XIX
THEY STAND AND WAIT
"Why so pensive?"
"Pensive! Am I? I did not mean to be; it is certainly not exactly politewhen I have company." Julia smiled at Lois as she spoke, for Lois wasmaking one of her infrequent visits to the Mansion, and the two girlshad been reviewing many of the events of their college years.
"Yes, you were pensive; you looked as if something weighed on your mind.That particular expression has vanished now," concluded Lois; "but sinceI caught that very unusual look, please tell me what it means. Is it thewar?"
"Oh, no, not wholly."
"Then partly; do you wish to go as a nurse?"
"Oh, no; that is a kind of personal service for which I have neverthought myself especially well adapted. I leave that to experts like youand Clarissa, for I suppose that now Clarissa is on her way to Cuba,ready to do the bidding of the Red Cross. Why, Lois, with your bent inthat direction I do not wonder that you are pleased at the prospect ofgoing where you can really do some good."
"I am not altogether sure that I can go. My mother is opposed to mygoing, and to-day when I went to see Miss Ambrose I found her seriouslyill. I came to town to do an errand for her, but I could not resistrunning up here for a few minutes; I wished to know what you had heardfrom Clarissa."
"It was only the briefest note, but she seems perfectly delighted withthe prospect before her of going. She is so strong that I am sure thatno harm will come to her, and she will be a perfect host in camp orhospital."
"And the cap and apron will become her. Can you not see her with her captilted over her dark curls? I haven't the slightest doubt that she willpin a bow of scarlet ribbon somewhere on her gown, even though theregulations prescribe sombre costume."
"Indeed, I can see her at this very minute, a real ray of sunshine; but,Lois, I hope that Miss Ambrose is not very ill."
"I cannot tell. It is a nervous break down. All that she reads and hearsabout the war carries her back to the days of the Civil War. She lostseveral dear relatives and friends then, and the present excitement hascaused what I should call a kind of reflex action. Unless this SpanishWar proves longer than we expect, a few weeks rest will bring heraround. I am glad that my examinations are just over, for I must spendmy time with her."
"Naturally," responded Julia; "and after all, this will be as good acause as nursing sick soldiers, though I understand yourdisappointment."
As the two friends talked, Julia's face lost the pensive expression thatLois had remarked when she first came in. The expression had no deeperreason than her feeling of dissatisfaction with her winter's work, aregret that what she had undertaken must hamper her now, when greaterthings were claiming the attention of so many other of her friends. Yetbefore Lois went home she had begun to see that she need not bedissatisfied with her own limitations.
"'They also serve who only stand and wait,'" Lois had quoted apropos toherself, just as Philip had quoted it some weeks before, and Julia foundthis line of Milton's even more applicable to her own case than Philiphad to his. For there was a prospect that Lois, if the war continued,might find it possible to offer herself as a nurse, while Julia was surethat the duties that she had assumed would prevent her doing this, evenas Philip knew that he could not leave his father. Julia regretted, too,that she had not as much money to offer as she would have had but forher year's work at the Mansion.
Miss Ambrose, to whom Lois had referred, was not a relative, nor even anold friend. She had made the acquaintance of this elderly woman bychance toward the close of her Radcliffe course, and had found her wayto Miss Ambrose's heart without special effort on her own part. Anaccident had enabled her to do Miss Ambrose a real kindness. The olderwoman had been greatly pleased to learn that Lois was studying atRadcliffe. Her own tastes in her younger days had inclined her to acollege education, but, alas! at that time there was small opportunityfor a woman to go to college. In interesting herself in Lois' collegework she had seemed to live over again her own youth, and she was neverweary of hearing the details of college life. Later, when Lois was onthe point of leaving Radcliffe, because she had not the money to staythere longer, Miss Ambrose insisted on her accepting from her the sumnecessary to enable her to remain. In view of the older woman'skindness, and also because a genuine friendship existed between the two,it was natural that Lois should wish to stay with Miss Ambrose while shewas ill. Indeed, she was glad to do this, even though she had to curbher desire to be a nurse during the war.
When Lois left, Julia put herself through a little cross-examination;for a month or two she had not been wholly satisfied with her year'swork. Had she used her time and her money in the best way? Was there notsome other work that she might have carried on to greater advantage? Wasit altogether wise to have given up so entirely her own personalinterests? Ah! Clarissa was right; she was not justified in puttingentirely aside her music--especially her work in composition. What,indeed, had she to show for the year? So her thoughts ran. Ten girlsbetter trained in useful things than would have been the case withoutthe Mansion teaching; but this year must be followed up by another yearof teaching, and then in the end could she be sure that they wouldretain what they had learned? Concetta and Haleema had improvedsuperficially, but she was by no means confident that they were reallyneater or really more truthful than in the beginning. Maggie--and hereshe smiled--broke fewer dishes, but her reticence was far fromcommendable. Frankness was a virtue that she herself constantlypreached, yet she had been able to instil very little of this qualityinto Maggie's breast. In spite of all her precepts, too, Inez was stillas willing as at the beginning of the year to put on her stockings withthe feet unmended, and--"Difficulties are things that show what menare." Like a ray of sunlight this thought from Epictetus flashed acrossJulia's mind. After all, how few real difficulties she had had to meetduring the year; and had not the successes been more than the failures?
Mary Murphy had been the only one of the girls to insist on leaving theschool, although she had occasionally heard the others expressing theirdissatisfaction, especially when some of them had undergone some of thediscipline that they had to undergo. One of the first lessons to learnhad been that of the general deceitfulness of girls, and of these girlsin particular, who did not hesitate to make many little criticisms asunjustifiable as they were foolish.
After all, the balance sheet did not show a total against theexperiment, even when all the things were counted that had to be callednot quite successful.
"It is the warm weather," thought Julia, "that depresses me. Instead ofdreading next year, when autumn comes I shall probably wish that I hadtwice as much to do."
Brenda was disturbed by no such doubts as those that assailed Julia. Shewas helping Julia that she might help herself forget that a war washanging over the country, and that if there should be a great battle,if Arthur should be killed, she could never forgive herself. Yet, afterall, what had she had to do with his going, unless, indeed, she had beenfoolish in repeating her father's criticism of Arthur's idleness. Shecould not forget that autumn ride and that half-jesting conversation,and the change in Arthur from that moment; but for that, perhaps, hewould not have gone to Washington, and if he had not gone to Washingtonshe was sure that he would not have volunteered so early. Had he beennear them, certainly Agnes and Ralph would have shown him that it washis duty to stay at home, just as much his duty as it was the duty ofRalph or Philip.
Philip had stayed behind on account of his father, and Ralph felt it hisduty to fly to Paris on account of his sick uncle. Arthur could havegone there in his place, and then he would have been perfectly safe.Now, even while Brenda was reasoning in this foolish fashion--yet itcould hardly be called reasoning--she did not fully face the question asto whether she had not done wrong rather than Arthur. She still blamedhim for not writing to her. What if she had not answered his last twoletters? He was the one who had gone farthest away, and he should havewritten.
Now all of this was the very poorest logic, and no one understood thisb
etter than Brenda herself, slow though she was to admit that she hadmade a blunder.
Miss South heard frequently from her brother Louis, who had been one ofthe first to go to the front, and a box had been already sent from theMansion filled with useful things for the men of his company, aboutwhose privations in camp he had written very entertainingly. "How wouldyou like it," he wrote, "to have to take your occasional bath in arubber blanket? Yes! that is exactly what I do. We cannot bathe in thecreek, for its muddy water is all we have to drink. So when I wish tobathe I dig a narrow trench some distance away, lay my rubber blanket init, and carry enough water to fill it. In no other way could I get adecent--I mean a half-decent--bath." Then he told of the canned beef andhard bread that was his chief diet, and added that if the heatcontinued, he would have nothing worse to fear from the Cuban climate,"for to Cuba they say we shall go before the end of June."
Brenda, listening to the letter, wondered if Arthur, too, had had thesame experiences.
More than all, she wondered if the troops now in camp would really go toCuba, and if--if--
Then she would not let her thoughts go too far. She could not bear tothink of the coming battles; for every one said that the Spaniards wouldnot yield without a bitter conflict.
Maggie, whose devotion to her was unnoted by Brenda, watched the latterfrom day to day, and often saved her steps by anticipating her wishes.Maggie observed that Brenda's face was paler and thinner than when shefirst began to live at the Mansion. She noticed, too, that she no longercared for pretty gowns. She wore constantly a blue serge skirt and shirtwaist, suitable enough in its way for one who was a resident at asettlement; but Brenda had formerly cared little for suitability, andMaggie, though she would not for a moment have admitted that her idollooked less than beautiful, still wished that she had the courage to askher to wear occasionally one of the dainty muslin gowns that she knewshe had brought with her to the Mansion.
One day as Brenda strolled through the upper hall she saw the door ofMaggie's room ajar. This reminded her that it was her turn to inspectthe bureaus of the girls, and acting on impulse she went at once toMaggie's drawer. This inspection usually consisted only of a passingglance to make sure that the contents of the drawers were not in thestate of hopeless confusion into which the bureaus of young girls have astrange way of throwing themselves.
Maggie's bureau, if not above criticism, was fairly neat, but as Brendaturned away something strangely familiar caught her eye. It could notbe--yet it surely was--and she took the bit of silver in her hand toassure herself that it really was the chatelaine clasp of the silverpurse that she had lost. As she took up the little piece of silver herhand trembled. There was no doubt about it; too well she recognized theelaborately engraved rose, surmounted by the double B, that had been herown especial design. How vividly came back to her the day on which shehad lost the purse--the day of the broken vase, of the discovery ofMaggie, of the deferred walk with Arthur; all came back to her vividly,and yet these things seemed years and years away. She had neverassociated Maggie with the lost purse, but now suspicion followedsuspicion, and all in an instant Maggie McSorley had become not merely atiresome little girl, but one deserving of reprimand if not ofpunishment.
Then discovery followed discovery. Just back of the silver clasp lay thepicture of a young, good-looking soldier in campaign uniform, and Brendacould not help reading at the bottom the words, "From your loving Tim."
At that moment there was a step at the door, and immediately Maggie wasbeside her. The little girl reddened as she looked over Brenda'sshoulder.
"My uncle," she exclaimed.
"Why, Maggie! How often your aunt has said that you haven't a relationin the world but herself and her husband."
"Then it's she that doesn't tell the truth," and frightened by her ownboldness Maggie burst into tears.
Brenda did not feel like consoling her. Moreover, Maggie's next words,"Don't tell my aunt," were not reassuring; so Brenda went rather sadlydownstairs. The clasp was still in her left hand; she had even forgottento show it to Maggie. Near the library door she met Concetta, lookingbright and cheerful. What a pleasant contrast to the weeping,unsatisfactory girl upstairs!
That evening Maggie did not appear again downstairs. She would take notea, and Gretchen, who had gone above to inquire, reported that Maggiehad a severe headache. As Julia left the rest of the family after tea tosee what she could do for Maggie, Brenda seated herself at the librarytable beside Concetta, who was turning over the leaves of a book.
Half absent-mindedly Brenda fingered the clasp which had been in herpocket since the afternoon, and Concetta, as her eye fell upon it, putout her hand as if to seize it. Then as quickly she drew her hand away,pretending not to have seen the bit of silver. Brenda did not noticeConcetta's action, though she was pleased to hear her say a word or twoin excuse of Maggie's weeping proclivities.
"She's such a kind of tender-hearted girl. Yes, she told me the otherevening that she hated to kill a mosquito; she'd rather let them biteher. Why, I'd kill hundreds of mosquitoes without thinking of it,"concluded Concetta boldly; "and it made Maggie cry when the kitten gotscalded the other day, but I wouldn't think of crying."
Brenda listened to Concetta quietly; she was wondering if she ought todisclose her suspicions to Julia. At length she decided that it was herduty to do so.
"Let us ask Miss South what she thinks. Perhaps there is someexplanation that she can suggest."
Miss South, when consulted, was inclined to question the accuracy ofBrenda's memory.
"Isn't it possible that you have forgotten just when you lost thepurse?"
"No, indeed, I have not forgotten," said Brenda. "It made a greatimpression on me that I should have lost it on the very day when I hadhad to pay for that broken vase, and that was the day when I first wenthome with Maggie; but really I never thought of her having taken it,and I'm very, very sorry."
Brenda spoke in tones of genuine distress. It is true that she had neverbeen very fond of Maggie, and that her first pride in her as anacquisition for the Mansion had soon passed away. Concetta and one ortwo of the other girls had interested her more. Yet in a general way shehad had a good opinion of Maggie, which it hurt her very much now to beobliged to reverse.
Thus, as the school year closed, Brenda, like Julia, was beginning tohave doubts about the value of the work that she had been doing; for ifMaggie had the clasp, she must also have the purse and its contents. Themoney contained in it had amounted to only about three dollars, but thepurse itself had been valuable, and doubtless Maggie had sold it. "Isuppose she was afraid to sell the clasp on account of the initials,"Brenda thought, a little bitterly.
Even though she had not liked Maggie as well as some of the other girls,she was not pleased that she had made this unpleasant discovery. Shewould have been more than glad if she had never seen thatharmless-looking little clasp lying in Maggie's bureau, if Maggie hadnever told her that untruth about the soldier's photograph.