“Sixteen! Well, I should think she would be ashamed. Why, she acts like a big, tough boy. Last summer at the shore, she came tearing down the boardwalk with her hair flying, chasing Tom Moore and bound to catch him before they reached the bathhouses. I felt awfully humiliated to have her come up to me a few minutes after, when I was talking to Mrs. Earle and her son, and say, ‘Hello, Jan!’ She was chewing gum, too. And think of it, I had to introduce her. Mrs. Earle is so sweet; she takes in everybody, and she put out her hand and said, ‘Is this your cousin, Janet?’ Then after I told who she was, Mrs. Earle drew her aside and told her softly, so that her son would not hear, and with a great many ‘my dears,’ that there was a big tear in her skirt. And what do you think that poor fish did? She just laughed out loud and pulled the tear around and stuck her finger in it and said, ‘Oh yes, I know it. That’s been there two weeks. Most everybody’s told me of it now. It’s too much trouble to mend it down here. It’s bad enough to have to sew when I’m at home.’ Just then Tom Moore came in sight again, and without saying good-bye or anything, she started and ran, calling, ‘Ho, Tom, you can’t catch me again! I dare you to!’ I was so mortified I could have sunk down into the sand with a good will and never come up again. Lawrence Earle looked after her with the most curious expression. If she had seen him she would never have held up her head again.”
“Oh yes, she would, Janet,” said Maud, laughing. “You don’t suppose a little thing like that would bother her. Why, she’s got brass enough to make a pair of candlesticks. The thing I don’t understand is how she happened to be so utterly ill-mannered, with so lovely a mother.”
“Well, surely, girls,” said Ethel Garner, “if her own sister doesn’t want her, we can’t ask her to go along. What is the use of discussing her any further? I, for one, am tired of the subject. She is full of disagreeableness and apparently has not a single virtue.”
“You’re forgetting, Ethel,” put in Janet Chipley sarcastically, “she can ride a bicycle!”
“Oh yes, she can ride a wheel”—laughed Ethel with a sneer and a curl of her lip—“but she does even that like a clown. She would rather stand on the saddle with one toe and go flying down Main Street than anything else in the world. She just wants to show off her acrobatic feats! I can’t understand why her mother lets her. She’s too old to ride a bicycle. None of the other girls do.”
“You were just saying she wasn’t old enough to go with us,” urged Flora mischievously.
“Well, you know perfectly what I mean, Flo. Don’t try to be clever! She acts just like a great big, overgrown small boy. And the way she plays baseball and tries to get in with the boys! She thinks she’s so smart because they praise the way she pitches. She thinks it’s so wonderful to be able to pitch like a boy! I think it’s unladylike. And she goes whistling through the streets, and she never looks even neat! Her clothes are simply a mess! And her hair is a fright! If she went along, she’d be sure to disgrace us all in some way. Decidedly, no! She’s a flat tire if there ever was one. Don’t you all say so, girls?”
“Yes I do,” said Maud Bradley. “Come, let’s drop her and get to work. There’s the route and the time and the lunch to plan for, and the afternoon is going fast.”
The little company of brightly dressed girls settled themselves in the hammocks and chairs that were plentiful in the summerhouse and went to work in earnest.
Meantime, on the other side of the carefully trimmed hedge, stretched full length on the soft, springy, sweet-smelling earth, her elbows on a mossy bank, her face in her hands, her cheeks very red, her eyes on an open book, lay Effie Martin, the subject of all this conversation. She had taken her book after dinner and slipped off to this group of trees between her father’s lawn and that of Mr. Garner’s. It was a favorite retreat for her, away from the noise of her teasing brother, and the possible calls of conscience when she heard the work of the house going on and knew that she ought to be helping. She did not like to work, and she did love to read. She often came here when she wanted to be alone. She had found this particular bit of mossy turf, covered by clean, spicy pine needles. She did not know that in the summer arbor, opposite, Ethel and Flora Garner would receive their friends that day.
She would not have hesitated on that account if she had known. It did not occur to her that she would be liable to hear conversations not meant for her ears. When she had first heard voices approaching the hedge on the other side, she had paid little heed to them, but had read on until she suddenly heard her own name and became aware that she was the subject of much unpleasant remark. Her cheeks flamed with anger, and her big black eyes sparkled dangerously. It did not occur to her that she was an eavesdropper or that she ought to get up and go away. She would probably not have gone if it had occurred to her. It had never been fully impressed upon her that there was anything wrong in listening to what is not intended for one’s ears, especially when the theme is one’s self.
The girls on the other side of the hedge went on discussing her personal habits. It had never occurred to her that she had personal habits before or that those habits could be agreeable or disagreeable to others. There was something startling in hearing them portrayed in such unpleasant tones. Her heart beat fast with indignation. So this was what they thought of her. Her first impulse was to start to her feet and rush into their midst, but what could she do? They were but stating their opinions.
She had half started to get up, but now she sank back again. Alas! she could not deny the statements they had made about her, either. She glanced down at her stubby fingers, whose nails, worn to the quick, gave sad evidence of being daily bitten. Now that she recalled it, she supposed she did bite her nails in church. She was tired and longed to get out of doors, and that seemed to give her relief from what seemed to her a dull meeting. She glanced down at her dress. It was even now torn and spotted in many places. She had never paid much attention to her clothes before. She had not minded a few spots or rents, more or less. Now she suddenly saw what others thought of her. How they went on scorning her—those girls of whose circle she had so earnestly aspired to be one. How she hated them for it! What a hateful world she was in! How could they talk that way? Those pretty, simpering girls who could not ride as she could—not one of them—nor pitch a ball so that the boys would as soon have her in the game as one of themselves! They had nothing but nonsense in their heads and were very silly. Why should she care what they said? But all the time, as the talk went on, her cheeks burned redder and redder and her heart throbbed with its painful mingling of emotions.
Meanwhile the girls, unaware of the angry little listener on the other side of the hedge, arranged their program. They were to rest and refresh themselves at a farmhouse, a pleasant distance from home, and return in the evening by moonlight, if the night was clear. Then came the question of the chosen guests. All the usual girls were named, Eleanor Martin, Effie’s older sister, among the rest. A spasm of almost hatred again passed over Effie as she thought of the selfishness of her sister, who was unwilling that she should take part in the coming pleasure. Eleanor could have managed it for her if she had chosen, but Eleanor was nineteen and did not care to be troubled by “kids,” as she chose to designate her sister, albeit she never breathed this in the presence of their mother. Mrs. Martin disliked slang, and endeavored, as much as in her power, to bring up her daughters properly. But it was a hard task with so many feet to guide, so many mouths to feed, so little in the family treasury. This was, perhaps, the reason that poor Effie had been so often obliged to shift for herself.
The letters in the book before her were blurred into one long word. Effie felt no further interest in the hero of the historical novel that she had been reading. History was empty and void. Her own life had loomed up and eclipsed the ages, so that there was nothing of interest outside it. She felt that no one had ever been so miserable, so helpless, so disliked, so ill-treated, so utterly unhappy as herself. How could she go on living after today? She had suddenly seen herself as o
thers saw her. Her feelings must have had a little touch of what Eve felt when she had eaten of that forbidden fruit and no longer saw the world about her fair. How could she ever endure it? Her thoughts surged through her brain without beginning or end. And through it all she longed to jump through that hedge, with vengeance in her eyes, and pounce upon those hateful girls and make them take it all back, make them suffer for what they had said, or do something that should assuage this dreadful feeling that oppressed her.
The planning on the other side of the hedge went on. The anticipated pleasure was discussed in animation. This was heightened somewhat by the arrival of a little sister of Janet Chipley, who brought a book her sister had sent her after and contributed this information as she was running away again to play: “Say, Janet, did you know Lawrence Earle had come home? I saw him just now coming from the station in the car with his mother, and he’s going to be home all summer, for he said so, and he’s going to play tennis with me a lot, for he’s promised. Isn’t that lovely? And he isn’t a bit different from a year ago, if he has been to college. I thought perhaps you’d like to ask him to your ride.” And Bessie Chipley flew away to her game, leaving the girls in high glee over the arrival of the young man who had won a most brilliant record in a noted college, and for whose society the girls were all eager.
“Oh, isn’t that lovely!” “Of course we’ll ask him!” were some of the exclamations from the delighted girls.
But the listener, on the other side of the hedge, only felt the blood burn hotter in her cheeks as she remembered what the girls had said she had done the year before at the seashore, and that this young man had been a witness. She really felt humiliation on her own account now, as she realized how she must have appeared in his eyes, tearing along like a boy and careless about the great rent in her gown. A year ago she would scarcely have understood why this should have been embarrassing, so much of a child had she been. But now young womanhood was stirring in her heart, with a sense of pride, self-consciousness, and the fitness of things. Self-consciousness had been very slight indeed, until now, but her eyes had been opened and she was ashamed—and Lawrence Earle, of all people! The boy who had taught her to pitch a ball when she was a mere infant. Of course, he was a great deal older than she was—five or six years at least, and had probably forgotten all about her. But she had always remembered him as an ideal hero!
“We must have another girl to make even couples,” they were saying, and Effie’s humiliation was so complete that she scarcely felt the pang of disappointment that she could not be chosen for the vacant place. No, rather stay at home forever than that she should be of the same company with that immaculate youth who had witnessed her degradation. This was what she felt. Suddenly her feelings rose to such a pitch she could no longer keep still, and scrambling to her feet, she fairly fled from the place where she had so suffered. The tears had gathered in her eyes, and once she fell with a stinging thud to the ground, having tripped over a hidden root. This only brought the tears the faster. And when she reached the house she threw her book upon the floor, ran through the house, slamming all the doors after her, tore up the stairs to her own room where she locked herself in, and threw herself upon the bed in an agony of weeping such as she had very seldom experienced.
Her patient mother, who had been trying to take a nap with the fretful, teething baby, was awakened by her rushing through the house and sighed. “Oh, there goes Effie! What shall we do with that child?”
Chapter 2
Effie had cried perhaps half an hour. Hers was too vehement a nature to do things by halves, and her weeping was so violent that she was thoroughly exhausted. Then she lay still and began to think things over. Why was it that those girls disliked her and she seemed to be so unwelcome everywhere? For now that she thought of it, she saw there were quite a number of people in the world who did not care to have her around. Her mother loved her, she felt sure, but somehow her mother always sighed when she came into the room. Why was that? Was she not wanted in the world? She could not help it, she supposed, or could she? What the girls had said about some things was quite true, though she had never felt before they were things that mattered to others. If she wanted to bite her fingernails, what business was it of theirs? She never troubled their fingernails. She had a right to do with her own as she pleased, so long as she let other people’s alone. But here, it seemed, these personal habits of hers did trouble other people, and she must not expect to be wanted if she could not make herself pleasant. She looked at her stumpy fingers through her tear-dimmed eyes. They certainly did not look pretty. But it had never occurred to her that biting them had anything to do with that.
The girls had said she made them nervous. She hardly understood why, but if it was so, why, of course, it was. The question was, could she stop doing it? And if she could, and should, would that make any difference in the feelings of those girls for her? But then, she did not intend to try to please those girls! No, indeed! They were not worth pleasing. But there were people in the world to whom she would like to seem lovely—her mother, for instance, and perhaps Flora Garner, for she had been nice and sweet about asking to have her invited to the ride. Everybody said Flora Garner was sweet. She had that reputation wherever she was known. It was a great thing to have people feel that way about you and say nice things. And then her poor, swollen cheeks burned again at the thought of the hateful things that had been said about her. But would it be worthwhile to try to make things better, so that people might think well of her? A fierce desire to get on her bicycle and fly away into the gathering shades of the dusky night that was drawing on seized her. It was suppertime, but she wanted no supper. She would go, and she jerked herself up from the bed, caught her hat, and without waiting to wash the tearstains from her face, dashed downstairs. It was like her. Effie always did everything without thinking. As she went out the door, she heard her mother sigh and say to her baby brother, “Oh baby, baby, if you would only just sit still on the floor for ten minutes longer till I finish this seam. My back aches so that I cannot hold you and sew any longer.”
Effie went straight on out the door, feeling sorry for her mother, having a dim sense that the baby was unreasonable, and life hard, anyway. But it never occurred to her that she had anything to do with it until she was flying along the south road fully a mile from home, and the fresh breeze fanning her face had somewhat cooled the tempest in her heart. She was beginning to feel more like herself and trying to decide if there was any way in which she might change that would affect the feelings of others toward her. There was Mother, for instance, again—yes, Mother, sitting in the gathering shadows at this moment, stealing the last rays of light to sew the dark garment that she expected to wear on the morrow to pay her last tribute to a dear old school friend who was done with this life. Mother’s little excursions and holidays, somehow, were almost always set apart for last sad rites and duties of neighborly kindness. It was strange about Mother, how she never seemed to have any good times for her own. Effie never thought of it before. How nice it would be if Mother was on a bicycle, flying along by her side! But Mother on a bicycle! How funny it would be! She couldn’t learn to ride in the first place, she was so timid. And then how could she get time? She was at this minute doing two things at once, and that baby was very hard to take care of. It was hard that Mother couldn’t even get her dress done without being hindered. Well! There was something. Why had she not thought of that before?
She turned her bicycle so suddenly that a little dog that was trotting along in the road, thinking he knew just where Effie was going, almost got his tail cut off.
Back she flew faster than she had come, and bursting in the door, threw her hat on a chair and grabbed the baby from the floor at his mother’s feet, where he was vainly endeavoring to pull himself up to a standing posture by her skirt. Mrs. Martin gave a nervous jump as Effie entered, and another anxious “Oh, take care, Effie!” as the baby was tossed into the air. But Effie, intent on doing good for once in h
er life, was doing it as she did everything else: with a vengeance, and she went on tossing the baby higher and higher, regardless of her mother’s protests. Each crow of the baby made Effie more eager to amuse him. She whirled around the room with him in her arms, tumbling over a chair occasionally, but not minding that in the least. She danced along to the middle of the room under the gas fixture, and just as her mother rose hastily and dropped her sewing, saying, “Effie, I insist—” she tossed the excited baby high into the air and brought the curly head sharp against the chandelier. Then the fun ceased. The baby screamed, and the mother rushed and caught him to her breast, and with reproachful looks at the penitent Effie, sent for hot water and Pond’s Extract. The others coming in gathered around the darling of the house and hesitated not to reproach Effie for her part in the mischief until her anger flamed forth. Seeing that the baby had recovered and was apparently not seriously injured, she rushed from the room to her own in another torrent of weeping. This time she knelt before the open window and watched the lights through her tears, as they peeped out here and there over the village, and felt bitter toward them and toward everything. Why should she be the one always to blame for everything that happened? Here she had given up her ride when she was having a good time, and had come home to help Mother and was greeted only with an exclamation of fear, and then this had happened—a thing that might have happened if he had been with any of the others, she thought. She was scolded for what she had intended should be a relief and a help to Mother, and that was all the good she had done. Much progress she had made in her own reformation! She would not be likely to go on in it very far if this was the result of her first trial, and her heart grew hard and bitter again.