Brenda's Ward Page 8

  CHAPTER VIII

  A PRIZE WINNER

  While Martine was thus mischievously occupied, Priscilla, unconscious ofwhat was going on, continued her work.

  She had not heard her aunt come in, but when she went down to dinner sheinstantly realized that Mrs. Tilworth was displeased. Was there anypossibility that the injury to the bureau-scarf had been discovered? Atonce Priscilla dismissed that thought, knowing Mrs. Tilworth could nothave been in her room, as she herself had not left it.

  As the young girl turned toward the dining-room Mrs. Tilworth laid herhand on her shoulder.

  "This way, please," she said briefly, pointing toward the room whereJulius Caesar was enthroned in his easy-chair.

  Priscilla could not suppress a smile at the absurd sight.

  "Then you did it?"

  "I? Why of course not! I haven't been downstairs."

  Then Priscilla stopped. She remembered her visit to the kitchen, and forthe present she was not anxious to explain the glass of milk.

  "But who could have done this ridiculous thing? An earthquake couldn'thave done much more."

  Priscilla hardly dared glance around the dishevelled room. Some of theresults accomplished by Martine were foolish, others were improvementson the original arrangement of things.

  "You must have had a visitor," continued Mrs. Tilworth, pursuing hersearch for information.

  Priscilla was silent. She perceived that Martine had been themischief-maker, and for the moment she was indignant with her friend.Martine might have realized that an act of this kind would bring Mrs.Tilworth's wrath on Priscilla as well as on the absent perpetrator ofthe mischief.

  "Then it was Martine Stratford!" continued Mrs. Tilworth. "I am gladthat you had no hand in this foolishness, Priscilla. For I take yourword that you have not been downstairs. But I am disappointed inMartine. She has attractive manners, and lately she seemed to be toningdown. Certainly she appeared very well at the dinner the other evening.Her mother, too, is a sensible woman. So it must be her father whospoils Martine. The girl has had a training very different from yours,and her sense of responsibility is small."

  "She didn't mean anything, I am sure of that," protested Priscilla.

  "Didn't mean anything! That's just the trouble. After this I must askyou to see less of Martine. Really I ought not to have let you spend somuch time with her."

  "Mamma knows all about Martine. She does not object."

  "She _will_ object when she learns how disrespectful Martine has been tome. As if I did not know how to arrange my own furniture."

  Again Priscilla felt like smiling. Martine's hints had been understood,even though they might not be followed.

  Mrs. Tilworth was a fair-minded woman, and after expressing herselfclearly on the subject of Martine's misdeeds, she did not try to makeher niece more uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Priscilla's dinner hour thatevening was far from cheerful. She wondered if it might not be wiser, aswell as more honest, to tell her aunt of her own mishap of theafternoon. Yet the more she thought of it, the less inclined was she todo this. She clung to the hope that with a further effort she could makethe scarf as good as new.

  That night she dreamed of wading through rivers of ink, and in herdreams she saw the bust of Julius Caesar sitting on a bridge with manysmall black ink-spots mottling the bald head.

  In the intervals between her dreams she tossed about restlessly, and shethought of all the little criticisms that she had ever heard anyone makeabout Mrs. Tilworth.

  "After all, she isn't my real aunt," she murmured; "only my uncle'swidow, and I suppose she just hates to have me here. But she has a kindof family pride, and thinks that it will help mamma. I know the house isfurnished queerly. I heard mamma say that it is neither antique, normodern--only second-rate. Those black walnut things are always ugly,even Martine knows better."

  Yet in all her ruminations Priscilla had to admit that Mrs. Tilworth hadalways treated her kindly. She had no real grievance against her aunt.She was merely afraid of the reproof that her carelessness merited.

  Now it was one of Mrs. Tilworth's theories that a girl should make herown bed and dust her own furniture. It was a theory, too, that she putinto practice. Except on sweeping days, Priscilla took entire care ofher own room. Sometimes she begrudged the time that she had to spend inthis way. But on the morning after Martine's visit she was pleased thatno housemaid had the right to handle the things on her bureau. Now, asthis was Saturday morning, Priscilla took more time than usual dustingand arranging things generally. She did not dare move the corpulentpincushion lest someone should come in upon her while she was examiningthe ink mark. She knew that her aunt had a morning engagement, and whileshe worked she listened eagerly for the closing of the front door thatwould show that her aunt had departed.

  But alas for her calculations! While she was still dusting hermantle-piece, Mrs. Tilworth, with hat and coat on, entered the room.

  "My dear," began Mrs. Tilworth, kindly, "you must not take to yourselfall that I said about Martine Stratford. You and she are really verydifferent, and although I cannot say that her acquaintance was forcedupon you, still it came about almost by accident. Had you not both goneto Acadia in Mrs. Redmond's care, you never would have known each otherso well. You are not careless--I see you have been putting your room inorder. It looks very well, but this pincushion is too near the edge.Dear me, what is this?"

  Poor Priscilla reddened as Mrs. Tilworth gazed in horror at the spotthat the cushion had concealed.

  Her aunt's praise in the first place had been unexpected, and now shefelt that she could hardly bear her reproof.

  "What is this?" continued Mrs. Tilworth, picking up one of the tinycrystals from the cloth and touching it to the tip of her tongue. "As Ithought, oxalic acid."

  "Martine called it salts of lemon."

  "So this is some of Martine's work, too. Perhaps she forgot to tell youthat the salts, or the acid, whichever you choose to call it, is boundto eat a great hole in linen--and this the most valued of all my bureaucovers. Ah, Priscilla, I thought you could be trusted." And pushing backthe smaller articles that rested on it, Mrs. Tilworth flung the scarfover her arm and walked away with it--ink-spot and all.

  Priscilla was now more deeply disturbed than before. In no way was shewilling to have Martine blamed for what she had not done. Her friend wasalready sufficiently disgraced in Mrs. Tilworth's eyes. But now, even ifshe wished, she could not explain. Mrs. Tilworth had gone away for theday. In her heart of hearts Priscilla knew that even had her aunt beenat home she would have found it difficult to explain things in theirtrue light. For at the best she must appear extremely careless, andquite unworthy the confidence that Mrs. Tilworth had just expressed. Fewgirls are willing at a moment's notice to pull themselves down from apedestal on which they may have been placed.

  When Mrs. Tilworth and she were together on Saturday evening, Priscillastill found it hard to make the explanation that she knew was Martine'sdue, and she found the task no easier on Sunday. Monday was the day whenthe results of the prize contest were to be announced, and the usuallycalm Priscilla was inwardly perturbed. Her rank in English was high, andshe could not help wondering if there might not be a chance that theprize would fall to her.

  "What became of your spot?" asked Martine, mischievously, as she metPriscilla.

  "Hush," replied Priscilla; "don't talk about it now, it's too, toodisturbing. But I finished my theme for to-day," she continued morebrightly, "and now I suppose we shall hear the result of the prizeessays."

  "If I had known prizes were to be given for these essays, I might nothave sent mine in."

  "Are you afraid that you'll get the prize? Really, I think there's nodanger."

  Marie Taggart was noted for her sharp tongue, and Martine controlled thequick reply that rose to her own lips.

  "Come, Priscilla," she cried, turning to her friend, "let me lead you toyour seat, so that I can be free to hunt about for a laurel wreath. Ishould hate to be unprepared when the pri
ze is awarded you."

  There was an expectant air throughout the class as Miss Crawdon arose toannounce the result of the essay contest. A moment or two laterPriscilla's name was called by Miss Crawdon, and as she stepped forwardto receive the prize, no one in the school begrudged her what they knewshe had gained by careful and conscientious effort. But everyone, evenMartine herself, was amazed when Miss Crawdon added, "I have here asmall card of honorable mention for two girls, one of them MartineStratford and the other Inez Galbraith, who are only second to theprize-winner; and although their side of the argument, 'The sword ismightier than the pen' is the less popular, I am glad to commend themfor the independence shown in their work."

  Martine's brow contracted as she heard Miss Crawdon's words. She hadlittle pleasure in the commendation bestowed on her, for suddenly sherealized that in letting Lucian help her she had probably done wrong. Itis true she had thought out each point for herself, following in manycases Lucian's suggestion, and she had added many things that herbrother had not thought of; yet, with it all, she was quite sure that,but for Lucian's help, she never in the world could have written theessay. Therefore the smiles of approval that met her as she went to herseat almost stung her, and Priscilla later, at recess, was surprised atMartine's irritability when she asked her how she had managed to deceivethem all by pretending that she could not write.

  Yet Martine had no intention of cultivating an over-sensitive Puritanconscience. She was an honest girl on the whole, never intentionallyuntruthful, although sometimes lacking, perhaps, in frankness. Thislatter quality was the one that Priscilla had especially criticisedduring their journey through Acadia. In the present instance Martine wasnot quite sure to what extent she was right, to what extent wrong. Ifonly she could talk it all over with Priscilla.

  "Priscilla, I know, will advise my telling Miss Crawdon, and thenperhaps the whole thing would have to be explained to the school, and Ishould feel awfully mortified. It isn't as if I had won a real prize, orkept anyone else out of anything--and I have worked hard enough over myEnglish to get something. So I'll just imagine it's all right and let itgo."

  Yet in spite of her determination to think little about the affair,Martine's conscience was not quite clear, and at recess Priscillanoticed a certain change in her manner.

  Things were not bettered when Martine reminded Priscilla that she hadpromised to go home with her after school on Monday or Tuesday.

  "Monday is better than Tuesday, so you must come to-day, and we cantelephone your aunt, that she needn't wonder at your mysteriousdisappearance."

  "Thank you, really I cannot, I am busy, I must go downtown, andbesides--" So Priscilla stumbled along, to Martine's great astonishment.

  "Oh, I thought you always enjoyed coming home with me. I am sure youhave often said so; but you needn't if you don't want to."

  Martine's air of injured innocence sat ill upon her. She could notexplain to Priscilla why she was so anxious to have her spend theafternoon with her. She could not fully explain this anxiety to herself,although the real reason was her hope that a talk with Priscilla mightsettle that little problem of right and wrong connected with the prizeessay.

  If Martine was annoyed by Priscilla's refusal, poor Priscilla was deeplydisturbed by the turn of affairs. Not for a moment did it occur to herthat she might disregard her aunt's injunction in relation to Martine.Priscilla had been brought up so strictly that, as Martine sometimessaid, she did not think it possible to disobey "the powers that be,"whether teachers, parent, or guardian. In Boston Mrs. Tilworth stood inher mother's place, and in consequence whatever she said was law. In thepresent instance, however, obedience was a little harder than usual,because she knew that Mrs. Tilworth's severity toward her friend camefrom an error of judgment. Foolish though Martine had been, she was muchbetter than Mrs. Tilworth thought her, and Priscilla knew that it laywith her to correct her aunt's impression.

  "Good-bye, Martine," said Priscilla, as they parted at the corner belowthe school. "Really and truly, I am sorry not to go home with you."

  "There, my dear child, someway or other I always have to believe you;but all the same you are very ridiculous and disobliging not to comewith me," and although she smiled as she spoke, Martine's voice stillheld a little bitterness as she turned away from Priscilla and went downthe hill. Through the week the two went their separate ways--at leastout of school. In their classes and at recess they were still the bestof friends. But neither said a word to the other about visiting her.Priscilla, conscious of her aunt's disapproval of Martine, wastongue-tied, and Martine's sense of wounded dignity lasted longer thanusual.

  On Friday Martine did not go to the Symphony rehearsal, and this initself was not strange, as she not only was not fond of music, but foundthe restraint of Mrs. Tilworth's presence rather irksome. In her absenceher mother, however, usually occupied her seat, and thus the ticket wasnot wasted. Martine justified her own absences by telling Priscilla thatit would be selfish in her to monopolize the seat when really her motherenjoyed the concert far more than she did.

  Nevertheless, until this particular week, it had always been her habitto talk the matter over with Priscilla, and often at the last moment shewould yield to the persuasions of the latter that this particularsymphony, or that particular soloist was too fine for her to miss.

  But when on Friday morning Martine said nothing whatever about therehearsal, and when on Friday afternoon neither she nor her motheroccupied the seat next Priscilla's, the latter felt that the time hadcome for her to speak.

  It is to be feared that that particular symphony meant little to Mrs.Tilworth's niece. Discord, not harmony, filled her mind. She hardlynoticed the execution of the great pianist who was the soloist of theday, and when her aunt put a question, her answers were so vague thatMrs. Tilworth, glancing at her keenly, said,

  "I fear you have been working too hard this winter. It will do you goodto go down to Plymouth Easter."

  The kindness in her aunt's tone encouraged Priscilla, and that eveningafter dinner she told the whole story of the spot of ink. When she hadfinished, to her great surprise, the dignified Mrs. Tilworth began tolaugh.

  "Excuse me, my dear, but it seems to me you have made much ado about asmall matter. It is true that I value that bureau cover, and I consideryou most careless in handling your pen, but that you should think me anogre--"

  "Oh, I do not, only I knew I had been careless. I meant to tell you, butI thought I could get it out first."

  "That was your mistake, child. A good laundress could have removed theink if she had had the cover before any one else experimented with it.As it is, the oxalic acid weakened the fibre so that we have had to darnit. When you see it, you will admit that the work has been done verywell, but everything would have gone much better had you told me in thefirst place."

  "Yes, aunt, I know it, and I deserve punishment. But what I wanted tosay was about Martine. I know she was silly in doing what she did in thedrawing-room, but although she seems so grown up, sometimes she actsjust like a child. Why, I really believe she has forgotten all aboutlast Saturday; at least she hasn't said a word to me, and she can'tunderstand why I don't go to her house, and I can't ask her here, and Ido wish that you'd let me."

  "I did not mean to forbid you to go to Martine's," responded Mrs.Tilworth. "I should be sorry to do that, for, as you know, I like Mrs.Stratford. I merely advised you to see less of Martine. There are othergirls who ought to be just as companionable--some indeed whom you mightlike better, if you would make the effort."

  "I had to make an effort to like Martine at first, and now that I amused to her, I can't grow intimate with anyone else."

  "Very well, my dear, I think still that you are a little tired. IfMartine sees fit to apologize for last Saturday, we can turn over thepages of that chapter."

  "Then I may go to see her to-morrow?"

  "I never forbade you to go."

  "Oh, thank you, aunt Sarah," and as Mrs. Tilworth watched Priscilla'sexpression brighten, she
wondered if in some way she had not been wrongin thinking the child overworked.