Part 13

After all, the balance sheet did not show a total against the experiment, even when all the things were counted that had to be called not quite successful.

"It is the warm weather," thought Julia, "that depresses me. Instead of dreading next year, when autumn comes I shall probably wish that I had twice as much to do."

Brenda was disturbed by no such doubts as those that assailed Julia. She was helping Julia that she might help herself forget that a war was hanging over the country, and that if there should be a great battle, if Arthur should be killed, she could never forgive herself. Yet, after all, what had she had to do with his going, unless, indeed, she had been foolish in repeating her father's criticism of Arthur's idleness. She could not forget that autumn ride and that half-jesting conversation, and the change in Arthur from that moment; but for that, perhaps, he would not have gone to Washington, and if he had not gone to Washington she was sure that he would not have volunteered so early. Had he been near them, certainly Agnes and Ralph would have shown him that it was his duty to stay at home, just as much his duty as it was the duty of Ralph or Philip.

Philip had stayed behind on account of his father, and Ralph felt it his duty to fly to Paris on account of his sick uncle. Arthur could have gone there in his place, and then he would have been perfectly safe. Now, even while Brenda was reasoning in this foolish fashion--yet it could hardly be called reasoning--she did not fully face the question as to whether she had not done wrong rather than Arthur. She still blamed him for not writing to her. What if she had not answered his last two letters? He was the one who had gone farthest away, and he should have written.

Now all of this was the very poorest logic, and no one understood this better than Brenda herself, slow though she was to admit that she had made a blunder.

Miss South heard frequently from her brother Louis, who had been one of the first to go to the front, and a box had been already sent from the Mansion filled with useful things for the men of his company, about whose privations in camp he had written very entertainingly. "How would you like it," he wrote, "to have to take your occasional bath in a rubber blanket? Yes! that is exactly what I do. We cannot bathe in the creek, for its muddy water is all we have to drink. So when I wish to bathe I dig a narrow trench some distance away, lay my rubber blanket in it, and carry enough water to fill it. In no other way could I get a decent--I mean a half-decent--bath." Then he told of the canned beef and hard bread that was his chief diet, and added that if the heat continued, 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 the same experiences.

More than all, she wondered if the troops now in camp would really go to Cuba, and if--if--

Then she would not let her thoughts go too far. She could not bear to think of the coming battles; for every one said that the Spaniards would not yield without a bitter conflict.

Maggie, whose devotion to her was unnoted by Brenda, watched the latter from day to day, and often saved her steps by anticipating her wishes. Maggie observed that Brenda's face was paler and thinner than when she first began to live at the Mansion. She noticed, too, that she no longer cared for pretty gowns. She wore constantly a blue serge skirt and shirt waist, suitable enough in its way for one who was a resident at a settlement; but Brenda had formerly cared little for suitability, and Maggie, though she would not for a moment have admitted that her idol looked less than beautiful, still wished that she had the courage to ask her to wear occasionally one of the dainty muslin gowns that she knew she had brought with her to the Mansion.

One day as Brenda strolled through the upper hall she saw the door of Maggie's room ajar. This reminded her that it was her turn to inspect the bureaus of the girls, and acting on impulse she went at once to Maggie's drawer. This inspection usually consisted only of a passing glance to make sure that the contents of the drawers were not in the state of hopeless confusion into which the bureaus of young girls have a strange way of throwing themselves.

Maggie's bureau, if not above criticism, was fairly neat, but as Brenda turned away something strangely familiar caught her eye. It could not be--yet it surely was--and she took the bit of silver in her hand to assure herself that it really was the chatelaine clasp of the silver purse that she had lost. As she took up the little piece of silver her hand trembled. There was no doubt about it; too well she recognized the elaborately engraved rose, surmounted by the double B, that had been her own especial design. How vividly came back to her the day on which she had lost the purse--the day of the broken vase, of the discovery of Maggie, of the deferred walk with Arthur; all came back to her vividly, and yet these things seemed years and years away. She had never associated Maggie with the lost purse, but now suspicion followed suspicion, and all in an instant Maggie McSorley had become not merely a tiresome little girl, but one deserving of reprimand if not of punishment.

Then discovery followed discovery. Just back of the silver clasp lay the picture of a young, good-looking soldier in campaign uniform, and Brenda could 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 was beside her. The little girl reddened as she looked over Brenda's shoulder.

"My uncle," she exclaimed.

"Why, Maggie! How often your aunt has said that you haven't a relation in the world but herself and her husband."

"Then it's she that doesn't tell the truth," and frightened by her own boldness 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 sadly downstairs. The clasp was still in her left hand; she had even forgotten to show it to Maggie. Near the library door she met Concetta, looking bright and cheerful. What a pleasant contrast to the weeping, unsatisfactory girl upstairs!

That evening Maggie did not appear again downstairs. She would take no tea, and Gretchen, who had gone above to inquire, reported that Maggie had a severe headache. As Julia left the rest of the family after tea to see what she could do for Maggie, Brenda seated herself at the library table beside Concetta, who was turning over the leaves of a book.

Half absent-mindedly Brenda fingered the clasp which had been in her pocket since the afternoon, and Concetta, as her eye fell upon it, put out 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 notice Concetta's action, though she was pleased to hear her say a word or two in excuse of Maggie's weeping proclivities.

"She's such a kind of tender-hearted girl. Yes, she told me the other evening that she hated to kill a mosquito; she'd rather let them bite her. Why, I'd kill hundreds of mosquitoes without thinking of it," concluded Concetta boldly; "and it made Maggie cry when the kitten got scalded the other day, but I wouldn't think of crying."

Brenda listened to Concetta quietly; she was wondering if she ought to disclose her suspicions to Julia. At length she decided that it was her duty to do so.

"Let us ask Miss South what she thinks. Perhaps there is some explanation that she can suggest."

Miss South, when consulted, was inclined to question the accuracy of Brenda's memory.

"Isn't it possible that you have forgotten just when you lost the purse?"

"No, indeed, I have not forgotten," said Brenda. "It made a great impression on me that I should have lost it on the very day when I had had to pay for that broken vase, and that was the day when I first went home 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 never been very fond of Maggie, and that her first pride in her as an acquisition for the Mansion had soon passed away. Concetta and one or two of the other girls had interested her more. Yet in a general way she had had a good opinion of Maggie, which it hurt her very much now to be obliged to reverse.

Thus, as the school year closed, Brenda, like Julia, was beginning to have doubts about the value of the work that she had been doing; for if Maggie had the clasp, she must also have the purse and its contents. The money contained in it had amounted to only about three dollars, but the purse itself had been valuable, and doubtless Maggie had sold it. "I suppose 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. She would have been more than glad if she had never seen that harmless-looking little clasp lying in Maggie's bureau, if Maggie had never told her that untruth about the soldier's photograph.

XX

WEARY WAITING

Toward the end of June letters from Arthur were infrequent. Indeed, but one had come from him since he had left camp for Cuba, and this, like the earlier letters, had been addressed to Agnes, not to Brenda. Letters were mailed to him twice a week, and various things had been sent to him that the family hoped might be of use in camp. But although Brenda helped pack the little boxes, and though she had bought, or at least selected, many of the things that went in the boxes, she did not write. She was still waiting for Arthur's letter.

The last week in June several of the girls from the Mansion went home to be with relatives for a few days before going up to the farm, and Brenda at last agreed to go down to Rockley. Mrs. Barlow had told her that she might bring with her any of the girls whom she wished to have with her. "Naturally, I suppose, you will wish to bring Maggie, as she is your especial protégée."

Mrs. Barlow had not realized the waning of Brenda's interest in Maggie, but Brenda, as she read the letter, knew that she would not invite Maggie. She had not yet spoken to Maggie about the silver clasp, but she saw that the time had now come to do it, and she nerved herself to the disagreeable task. Accordingly, a day or two before she was to start for Rockley she called Maggie to her room, but when Maggie appeared she was not alone. Concetta was with her. It hardly seemed wise to send Concetta away, and the two little girls sat down, as if to make an afternoon visit. Hardly had she been seated five minutes, however, when Concetta spied the little silver clasp that Brenda had laid on the table near by. At first she put out her hand as if to take it, then even more quickly drew it back. But Brenda had noted the action, and after they had talked a few minutes of other things she brought up the subject of the lost purse.

She had described the pretty purse that she had so valued, because it was a present from one of whom she was especially fond, and told how its loss had distressed her. It must be admitted that her heart beat a trifle more quickly as she looked at the two, but neither of the girls appeared the least self-conscious. Then she held up the clasp--perhaps it wasn't just right to say this before Concetta--and added:

"It surprised me very much a day or two ago to find this little clasp in the possession of one of the girls here at the Mansion, for it is the very clasp that I lost with the silver purse."

Then Maggie reddened and looked at Concetta, and Concetta looked from Maggie to Brenda.

"Did you think that somebody stole it?" asked Maggie anxiously, and then she seemed to search Concetta's face for an answer.

"I hardly care to say what I think," replied Brenda. "I should not like to believe that any one had stolen it."

This time her gaze was so evidently directed toward Maggie that Maggie was almost driven to reply.

"I know that it was in my drawer, Miss Barlow, but--"

"Oh, it was I who gave it to her, I really did; but I didn't steal it." Concetta spoke very positively.

Brenda was certainly puzzled by the turn of affairs, the more puzzled because she realized as well as any one else in the house that Maggie and Concetta had never been good friends, yet it was Maggie whom she now heard saying:

"Oh, I'm sure, Miss Barlow, that Concetta isn't to blame."

"I never saw the purse," explained Concetta, "but the clasp was given to me--that is, I paid twenty-five cents for it. The girl I got it from lives in the next house to my uncle's; you can ask her about it."

"Well, I'm obliged to you, Concetta, for freeing Maggie from suspicion. It is indeed strange that the day I lost the purse was the very day on which I first saw Maggie. You remember, Maggie, the day when I went home with you."

"Yes, indeed, Miss Barlow, the day I broke that vase; that was a bad bargain for you."

"Why, I'm not so sure, Maggie; you see I seem to have found you in exchange for the vase, and perhaps, after all, I have had the best of the bargain. But tell me, Concetta, how it happens that you and Maggie are good friends now. Only a little while ago you seemed to be far from friendly, yet now you would not have been so ready to tell me about the silver clasp if you had not been anxious to help free Maggie from any chance of blame."

So Concetta--for in spite of occasional mistakes in English she was always more voluble than Maggie--explained that several times of late Maggie had been very kind to her, and she gave among her instances the day when Maggie had helped with the lamps; "and then I thought that she was dreadfully good when she never told about Haleema the day the ammonia got spilled, for it was Haleema that broke the bottle, but Maggie never told; and then," concluded Concetta magnanimously, "I got tired of hearing every one find fault with Maggie, so she and I are going to be great friends now. That's one of the things I've learned here, that it's better to be good friends with every one, 'to love your neighbor as yourself.' Miss South often talks to me about it, and so I'm trying to think that every one is as good as I am;" and Concetta tossed her pretty head, and her expression seemed to say that she did not find this sentiment the easiest one in the world to hold.

On investigation--for Concetta urged her to investigate--Brenda found her story true so far as it concerned the way in which she had come into possession of the silver clasp. The little girl from whom she had bought it referred her to an old woman who had a long story as to how it had come into her possession, and Brenda at last decided that it was useless to follow the clew further. But the outcome of all this was a better understanding between Brenda and Maggie, for Brenda, when she had once made a mistake, was never unwilling to rectify it. Whether this little girl had stolen it or whether the old woman was to blame she did not care. She felt sure that neither Maggie nor Concetta had taken the purse. She praised the latter for her frankness, and became so kind to the former, that Maggie actually blossomed out under her smiles.

Before the end of the month Pamela had written that she must stay in Vermont all summer, and in consequence could take no part in the vacation work that Julia had planned. Nora accordingly offered her services, and Amy wrote that she volunteered to spend August with the girls.

Brenda's cousin, Edward Elton, who happened to be present when the plans were discussed, expressed himself as being so gratified that Julia and Miss South would not be left to carry on the work quite alone, that Anstiss Rowe, ever a fun lover, began to speculate as to the reason for his concern.

"Do you suppose that this is on account of his interest in Julia? Julia has so many others to worry about her, that he need not be especially fearful on her account, or--there, I'll ask her--" and running up to Miss South, who had just been bidding Mr. Elton good-bye at the door, she put the question so suddenly that Miss South actually blushed. Then a certain idea came into Anstiss' mind, which just then she did not put into words.

It was the end of June before Brenda consented to go down to Rockley, and when she went Maggie accompanied her. The observing little girl was still disturbed as she noted how thin Brenda had grown, and even before Mr. and Mrs. Barlow noticed it, Maggie had seen that Brenda's step was a little heavy, that her bright manner had given place to listlessness. Her one interest seemed to consist in buying and collecting things for the benefit of the Volunteer Aid Association. No one now reproached her for extravagance, and when her father found that it would please her, he doubled his contribution to this Association, and sent another in Brenda's name.

One afternoon Julia came down and spent the night, and the two cousins wandered on the beach, just as they had in that summer that now seemed so long past--that summer that had been Julia's first at Rockley. Little Lettice, skipping along beside them, begged her aunt to tell her about the day when she had sat on the rock and had dropped her book on the heads of Amy and Fritz seated just beneath her. It always interested Lettice to hear this, for Brenda had a fashion of ending the story with "and if I hadn't dropped that book, I might never have known your cousin Amy." For Amy was "Cousin Amy" in the vocabulary of Lettice, who would have thought it a great misfortune never to have known this adopted relative, since nobody else in her whole circle of acquaintances had so many delightful stories to tell. But on this particular evening Brenda was not ready to repeat her story nor to tell any other, and little Lettice, with a grieved expression, ran on ahead of Brenda and Julia to skip stones in the water. Julia did not remonstrate with Brenda, for she realized that her cousin was not acting wholly from perversity.

Now Brenda was not the only one of the Mansion group whom the prospect of Cuban fighting troubled. Miss South's brother Louis was at the front, and two of Nora's brothers, and Tom Hearst, who had written several amusing letters from camp. Yet although those who were in the army tried to cheer the hearts of their friends at home, and although the latter wrote cheerfully in reply, all felt that the time was far from a happy one. The more timid, like Edith, had recovered from their fear that the Spanish fleet would pounce down upon the defenceless inhabitants of the North Shore. Yet some of them would have faced this danger rather than to live in dread that their sons and brothers were to meet the troops in actual conflict under the hot Cuban sun.

Even the strongest, even those who had no relatives in the army, were stirred, as they had seldom been stirred before, on that Sunday morning when they received the first news of the attack on Santiago. How terrifying were the broad headlines with letters two or three inches long, and how meagre seemed the information given in the columns below,--meagre, yet appalling: "The volunteers were terribly raked. Nearly all the wounded will recover." How much and yet how little this meant until the names of the killed and wounded should be given! Brenda herself would not look at those Sunday newspapers. Agnes summarized the news for her, and told her that in the short list given of wounded or killed she had not yet found one that she knew.

"Oh, when shall we hear everything?" cried Brenda. "Oh, Papa, can't you go; can't I go with you? I would so much rather be in Cuba than here."

"My dear child, you are foolish. In Cuba at this season! Even if you could go, what could you do? The killed and wounded are a very small proportion of those who are fighting, and we have no reason to think that Arthur is among them. To be sure, I wish that Ralph were here; we could, at least, send him South. As it is, I may go myself, but we can only wait until to-morrow, when there will be more complete reports."

Were twenty-four hours ever as long as those that passed before the Monday morning papers arrived?

After her sleepless night again Brenda shrank from reading the reports. Agnes, going over the long list of killed and wounded, gave an exclamation of surprise,--or horror,--then checked it, with an anxious look at Brenda. The latter, watching her narrowly, sprang forward.

"What is it Agnes? You must tell me at once."

"Poor Tom Hearst!" cried Agnes, as her tears fell on the paper; "he was killed by a bursting shell during the early part of the attack on San Juan Hill."

But Brenda apparently did not hear.

"Is Arthur's name there?" she asked impatiently.

"Why, yes," said Agnes reluctantly, "it--"

But before she could utter another word Brenda had fallen heavily to the floor, and for a few minutes everything else was forgotten. Indeed, from the moment when Brenda was placed on the couch in her room upstairs Agnes did not leave her side, and for twenty-four hours, by the direction of the physician whom they had hastily summoned, they did not dare to refer to Santiago.

When she came to herself Brenda learned that the report about Arthur had simply been "slightly wounded;" that her father was expecting an answer soon to his telegram of enquiry, and that Philip Blair had started South.

A faint smile passed over Brenda's face.

"I was sure--I was afraid that he was killed--like poor Tom. Isn't it dreadful that he should die? he was always so full of life." Then she began to weep silently, and said no more about Arthur.

Now it happened that Brenda passed through a more severe illness that summer than Arthur. Her physician, in anxious consultation with the family, concluded that she had stayed too long in town. "I think, too," he said, "that she has had something to worry her. It would seem," he added apologetically, "that one situated as she is would have no cares; but it is hard sometimes to account for the workings of a young girl's mind. She may have magnified some little anxiety until it played serious injury to her nerves."

"It is this war," responded Mrs. Barlow. "I wonder that more of us do not have nervous prostration."

During those long weeks Brenda herself had little to say, even when she was well enough to sit up. When she spent long hours under the awning on the little balcony on which her windows opened, she seemed to take but a languid interest in the world around her.