Part 2

Allardyce smiled indulgently. All girls were under the impression that they were strong. At any rate this one was tremendously pretty, he decided--much prettier than the stately senior he had encountered up at the college, and he was glad there were no cap and gown this time. He was aware, of course, that he ought to lift his hat and move on, and not stand there staring at her, but his previous solicitude had made him feel sociable.

“Perhaps you will let me put the oars in for you,” he suggested. He was rather alarmed after he had spoken, but when he glanced at the girl to see how she had taken his further self-invited assistance he found her looking at him in a very friendly way. All at once he felt quite elated and at his ease. It had been a long while since he had had much to do with American girls, and he concluded that all that had been said about their charming freedom and cordiality of manner had not been exaggerated. But when he had put the sculls in the boat it occurred to him that it would not do to presume too far on that freedom and cordiality, and that if he was not to depart immediately--and he felt no inclination to do so--he must offer some sort of explanation of himself.

“I am waiting for my sister,” he remarked genially.

“Oh! your sister,” echoed the girl.

“Yes--Miss Allardyce. Perhaps you are in the same class,” he hazarded.

She looked at him for a moment in a slightly surprised way, and then out across the water, and Allardyce saw, as she turned her head away from him, that she was smiling.

“No,” she said slowly, “but I know her quite well.”

“Ah! I’m glad of that,” said the young man, boldly and cheerfully. “Now I feel quite as if I had been properly introduced! ‘_Les amis de nos amis_,’ you know!”

The girl smiled back at him. “I am Miss Brent. By the way, your sister has the distinction of being the only Allardyce in college. It’s a rather unusual name.”

“Yes,” assented Allardyce, delightedly. “Scotch, you know.” And then in a sudden burst of confidence--“My people were Scotch and French. I have been educated abroad and have come home for the law course at the University. Awfully glad to be in America again, too, for, after all, I am an American through and through.” He pulled himself up sharply in some confusion and amusement at his unusual loquacity.

But the girl before him did not seem to find it strange, and was quite interested and politely attentive.

“And where is your sister?” she demanded.

“Oh, that’s the essential, and I forgot to mention it,” he replied, laughing a little and digging his stick into the soft earth. “She’s gone off walking!” and then he went on insinuatingly and plaintively--“And I don’t know a soul here--never was here before in my life--and there’s no train to Boston, and I have to wait two hours for her!”

The young woman smiled sympathetically. “That’s too bad,” she said, and then she looked doubtfully at Allardyce. He seemed very young and to be having a rather bad time of it, and there is an unwritten law at the college which constitutes every member of it the natural protector and entertainer of lost or bored strangers.

“I am going across the lake for water-lilies,” she went on after a little hesitation. “If you care to come you may, and pull me about while I gather them. It is hard work to do it alone.”

“You are very kind,” said Allardyce promptly, “and it is very nice of you to put it that way. It will be a great favor to me to let me go.”

He rowed her across the water in the direction of the Italian Gardens, and they found a good deal to say to each other, and she seemed very unaffected and friendly, although Allardyce fancied once or twice that when she replied to some of his remarks her voice trembled in an odd way as if she were secretly amused. But he thought her delightful, and he was very much obliged to her for taking him off his hands in this way, though he could not help feeling some surprise at her invitation. Of course he could not imagine such a thing happening to him on the Continent. No French or German girl would have the chance or enough _savoir faire_ to treat him as this girl was treating him. He told her all this in more veiled terms when they had reached the water-lilies, and he had turned around in his seat and was carefully balancing the boat while she pulled the dripping, long-stemmed flowers. Miss Brent laughed outright at his remarks, and Allardyce laughed good-naturedly too, although what he had said did not strike him as being at all amusing. But he was glad that she was so easily diverted. He reflected that perhaps her invitation had not been entirely disinterested--that she considered it as stupid to go out rowing alone, as he did to wander around the college without his sister--and that as she had been kind enough to save him from a solitary afternoon, it was his part to be as amusing and entertaining as possible.

“You must not consider us in the light of very young girls,” she explained. “You know this is a woman’s college.”

“That’s what is so nice,” returned Allardyce confidently. “You are girls with the brains and attainments of women. That is a very delightful combination.” He gave her an openly admiring, rather patronizing glance. He did not mean to be superior or condescending, but he reflected that in spite of her ease of manner she was yet in college, and so must be very young. He seemed to himself to be quite old and world-worn in comparison.

Miss Brent looked over at the college towering up on the other side of the lake.

“How do you like it?” she asked politely, after a moment’s silence.

“Oh, I didn’t see anything of it,” replied Allardyce easily, leaning his elbows comfortably on the unshipped oars. “I got my walking papers promptly from a young woman up there, and so I left. She rather frightened me, you know,” he ran on. “Awfully severe-looking, cap and gown, and that sort of thing. I thought if that was only an undergraduate I didn’t want to encounter any of the teachers--professors, I believe you call them--and so I fled. You do have women professors, don’t you?” he inquired with a great deal of awe.

“Yes,” said the girl.

“Well--they must be pretty awful,” he said cheerfully, after a moment’s pause.

The girl straightened up cautiously, pulling at the rubber-like stem of an immense lily.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said carelessly. She was bending over the side of the boat, and Allardyce could not see her face; but he heard the laugh in her voice again. “There! there’s a _boutonnière_ for you.”

Allardyce caught the lily she swung toward him by the stem, and stuck it in his coat.

“I suppose that’s about the size of the Russian Giant’s button-hole flower,” he remarked frivolously. They were quite good friends now. Allardyce looked over at the college again.

“You must find it pretty slow up there,” he said confidentially. “Can’t imagine how you girls exist. You ought to go to a Paris boarding-school. You can have no end of fun there, you know.” He was nodding his head enthusiastically at her. “I have a cousin at one in the Avenue Marceau. Went to see her just before I sailed and it was tremendously amusing. These French girls are awful flirts! When I went away every girl in that school came to the windows and looked at me. It was rather trying, but I felt that for once I knew what popularity was!”

Miss Brent buried her face in the biggest lily of the bunch.

“And--and what did you do?” she inquired, in suppressed tones.

“Oh--I? Why I bowed and smiled at the whole lot. Must have looked rather like an idiot, now I come to think of it; and my cousin wrote me she got into no end of trouble about it. One of the _maîtresses_ happened to see me. But it was great fun while it lasted. And after all where is the harm of a little flirting?” he concluded, judicially.

“Where indeed?” assented the girl, with a laugh.

“That’s right--I am glad to hear you say that,” broke in Allardyce, approvingly. “There’s something wrong with a woman who doesn’t cry or flirt--it’s a part of her nature,” he went on, with the air of having made a profoundly philosophic discovery. “You know you agree with me,” he urged, insinuatingly.

She shook her head.

“Personally I don’t know,” she said; “you see I am so busy----”

“Oh! I say,” cried Allardyce, “you don’t mean you study as hard as that! Of course,” he added impartially, “it’s all very well for some girls to grind--” he stopped in alarm as the girl drew herself up slightly.

“I hope my sister doesn’t study too much,” he hastened to add, lamely.

Miss Brent put her handkerchief suddenly to her lips, which were trembling with laughter.

“I don’t think you need worry!” she said.

Allardyce was considerably mystified and a little offended.

“But she’s very bright,” added the girl, quickly; “especially in mathematics, where I see most of her; but I believe she is not a very hard student.”

“Well,” said Allardyce, jocosely; “I’ll tell you a secret. I am the hard student of the family, and that’s much better than that my sister should be, I think. I don’t approve of girls working too hard. It makes them old--takes away their freshness--especially if they go in for mathematics. Do you know I have never been able to imagine a girl mathematician anyway,” he ran on, confidentially. “Always seemed like a sort of joke. Now there was that English girl--what was her name, who was worse than a senior wrangler? Her photographs were just everywhere. I was in Cambridge that summer and they were in all the shop-windows, and I would stop and look carefully to see if they were not different from the ones I had seen the day before. For they were quite pretty you know, and I was always hoping that there was some mistake and that they had got some other young woman, entirely innocent, mixed up with her.”

There was so much genuine distress in his tone that Miss Brent made an heroic attempt not to laugh.

“Well,” she exclaimed, “don’t say that--some people think I am good at mathematics myself.”

Allardyce shook his head at her. “I’m sure it’s a mistake--you are trying to impose on me,” he said, with mock severity. “At any rate I am glad my sister is guiltless of any such accusation. We are under the impression that she goes in for a good time at college--at least one would suppose so from her letters. I got one from her just before I left Paris in which she gave me a very amusing account of some blow-out here--some class function or other, and she seemed dreadfully afraid that the faculty would get hold of the details. She says you stand tremendously in awe of your faculty. Wait a minute--I’ve got the letter here somewhere,” he went on, fumbling in his pockets. “Didn’t think much of the affair considered in the light of a scrape, but she seemed to think it exciting and dangerous to the last degree. That’s where you girls are so funny--you think you are doing something immensely wrong and it is just nothing at all. I see I haven’t the letter with me; but perhaps you were in it all and know a great deal more about it than I do.”

Miss Brent suddenly twisted herself around in the boat, and reached for an especially big lily.

“No--” she said, “I--I don’t think I was there. Will you pull a little on the left oar--a little more, please. It’s that lily I want!”

“There’s another thing about girls,” resumed Allardyce meditatively and kindly, when the boat had straightened back. “You seem to think it a terrible calamity, a disgrace, to get plucked in an examination. Now a man takes it philosophically. Of course, it isn’t a thing one especially cares to have happen one; but it doesn’t destroy a fellow’s interest in life, nor make him feel particularly ashamed of himself. He just goes to work with a tutor and hopes for better luck next time. That’s the best way to take it, don’t you think? But perhaps you don’t know anything about it. Ever get plucked?--I beg your pardon,” he added hastily.

But the girl did not appear at all offended.

“Oh, you mustn’t ask that,” she said, leaning back and laughing at him; “at any rate,” she added, with an air of careful consideration, “I don’t think I ever got ‘plucked’ in--mathematics. And now you must take me back.”

Allardyce gave a shudder of mock horror. “Oh, mathematics!” he said, picking up the oars.

When they were half-way across the lake Allardyce saw a young girl standing on the shore waving at them.

“Why,” he said, looking intently at the figure, “I believe it is my sister.”

Miss Brent leaned forward.

“Yes, it is your sister,” she said slowly, and she smiled a little.

Miss Allardyce kissed her brother with a great show of affection, and told him how sorry she was to have missed him. “And I am sure it was very good of you to have taken care of him,” she went on impressively and gratefully, turning to Miss Brent. But that young lady disclaimed any merit.

“We’ve had a delightful afternoon,” she declared, “and your brother has been very good to pull me about and keep the boat from tipping over, while I gathered these lilies. I am very glad to have met him. Good afternoon.”

“Charming girl!” murmured Allardyce, appreciatively, digging his stick in the earth, and leaning on it as he looked after Miss Brent.

“We had an awfully jolly time together,” he went on, to the girl beside him; “sort of water-picnic, without the picnic.”

Miss Allardyce looked sharply at her brother. Something in his manner made her anxious. “How did you meet her?” she demanded.

“Oh! that’s the best part,” said Allardyce joyously. “Wasn’t introduced at all. I offered to unlock her boat for her, and I liked her looks so much that I hated to go away, so I asked her if she was in your class, and she said ‘No,’ but that she knew you, and that I considered was introduction enough. We just went off together and had a very good time. Lucky for me that somebody took me up when my own sister went off and left me,” he added reproachfully.

Miss Allardyce shook her head impatiently. “Never mind about me.” She looked anxiously at her brother. “What did you say to her?”

“Oh! I don’t remember exactly;” he replied vaguely and cheerfully. “We talked a good deal--at least _I_ did,” with a sudden realization of how he had monopolized the conversation. “About French boarding-schools and women professors and getting plucked in examinations, and I told her about that scrape you wrote me of. She hasn’t a bit of nonsense about her,” he went on enthusiastically. “She didn’t say much, but I am sure she agreed with me that girls are by nature flirts, and not mathematicians.”

Miss Allardyce gave a little gasp. “Well,” she said, with a sort of desperate calmness, “you’ve done it now! Do you know who that was you were talking to? That was the assistant-professor of mathematics. Oh! yes, I know she looks awfully young, and she is young. I suppose you think a woman has to be fifty before she knows anything. Why she only took her degree two years ago, and she was so tremendously clever that she went off and studied a year in Leipsic and then came back as instructor in mathematics, and this year when one of the assistant-professors was called suddenly to Europe, she was made assistant-professor in her place, and they say she’s been a most wonderful success. And I know she is pretty; but that doesn’t prevent her examinations from being terrors, and I didn’t get through the last one at all, and if you told her about that scrape, and that women ought not to be mathematicians----” she stopped breathlessly and in utter despair.

Allardyce whistled softly and then struck his stick sharply against the side of the little dock. “Well,” he exclaimed indignantly, “she’s most deceitfully young and pretty,” and then he turned reproachfully upon his sister. “It’s all your fault,” he said; “what did you go off walking for?”

“LA BELLE HÉLÈNE”

_Mrs. Olmsted Morrison to Mrs. Franklin Bennett, Rhinebeck-on-Hudson_

BALTIMORE, October 20th.

My Dearest Alma: As we have been confiding our joys and woes to each other for the last twenty-five years, it is to you I naturally write about this new trial which has come into my life. You will probably think it _peu de chose_, but I assure you, my dear, that if you really and truly put yourself in my place you will realize that it is an annoyance. Henry’s child has at last written to me that she “has finished her studies for the present” (!) and is coming to America to spend the winter with us. You _must_ see, Alma, that this is slightly appalling. I have never seen her--not since she was a little thing with enormous gray eyes and a freckled nose--and I know absolutely nothing about her except what Henry wrote me from time to time, when he stopped his eternal wanderings long enough to remember he had a sister. But judging by the education he gave her--and I consider it simply deplorable--and the evident taste she had for it, and later for “the higher education of woman,” I feel distressingly positive that I cannot approve of the child. I am very sorry now that I did not make an effort to go to her when her father died in England, five years ago, but she wrote me that she had friends there who were doing everything for her, and that she was coming directly to America to enter college according to her father’s wishes, and that there was really no need to disturb myself about her. I could see, Alma, the effect of the independent, strange existence she had led, in that letter. It repelled me. Now, Eleanor, I am sure, would have been completely prostrated, the dear child!

So she came directly to Boston, and I, being so busy with my own preparations for taking Eleanor and Margaret to Paris, simply could not arrange to go on to Boston to see her. As of course you know, we remained abroad four years, and last year, when we returned and I expected to see Helen at last, she wrote me a letter which I got just before leaving Paris, saying that she had decided to go to Oxford for a year to take a course in mathematical astronomy at the Lady Margaret Hall. So we passed each other in mid-ocean.

Fancy, Alma! I knew when I read that letter what kind of a girl she was. One of your hard students, engrossed in books, without one thought for dress or social manners! I am afraid she will prove a severe trial. And just when Eleanor is counting on having such a gay second winter and Margaret is to début. It is a little hard, is it not, dear? Thank Heaven, I shall never have to blame myself as Henry would have to do if he were alive. At least _I_ have seen to it that my daughters have had the education which will fit them to ornament society, the education that I still believe in notwithstanding all this talk of colleges for women and advancement in learning, and college settlements and extensions, and Heaven knows what besides!

_My_ girls have had first, the best of training at Mrs. Meed’s, and then four years at _Les Oiseaux_, you know. They speak French perfectly, of course, and Margaret has even tried Italian and German. They both ride and drive well, and Eleanor plays and sings very sweetly. But what is the use of my telling you about them when you know them so well?

I only wish, Alma, you could tell me something about _Helen_! Just think, I have never even seen a photograph of her! It is one of her fads not to have them taken, from which I argue that she is very homely, very opinionated, and very strange. Eleanor has two dozen in different poses, I am sure. The only information I have at all about Helen’s looks is from Margaret, who saw her for an hour in Brookline--it was five years ago--just before we sailed. She had run up to see a Boston friend for a few days, and of course she was very young and has probably forgotten, but she insists that Helen was rather pretty. However, I do not attach the least importance to what Margaret says, because, as you know, she is so good-natured that she always says the best of everyone; and then her tastes are sometimes really deplorable--so unlike Eleanor’s! Besides, her description of Helen does not sound like that of a pretty girl. She says she wore her hair parted and back from her face, and was slightly near-sighted. Think of it, Alma! For the hair, _encore passe_, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Wenzell have made that so much the fashion lately that one might forgive it; but short-sighted! Eye-glasses! Spectacles perhaps! Hard study since may have completely ruined her eyes. I greatly fear she will show up very badly beside Eleanor’s piquant beauty and Margaret’s freshness.

She writes me that she will be here in a month, so that it is time I was seriously considering what I am to do with her. Of course, with the severe education she has had, she probably dislikes society and could not be induced to go out, knowing well that she could not shine in it; but as my brother’s child she must be at least introduced properly, and she can then subside gracefully. Of course, where there are two such attractive girls in the house as Eleanor and Margaret, she cannot hope to compete in social honors with them, and will probably much prefer in any case to continue her studies or go in for charitable work, or something of that sort.

My dear Alma, I have just read over this letter and am shocked to see how much I have written about this affair. Forgive me if I have wearied you and--yes, _do_ give me some good advice.

Are you going to Carlsbad?

The girls are out of town for a few days, or would send love as I do.

Very affectionately yours, MARIAN MORRISON.

P.S. They say a woman cannot write a letter without a postscript, and I believe it! Tell me what to do about H. How had I best introduce her to society? Don’t you think a dinner--where she could sit beside someone whom I could especially choose as suited to her--and where she would not be too much _en évidence_? A dance would not do at all--I doubt if she _can_ dance, poor girl!

M. M.

_Mrs. Franklin Bennett to Mrs. Olmsted Morrison._

October 22d.

MY DEAREST MARIAN: How could you think me so cold-blooded as to consider such a piece of news as your letter contains “_peu de chose_”? I feel for you, I assure you. What a dilemma! The dear girls! how do they like the idea? Margaret, as you say, will probably not mind, but Eleanor--so exquisitely pretty and stylish! It will be rather a thorn in the flesh, I imagine. O! how I wish I had children--two such lovely girls as yours would make life a different thing for me!

Of course, the dinner. How could you think of anything else! Invite some of the professors from the University for _her_, and have the rest of the company of young society people, so that Eleanor and Margaret can enjoy it too.

Oh, my dear, I would like to write a long, long letter about this, but I am in such confusion and hurry! Mr. Bennett has been ordered to Wiesbaden for the winter, and we sail in a week. I wish I could be in Baltimore to help you, but it is impossible, of course. I count on your writing me all your plans, and just how Helen appears, and whether it is all as dreadful as you now fear. Address to the Langham Hotel until November 25th, after that, care Brown, Shipley, as usual. Good-by. I have a thousand things to tell you of, but must put them off until I reach London and have a moment to myself.

As ever, Devotedly yours, A. B.

P.S. Don’t look too much on the dark side of things. I knew a Philadelphia girl once--the niece of old Colonel Devereaux you know--and she was rather pretty and quite good form, though a college girl. I think, however, she had been but _one_ year to college.

A. B.

_Mrs. Olmsted Morrison to Mrs. Franklin Bennett, the Langham Hotel, London, W. C._

BALTIMORE, November 15th.

DEAREST ALMA: Your note, which was so welcome and which came so long ago, would have had an earlier answer had I not been a little sick, and so busy and worried that I have not had time or heart to write even to you. So you can imagine in what a state I am.