she should be a very _good_ friend to have," began Alma, in a low voice.

"Oh, Alma darling, you mustn't think that simply because a girl has money and position and influence that she is, on the face of that, a valuable friend. A girl like Mildred is very fickle, anyway. To-day she may want to do everything in the world for you, and to-morrow she may hardly speak to you. So long as you follow her blindly, she may show a great fancy for you, but if you were to follow your own ideas, contrary to her, she would quarrel with you in a minute."

"I don't believe that of Mildred," exclaimed Alma, with sudden defiance. "You have no idea how generous she is, and--and how broad-minded. I'm sure that you are prejudiced against her, Nancy. I know that she often appears to be rather a sn.o.b, but in reality she isn't one at all. Yesterday was no more her fault than it was mine. I was just as wrong as she was."

"Yes, but you were unhappy because you had done it, and Mildred isn't unhappy about it at all--as a matter of fact, she thinks that it was quite a clever thing to do."

Alma was silent. Then she said, presently:

"I can't quarrel with her."

"You don't have to quarrel with her. I never asked you to do that. I said only to think and act as you know to be right. Certainly, then, if she grows cool with you, she will respect you more. I--I hate to see my sister so absolutely a--a--I mean I hate to see you doing blindly everything Mildred does. Because she thinks it silly and 'high-brow' to study hard, you don't study. I hate to see you so afraid to lose a friend that you will go against your own conscience and judgment just to keep her good-will. It's just--sn.o.bbery, Alma--and it's worse than even Mildred's sn.o.bbery, because it's cowardly, while hers is just--impudent."

"I won't let you say such things, Nancy," cried Alma, shaking off her sister's hand. "I--I couldn't go on rooming with Mildred if I believed what you say of her, and I won't listen to you."

"Oh, Alma--don't, _don't_ let us quarrel again," pleaded Nancy. "Why can't you believe that it's almost unbearably hard for me to say these things to you? I am a coward, too, because I'm so afraid of losing one little jot of your affection, that I would rather a thousand times hold my tongue than say anything to make you angry. But I can't be silent."

"You've made me more unhappy now than I was before," said Alma, sullenly. "Do you want me to be a hypocrite, and pretend to be fond of Mildred still, while I'm believing what you want me to believe of her?"

Nancy got up, feeling quite desperate about the failure of her attempts to show Alma her danger. While she was thinking of something to say she walked over to the door and switched on the light. Just as she turned, she saw Alma make a quick movement--but Alma was not quick enough to grasp a handsome fur neck-piece off the chair and whisk it behind the pillow before Nancy saw her. Alma blushed crimson. If it had not been for that swift action and the guilty blush, Nancy would not even have noticed the scarf--or, if she had, she would simply have thought that it was one of Mildred's. For some reason she flushed herself, and Stood staring blankly at Alma, curiously ashamed of Alma's own guilty expression. Then Alma slowly drew the scarf from its hiding-place, and tried to laugh.

"You're going to scold me for my extravagance now, Nancy. I--I got this to-day. I was hiding it, because I didn't--I mean I was afraid you might read me a lecture." She attempted an air of playful penitence, but it was rather a failure. It was a very expensive fur, long and fluffy, and beautifully lined with frilled chiffon.

"But--Alma," remonstrated Nancy, weakly, "how did you get it? It must have cost at least a hundred dollars. Why----" She broke off quite dazed and frightened at the thought of such a sum, and stared at her sister as if she thought that Alma had taken leave of her senses.

"Well, you see--don't worry, Nancy," stammered Alma, evidently finding the greatest difficulty in explaining. "You see--it was this way.