XIV
A FALLING OUT
Amy was much more annoyed with Fritz than the girls had realized that day at Marblehead. She had not imagined that a friend could be so unfriendly. For she knew that Fritz was well aware that her verse-writing was one of her cherished secrets. She had hardly ever read any of her own poems to her mother, and it was only by chance that Fritz had learned that she was in the habit of writing verse. It was indeed wholly by chance that he had discovered her secret. When they were down on the rocks, one shady afternoon, while Fritz was busy reading the “Life of Washington,” Amy scribbled so eagerly, and wrinkled her eyebrows so fiercely, as she nibbled at her pencil, that Fritz could not desist asking,—
“What in the world is it, Amy? You look as if you were trying to solve the hardest kind of a riddle.”
“Well, it’s harder than a riddle; it’s a rhyme. I’m trying to make two ideas rhyme—that is, two lines, and they won’t.”
Fritz almost let his book fall into the little pool of water beside the rock on which he was sitting.
“Why, Amy, is that what you are writing—rhymes, verses; not poetry is it?”
Amy could not help laughing at his expression of amazement.
“Well, the person who reads it will have to decide whether it is poetry. I should n’t like to say myself. But I’m trying to tell a story in verse, and some way it does n’t come out right.”
“Let me hear it,” said Fritz, “and I ’ll tell you what the matter is.” His tone was one of extreme confidence, and, of course, having let the cat out of the bag, as she had never meant to do, there was nothing now for Amy but to give Fritz the chance to hear what she had written.
The story was a romantic one about a young man who had walked in a garden with a girl he admired, for whom he had gathered a rose which she accepted warmly. Then came the catastrophe,—
The cloud of war o’er the country broke,
When the call to arms was given,
The lover went, to the maid he spoke,
“We shall meet, dearest love, in Heaven.”
“He was mighty sure he’d be killed, was n’t he?” said Fritz. “But go on,” for Amy began to close her blank book.
So Amy read the stanza in which the young soldier’s death was described, and then she came to the climax, which, in her secret heart, she considered very fine.
Ere long she died; in her hand they found
A rose all withered and sere,
They buried it with her in the ground,
For they said, “She has held it dear.”
But, instead of applauding, Fritz only laughed vociferously.
Amy naturally looked indignant. “I must say that I can’t see anything to laugh at.”
“Why, no, it’s very sad. That’s one reason I’m laughing; it just struck me as odd that they should die off so; and how did the rose get into her hand when she was dead. You have n’t explained that.”
“Oh, you are n’t a bit poetical,” and Amy read the last stanza aloud again.
“Is n’t the metre just a little lively for such a sad subject?” On account of the drill that he had had in Latin and Greek, Fritz knew something about metres, even though he had n’t the widest appreciation of English poetry. Amy seemed disturbed by this suggestion, and, going over the lines again, she decided that Fritz was partly right, and that some time in the future she would cast the poem into some other form.
“In spite of your laughing at me, Fritz, I can see it’s a good thing to have some one to criticise me, and after this I ’ll show you some of the pieces that I write. But you must promise not to speak to another soul about them.”
“Why, does n’t your mother know that you write?”
“Oh, yes, of course. But she does n’t care to have me spend so much time over poetry. She says that it’s better to read good things now, and write when I’m older. But some way I can’t help writing whenever I have the chance.”
In the two years that had passed since Fritz had first learned of her poetic proclivities, Amy had had no reason to think that he had ever broken his promise, and many a pleasant afternoon had they spent together, Amy busy with her pencil and writing pad, and Fritz ready to drop his book at a suggestion from Amy, to listen to her latest effort. It might be hard to say just how valuable these criticisms were, and just as hard, perhaps, to say whether the verses were worth the time that Amy put on them. Yet in certain ways this was her chief recreation, and it was undoubtedly a better way of spending the time than in mere idle reading, or in games.
It is only fair to say, too, that as time went on the poems written by Amy improved decidedly. Instead of sentimental subjects drawn from her own imagination, she now looked for subjects in history, or in tradition, such as “The Shrieking Woman of Marblehead.” As this was one of the most recent, as well as the most carefully written of her poems, she need not have been so angry with Fritz for reading it. Her mother had approved of it, as well as of the other poem which he had read. There was this to be thankful for, and Amy appreciated it, as she thought of the events of that day at Marblehead.
“But it was very mean of Fritz, all the same,” thought Amy, “he broke his promise. That is to say, he broke the spirit, if not the letter of it, for he knew perfectly well that I don’t want any one else to know that I try to write poetry. The one thing in the world that I hate is to be laughed at, and they always laugh at girls who write poetry.”
Although Amy may have had in mind the vague, unsympathetic world in general, when she said “they,” I think that she more particularly meant Brenda, whom she knew to be a person unlikely to approve of a scribbling girl. Now although Amy prided herself on her independence, and although she would not have gone out of her way to gain any one’s favor, she found herself unexpectedly anxious to stand well with Brenda. She was strongly drawn to Brenda, perhaps because the latter was so unlike any one else she had ever known. Brenda seemed so free from care, so bird-like almost, in her way of flitting from one enjoyment to another, that, without envying her, Amy often wished that she could get herself to take life more as Brenda did.
“But then how can I?” she would say, a little sadly. “Brenda can do anything that she wishes at the minute she wishes to do it. No one ever interferes with her.”
Conscience here asserted itself, and Amy continued, “Of course no one ever interferes with me. I know that mamma has always tried to let me have everything that we can afford. But then that is just it,—what we can afford. Sometimes we are able to afford so little. There’s hardly a girl along the shore who has n’t a wheel; why, even the daughters of the mechanics at the Mills have them! Then there’s cousin Joan, she is a great trial to me. I don’t suppose mother realizes it. But I get very tired reading to her, and carrying her meals upstairs, and—” when Amy reached this pitch in her reflections, she was almost ready to cry or to write a poem. A poem was always consoling to her, because in her search for words to rhyme, or to perfect the metre, she usually forgot her grievances, even though the particular subject of the poem might be something far from cheerful.
To-day, however, she was not to have an opportunity either to repine any longer, or to write a poem. “Amy,” said her mother, coming into the room, “I wish that you would come up to the studio to sit for me. I am making a small color sketch, and you are just the model I need.”
So Amy, seated on the little three-cornered stool on which her mother placed her, with her hair falling over her shoulders, and her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, made a docile model, and showed no signs of weariness, even when she had been there for some time.
“Amy,” said her mother, for neither model nor artist was obliged to keep silent. “Amy, is n’t it two or three days since Fritz has been here?”
“Yes, I think that it is,” responded Amy.
“He hasn’t been here since the day you went to Marblehead.”
“No, ’m, he has n’t been. You know we saw him at Marblehead, over there by the Fort. He was on his new wheel.”
“Perhaps the new bicycle accounts for his not having been here. I suppose that he’s very busy using it.”
“Oh, it would be all the easier for him to come over; why, he’d be here in a second, almost,” said Amy.
Mrs. Redmond looked at Amy rather closely. Without knowing the exact state of the case, she suspected that there had been some falling out between the two friends.
“You must be careful, Amy,” she said gently, “not to let your new friends come too readily between you and Fritz. It is natural that you should get more pleasure out of the society of girls, and for my own part I am very glad that you have these new friends. But at the same time Fritz has always depended greatly upon you in the summer, and you must not let him feel that he is in the way.”
“Oh, I am sure that I do not.”
“Well, I should judge by the way he spoke that day when he came for you, and found that you had gone to Marblehead—that he felt that you had let the others ‘cut him out.’ Is n’t that the expression?” and Mrs. Redmond smiled at Amy.
“Well, I think that it’s funny that a boy should feel jealous of girls,” said Amy, “for that is what it amounts to.”
“If you and Fritz are really friends, as I think you are,” continued Mrs. Redmond, “you will not let a thing of this kind develop into a real coldness.”
“What thing, mamma?” asked Amy; she had not told her mother how Fritz had acted at Fort Sewall, and she wondered if she had heard about it in any other way.
“Oh, I mean the little feeling that you both may have. Fritz thinks that you are forgetful of him, and you seem annoyed with him about something.”
Here Amy had her chance to tell her mother how matters stood; but for some reason she still felt unwilling to describe the fashion in which Fritz had betrayed her confidence. Perhaps if she had done so, Mrs. Redmond might have laughed at her a little for taking a trifling thing so much to heart. Moreover (and other girls who have fallen out with their friends will agree that they have often found themselves in the same position) Amy herself began to feel that she was making too much of a trifle. At least she could not honestly say that she thought that Fritz had done her much harm. For she had seen Nora and Julia and Brenda twice since the day at Marblehead, and they had seemed no less cordial than before they had heard her verses. So Amy was driven to justify herself by saying that it was the principle that she objected to,—that Fritz should have taken such a childish way to tease her. When she met Fritz on his bicycle not far from her own gate, she merely bowed and said “good afternoon,” and neither asked him to come in with her, nor made any pleasant little comment about his wheel. Fritz might have forgiven the neglect in not asking him to come in. But not to say a word about his bicycle! When she knew that for two years it had been the dearest wish of his heart to own one! Really, this was too much. So, after dismounting to greet her, hoping for a little bicycle conversation, Fritz jumped on his wheel again, and, with a proud little nod, as he touched his cap, he was off at a rapid pace. As her mother talked, therefore, Amy knew that the trouble with Fritz had already begun, and yet she was not willing to lift her hand to change the state of affairs.
As she painted, Mrs. Redmond studied her daughter’s face, and if she didn’t read exactly what was passing in her mind, she guessed the state of affairs pretty closely.
She knew that she had said all that was necessary, and that if Amy refused to be guided by her, she must take the consequences. She knew, too, that Amy was by no means an obstinate girl, and that she was more inclined than many of her age to be guided. There was only one difficulty,—if Amy once made up her mind definitely on a given subject, there was small likelihood of her changing. The only possible way to move her, was to approach her before she had reached the place where she considered that her mind was made up.
“There’s the bell; run Amy and see what cousin Joan wants,” said Mrs. Redmond. She had said all that she intended to say at this time, and she was willing to wait and let the seed germinate.
Amy found cousin Joan restless and impatient. The little Murphy girl, who came in in the morning to do the rougher work in Mrs. Redmond’s little kitchen, and dust cousin Joan’s room, had gone home.
“She forgot to leave me a glass of water, and she did n’t pull down the blind at the east window, so that my eyes just ache with all that light, and I do wish I had some one to read to me. I declare, Amy, I hope if you live to be old and sick, you won’t know what it is to be neglected. Where’s Fritz now? I have n’t seen him here since the day you went to Marblehead.”
“He has n’t been here since then,” replied Amy, as she pulled down the blind, straightened the pillows, and took a pitcher from the table to replenish with cold water.
“Well, it was always pleasant to have him running in and out,” said cousin Joan. “I never did think much of a house without a boy in it. He read to me that day you were at Marblehead, and I enjoyed it very much. It is n’t often that I have the chance to hear good reading.”
Amy did not say anything. Yet it was hard for her not to make a reply. Cousin Joan spoke as if it was a great rarity for her to have any one read to her. But Amy felt as if she herself had spent almost weeks of her life reading to the old lady, and it was n’t altogether agreeable to find that her efforts had not been really appreciated.
Cousin Joan, pleased to have some one to talk to, for she had been alone all the morning, continued in a rather complaining tone,—
“I suppose it’s all come from your getting so intimate with those summer people. But no good will come from that. Their life is very different from yours, and you ’ll find it out soon enough. You ’ll have nothing left to show for it all but a lot of discontent.”
“I ’ve never been perfectly and absolutely contented,” said Amy. “I don’t think that mamma wishes me to be. She says that people would never make any progress in the world if they were perfectly contented.”
“Well, I don’t believe that you are going to make much progress in the world just by being intimate with Brenda Barlow, and those other girls. When they go back to the city, they ’ll forget you, just as sure as fate, see if they don’t.”
Amy wisely made no reply. She knew that it was not worth while to argue with cousin Joan. The old lady had her own way of looking at things, and Amy had been brought up to treat the opinions of her elders with respect, even when she could not agree with them perfectly.
“Do not pretend to agree with a person, if you find that your opinion is absolutely unchanged. But do not argue with an older person. You may be right, but you are even more apt to be wrong, and it is much more important to show a proper respect for the opinions of older persons.” This was one of Mrs. Redmond’s rules.
“Can’t I read to you for a little while?” she said gently. “I see that your church paper has n’t been opened, and I’d be very happy to read that for a little while.”
This offer cost Amy something, for, of all the things that she was in the habit of reading to cousin Joan, the church paper was the one that wearied her the most.
As she began to unfold it, she looked out of the window. She was sorry a moment afterwards that she had done so, for there, on his bicycle, accompanied by another boy, also on a bicycle, was Fritz, riding past the house as gayly as if he and Amy had n’t had a falling out.
“Why, he did n’t even look up, at the window,” thought Amy, as she turned to her paper.
“When I was your age, I never sighed like that,” said cousin Joan, as Amy sat down beside her.