Part 4

Then the party broke up into two groups. Tom in his vivacious way told of his experiences as a fledgling lawyer. This was his first visit to Boston since he had been admitted to the bar, and he described himself as just beginning to believe that he might escape starvation from the fact that one or two clients had made their appearance at his office.

"It's lucky for my friends that a little practice is coming my way, for I was ready, for the sake of business, to set any of them by the ears. Why, the other day when I was out with my uncle, and the cable car stopped too suddenly, I almost hoped that he would sprain his ankle--just a little, that I might have the chance to bring suit against the company."

"How cruel!" exclaimed Julia, into whose ear he had let fall these rash admissions.

While Tom ran on in this frivolous fashion, Philip was talking more seriously with Pamela and Miss South. Indeed, seriousness was a quality that Philip now showed to an extent that seemed strange to those who had known him in his earlier college years. Much responsibility had recently come to him on account of his father's failing health, and in the West he had been so thrown on his own resources that he no longer regarded life as unsatisfactory unless it offered him amusement.

"I have wondered," he was saying to Miss South, "if you really wished me to give that talk on the Western country."

"Yes, indeed, we are very anxious to have it. We are counting on you to open our lecture season."

"Oh, I'm only too happy, although you must remember that I'm not a professional; but my lantern is in order, and I have nearly a hundred slides. Many of them are really fine,--even if I do say it," he concluded apologetically.

"I'm sure they are," responded Miss South, "and I can tell you that we older 'inmates,' as you call us, are equally anxious to hear you."

"You mean, to see the pictures; they will be worth your attention, but as to my speaking--"

"'You'd scarce expect one of my age To speak in public on the stage,'"

interposed Tom mockingly, as he overheard the latter part of the sentence. Whereat Philip, somewhat embarrassed, was glad to see Angelina at the door announcing "Dinner is served," and leading the way with Miss South the others followed them to the dining-room.

As they took their places Philip found himself beside Pamela. He had seen her but two or three times since her Freshman year at Radcliffe, and in consequence would hardly have dared venture to allude to that sugar episode through which he had first made her acquaintance. But Pamela, no longer sensitive about this misadventure, brought it up herself. Though Philip politely persisted that it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to see before him on a Cambridge sidewalk a stream of sugar pouring from an overturned paper-bag, Pamela assured him that to her he had appeared like a hero on that memorable occasion, since he had saved her from a certain amount of mortification.

"But I'm wiser now," she said; "I hadn't studied philosophy then," and she quoted one or two passages from certain ancient authors to show that she had attained a state of indifference to outside criticism.

Gradually Pamela told Philip much about her school, to prove that it wasn't simply philosophy that helped her enjoy her work.

"So it really is your interest in them that makes your pupils so fond of your classes."

Then, in answer to her word of surprise, he added:

"Oh, my little cousin, Emily Dover, one of your most devoted admirers, has been telling me--I believe that you have the misfortune to instruct her."

"Ah, the good fortune! She is a bright little thing, if not a hard student."

"You could hardly expect more from one of our family."

"Why, your sister seems to me fairly intelligent."

Could this be Pamela, actually speaking in a bantering tone, unawed by a young man considerably her senior?

"I am glad," he said a moment later, "that you are surviving not only the experiment of teaching my little cousin, but this experiment at the Mansion."

"Oh, this isn't an experiment, it's--it's--"

"The real thing?"

"Yes, it really is. If you wish to understand it, you must come here some day when the classes are at work. Miss South or Edith will be happy to show you about."

"But I am a working-man now. At the time when I might properly visit the school I am afraid that there would be no classes in session."

"Of course I'm busy myself, too," said Pamela, "and sometimes I feel that I am here on false pretences."

"Remembering your reputation, I don't believe that you are very idle."

"Oh, of course I help; but then some one else could as well do my work."

"Tell me exactly what you do."

But Pamela shook her head, and with all his urging Philip could not make her describe her exact sphere of activity. Yet Miss South or Julia could have told that no resident was more useful than Pamela, who devoted her evenings to the girls, talking to them, playing games, and in all that she did directing their thoughts toward the appreciation of beautiful things. Every Saturday she took two or three to the Art Museum, and later she meant them to see any exhibitions that there might be in town. One or two critics were inclined to laugh at this work. "It would put strange ideas into the heads of the girls. They would want things that they could never own." But Pamela was satisfied when she saw the rapturous glance of appreciation on the faces of Concetta and Inez, the most artistic of the girls, and the awakening interest in the others.

But how could she explain all this to Philip in casual conversation at a dinner-table?

Maggie, helping Angelina, found this, her first experience in waiting on company, very trying. To overcome her timidity Miss South had purposely assigned her to this task. But who could have supposed that she would let the bread fall as she passed it to Philip, tilting the plate so far that a slice or two fell on the table before him.

"There!" and he smiled good-humoredly, "the Mansion realizes the extent of my appetite, and evidently I am to receive more even than I ask for."

Poor Maggie's next mishap was to drop a dessert plate as she started to take it from the sideboard.

"It was because you looked at me so hard," she said afterwards to Angelina; "I couldn't think what you wanted, you were shaking your head so fierce."

"Why, it was the finger-bowl, child. You forgot it. There should be one on every plate. When I told you to get extra things for company, I meant finger-bowls too. We always have them on the dessert plates."

"Oh, yes," said Maggie, as if her not getting them had been the merest oversight, although really this was her first experience in waiting at dinner, and she had not a good memory for the details that had been taught her.

But shy as she was, she did not hesitate to take part in the conversation once or twice. Miss South and the others showed no surprise when twice her voice was heard replying to questions that Philip had expected Miss South or Pamela to answer.

After the older people returned to the library, Angelina confided to Maggie that Mr. Philip Blair was to give a lecture at the Mansion in a week or two. "I know all about it, because Miss Julia told me a few days ago."

Haleema, the little Syrian girl, who was helping Maggie in her dish-washing, paused in her singing to listen to Angelina's accounts of the wonderful adventures that Mr. Blair had had in the West.

"Ho!" said Haleema, "it ain't nothing to go bear-hunting, if you don't get killed. Why, I've had two uncles and ten cousins killed by the Turks," and then she went on singing cheerfully,--

"'As quick as you're able set neatly the table, And first lay the table-cloth square; And then on the table-cloth, bright and clean table-cloth, Napkins arrange with due care.'"

The air to which she sang was "Little Buttercup," and her voice was clear and sweet, but as she began the second stanza,--

"'Put plates in their places at regular spaces,'"

Angelina interrupted her. "This isn't the time for singing this song, this is dish-washing time;" and, overawed by Angelina's imperative manner, Haleema was silenced.

* * * * *

As to the lecture itself, it is needless to say that Philip a few evenings later had an appreciative audience. All the girls were in a twitter at the prospect of this their first entertainment, Angelina most of all. She had arranged her hair in an elaborate coiffure, which, she informed Haleema, she had copied from a hairdresser's window in Washington Street.

"Ah, then, perhaps you have one of those things--a whip, I think they call it?"

"A what?"

"A whip, a long piece of hair to tie on, for I did not know that you had so much hair, Miss Angelina."

"Oh, a switch."

Angelina looked at Haleema sharply and made no further reply. Haleema had addressed her by the flattering "Miss Angelina," which Manuel's sister, when none of the residents were present, tried to exact from all the younger girls at the Mansion, and therefore she would not reprove her for her insinuation about "the whip."

Nevertheless Angelina held her head rather stiffly as she filled her part as head usher.

Each girl at the Mansion had been permitted to invite two guests--a girl of her own age and an older person. And almost every one invited was present. Angelina's brother John was the only boy there. He had shot up into a fairly tall youth, with a very intelligent face. He was attending evening school in the city, and working through the day for a little more than his board. Julia knew that she could depend on him to help her when at times Angelina proved refractory. To-night John was to operate the lantern while Philip talked about the views.

The girls held their breath in admiration as slide after slide was thrown on the screen. Gorges, cañons, mountain-passes followed one another in quick succession. The wonderful cañon of the Arkansas, the Marshall Pass, the Garden of the Gods, the tree-shaded streets of Colorado Springs, the railroad up Pike's Peak, and all the weird and wonderful sights of the Yellowstone Park.

"He's really very handsome," whispered Nora to Julia during a pause between the pictures when Philip's regular features were thrown in silhouette upon the sheet. Then she continued, "Don't you remember how we used to laugh at him, and call him a dandy, when he was a Sophomore; but now he looks so manly, and his lecture has been really interesting."

Pamela, seated on the other side of Nora, heard these words with surprise. She had not known Philip in the days when he was considered somewhat effeminate.

All the girls expressed their pleasure as each new picture came in sight, and yet I am afraid that their loudest applause was given to a series of colored pictures showing the adventures of a farmer with an obstinate calf that he vainly tried to drive to the barn, succeeding only when he put a cow-bell around his own neck.

At last the lights were turned on, but all were still seated as Angelina rushed to pick up the pointer and to help roll up the screen. There was no real need of her doing this, but she was anxious to impress the two girls whom she had invited from the North End with a sense of her own importance. Just as she had picked up the pointer, standing in full sight of all, she was aware of a titter that was turning into a full laugh. Instinctively she put her hand to her head, and looking around she met the childlike gaze of Haleema, who was holding aloft a braid of black hair.

"Here, Miss Angelina, is your whip--I mean switch."

Conscious of the strange appearance of her head since the towering structure had fallen, annoyed by the smile on the faces of those before her, and dreading the reproofs of her elders, Angelina fled shamefacedly from the room.

Maggie and Concetta and the other young girls were able to bear this mishap with less discomfort than Angelina herself; for the latter in her way was apt to be domineering, and they knew that for a little while she would not come down to the dining-room where chocolate and cakes were to be served.

Serving their guests, the young housekeepers were at their best. Each had her appointed duty. One carried plates and napkins, another arranged the little white cloths on half a dozen small tables placed around the room. One girl poured the chocolate, and another put the whipped cream on the top of each slender cup. None of them hesitated to tell her friends what portion of the feast she had prepared, whether sandwiches, whipped cream, or the wafer-like cookies.

"I wish that Brenda had been here," said Edith, as she and Nora and Philip walked home.

"Oh, Brenda wouldn't give an evening to this kind of thing at this season; she says that it's the gayest winter since she came out."

"I don't see how she can stand going out every evening," rejoined Edith, who was wearing mourning for a relative, and hence was not accepting invitations to dinners and dances.

"I suppose she thinks it her duty to enjoy herself here. She says it pleases her father and mother to have her enjoy herself."

"Girls have strange ideas of duty," remarked Philip, "though it seems to me that those girls at the Mansion have just about the right idea."

VI

IN THE STUDIO

As autumn sped on Brenda was not very ardent in following up the Mansion work. But what a perfect autumn it was! How bracing the air! How much more delightful to spend the daylight hours in long rides out over the bridle-path, along the broad boulevard, or in the narrower byways of the suburbs. Sometimes, instead of riding, Arthur and Brenda would walk even as far as the reservoir and back. One afternoon in late November they had circled the lovely sheet of water that lies embosomed among the hills of Brookline, and, waiting for a car, had sat down on a wayside seat.

"Except for the bare trees it's hard to believe that this is November," Brenda had said.

"Yes," responded Arthur. "Days like this almost redeem the bad character of the New England climate."

"Oh, Arthur, there isn't a better all-round climate anywhere."

"After a winter in California, I should think that you'd know better than that."

The argument went a little further, and Brenda made out her case very well, quoting the surprise of Californians and Southerners, who had come to Boston expecting an Arctic winter, to find only an occasional frigid day.

"Those must have been exceptional winters;" and Arthur shrugged his shoulders in a way that always provoked Brenda as he concluded, "Say what you will, it is always a vile winter climate."

"Then I'm sure," retorted Brenda, "I don't see why you plan to spend the winter here."

"Oh, indeed! I fancied that you knew the reason."

Taking no notice of this pacific remark, Brenda continued:

"Yes, if I were you I wouldn't stay in so dreadful a place; you certainly have no important business to keep you. Why, papa said--"

She did not finish the sentence. Arthur frowned ominously, and he abruptly signalled a car just coming in sight.

Brenda hardly understood why Arthur was so silent on the way home. She did not realize that her allusion to her father had annoyed him. Arthur knew that Mr. Barlow did not altogether approve of his lack of a profession. After completing his studies he had not wished to practise law. A slight impediment in his speech was likely to prevent his being a good pleader, and the opportunity that he desired for office practice had not yet offered. His personal income was just enough to permit him to drift without a settled profession. There was danger that he might learn to prefer a life of idleness to one in which work had the larger part.

Yet Arthur's intentions were the best in the world. He really was only waiting for the right thing to present itself, and although Brenda had not quoted her father's words, his imagination had flown ahead of what she had said, and he was angry at the implied criticism.

"No, I can't come in," he said, as he left Brenda at her door. "I have an engagement."

"Oh, what--"

Then Brenda checked herself. If he did not care to tell her, she could afford to hide her curiosity. After he left her she wondered what the engagement was.

"I'll see you at the studio to-morrow." This was Arthur's parting word, in a pleasanter tone than that of a moment before.

"Yes, perhaps so; I'm really not sure."

The next day, toward four o'clock, Brenda and her little niece, Lettice, mounted the stairs to the studio. The stairs were long and narrow, for Ralph Weston, on his return from Europe, had chosen a studio in the top of one of the old houses opposite the Garden, in preference to a newer building.

When his wife and her sister had protested that he would see them very seldom if he persisted in having this inaccessible studio, "It may seem ungallant to say so," he had said, "but that is one of my reasons for choosing to perch myself in this eyrie. I am all the less likely to be interrupted when seeking inspiration for a masterpiece. If I were connected with the earth by an elevator I should never be safe from interruption. In fact, I should probably urge you and your friends to spend your spare time here. But now, knowing that it would be an imposition to expect you to climb those stairs more than once a week, I feel quite secure until Thursday rolls around."

"Oh, you needn't worry. That glimpse across the Garden from your window showing the State House as the very pinnacle of the city is beautiful, but we can live without it, if _you_ can exist without us;" and Brenda drew herself up with dignity.

On this particular afternoon as she reached the studio door with Lettice clinging to her hand she was flushed and almost out of breath.

Within the studio her sister Agnes, giving a few last touches to the table, exclaimed in surprise at sight of the little girl.

"Why, Lettice, what in the world are you doing here?"

"Oh, auntie found me in the park, and she sent nurse off."

Then Brenda explained that Lettice looked so sweet that she just couldn't bear to leave her behind, "and nurse," she added, "fortunately had a very important errand down town, and was so glad that I could take Lettice off her hands, and so--"

"'The lady protests too much, methinks,'" interposed Ralph. "But you really need not apologize. I am always glad to have Lettice here, even though her mother does think her too young to receive at afternoon teas."

"At four years old--I should think so. There, dear, you mustn't touch anything on the table," for the little girl, on tiptoe, was trying to reach a plate of biscuit.

Lettice withdrew her hand quickly, and, when her wraps were removed, allowed herself to be perched on a tabaret, where her mother said she was safe from harming or being harmed.

The studio was filled with trophies that Mr. and Mrs. Weston had collected abroad. The high carved mantle-piece was the work of some medieval Hollander, the curtain shutting off one end of the room was old Norman tapestry--the most valuable of all their possessions. Each chair had, as Brenda sometimes said, a different nationality. Her own preference was for the Venetian seat, with its curving back and elaborate carving. As it grew darker outside the studio was brightened by the light from a pair of Roman candlesticks.

Only one or two of the paintings on the wall were Mr. Weston's work. When asked, he always said that he had very little to show, and that he did not believe in boring his guests by driving them, against their judgment, perhaps, to praise what they saw.

"Mock modesty!" Brenda had exclaimed at this expression of opinion.

"If I were sure that that was a genuine Tintoretto, I should believe that you were afraid of coming in direct competition with an old master; though, to tell you the truth, I'm glad that your work is a little brighter and livelier," she concluded.

One or two callers had now come in, and Brenda took her place at the tea-table, that Agnes might be free to move about the large studio. Soon the nurse appeared, and Lettice, protesting that she was a big girl and ought to stay, was ignominiously carried home.

"Where's Arthur?" asked Ralph, as he stood near Brenda, waiting for her to pour a cup of tea for a guest.

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Oh, I beg your pardon," responded Ralph ceremoniously. "I fancied that you might have heard him say what he intended to do."

Ralph went off with the tea, and Brenda continued to pour for other guests. But her mind was wandering. She served lemon when the guest had asked for cream, and generously dropped two lumps into the cup of one who had expressly requested no sugar. In spite of herself her eye travelled often to the door, and an observer would have seen that her mind was far away. When at last she saw Arthur entering the room some one was with him, and the two were laughing and chatting gayly.

"Oh, we had such a time getting here," cried the shrill voice of Belle. "Mr. Weston's been making calls with me in Jamaica Plain, and the cars were blocked coming back, so that it seemed as if we should never get here."

"But we're glad to arrive at last;" and Arthur moved toward the table, while Belle lingered for a word or two with Agnes and her husband.

"Poor thing!" exclaimed Belle, when at last she joined Arthur beside the table. "Poor thing! have you been shut up here pouring tea all the afternoon? You ought to have been with us; we've had a perfectly lovely time."

"You don't care for sweet things, so I won't give you any sugar," said Brenda, without replying directly to Belle.

"Come, Belle, you must see this sketch of Lettice. It is the one you were asking about." Agnes had come to the rescue.

As Belle turned away, Arthur tried to make his peace, for he saw that in some way he had displeased Brenda. He explained that he had merely happened to meet Belle, who was out on a calling expedition. He had accompanied her to one or two houses, because when she had paid these visits she intended to go to the studio. "I really meant to call for you, although you were so uncertain yesterday about coming," he concluded apologetically.

"Of course you knew I would come. I always do on Thursdays," replied Brenda; "but you were not obliged to call for me if you had something pleasanter to do."

"Ah, Belle is never out of temper." Arthur spoke significantly, annoyed by Brenda's unusual dignity of manner. Then, as she turned to speak to some one at the other side of the table, he crossed the room and joined Belle.

Since the death of her grandmother two years before, Belle and her mother had been away from Boston. They expected to spend the coming season in Washington, as they had the preceding. Belle now pronounced Boston altogether too old-fashioned a place for a person of cosmopolitan tastes, and she dazzled the younger girls and the undergraduates of her acquaintance by talking of diplomatic and state dignitaries with the greatest freedom. According to her own estimate of herself, she was one of the brightest stars in Washington society.

Although she and Brenda were less intimate than formerly, when Belle was in town she was with Brenda more than with any other girl of her acquaintance. Despite her insincerity and her various other failings, now much clearer to Brenda than in her school days, Belle had certain qualities that made her very companionable, and Brenda was inclined to overlook her less amiable traits. Indeed, she had clung to Belle in spite of the protests of various other girls. But to-day she felt impatient with Belle. Her high, sharp voice grated on her ear. Her witticisms seemed particularly shallow, and almost for the first time Brenda realized that the words with which Belle raised a laugh from those present carried a sting for some one absent.