VI
JULIA’S RETURN
As the train rolled toward Rockley after their day at Nahant, Nora and Brenda at first were rather quiet. Summer pleasuring is apt to be tiresome; and although they had not exerted themselves physically, their tongues and minds had been pretty active.
“I hope you did n’t offend Frances,” said Brenda; “she was n’t very talkative when we first started to drive.”
“I did n’t notice it. Why in the world should you think that I offended her?”
“Well, you were just a little sharp when you spoke about driving; and there were one or two other things like that.”
“I am sure that you must admit, Brenda, that Frances is rather ridiculous when she talks in that toplofty way. When she holds up her head and talks nonsense, she makes me think of that princess—who was it?—who wondered why the poor people, when they couldn’t get bread, did n’t eat cake instead. We all know that Frances can have a horse for her own use every minute of the day if she wishes it. But many people drive very seldom, and the most of them, I dare say, only know horses by sight.”
“Oh, Frances was only thinking of people she knows. Every one in her set drives.”
“There, Brenda, that’s it. Frances never looks outside of her own set. Tell me honestly, now that you are so much broader-minded than you used to be, if you don’t think it’s very silly for a girl not to be willing to realize that there are people in the world besides those whom she knows best and considers in society?”
“Why, yes, I do consider it rather foolish.” Brenda had felt somewhat complimented by the adjective “broad-minded,” which Nora had applied to her. “You know,” she continued, “that I don’t agree with everything Belle and Frances say. But I think that you are a little hard on them sometimes.”
“Frances certainly treated us very hospitably to-day, and it is n’t just the thing to criticise her. But, someway, it tires me to hear her and Belle talking in that languid style, just like grown people, and I’m glad that we are not obliged to follow their example.”
When Brenda was dressing for dinner that evening, Nora slipped into her room for a few minutes.
“I always think of this room as one of the cosiest and prettiest I know. These pink roses are so lovely on wall paper, and the china matches it so exactly. Oh, what a delightful easy chair this is!” and Nora flung herself down into the depths of one that held out its arms invitingly.
“I should think that you would feel like keeping it most of the time on that little covered balcony, where you could sit and read and look at the sea, and do nothing else for hours.”
“And you were just scolding about laziness a little while ago.”
“Oh, well, there are different kinds of laziness. Reading is one kind, that nobody scolds about very much in the summer. What have you been reading?”
“Oh, novels and such things. That’s all that I ever do read.”
“Why, Brenda Barlow, a novel by ‘The Countess!’” cried Nora, taking up some of the books from the little bookcase in the corner; “and here’s another, and another, and—why, there are six of them, as true as I live! My mother does n’t let me read ‘The Countess;’” and Nora held up the paper-covered book, on the outside of which was the picture of a very pretty woman in a low-necked gown, supposed to be the author.
Brenda blushed a little guiltily. She had never been forbidden to read this fascinating author (at least she considered her “fascinating”) because her mother was unacquainted with her fondness for this particular species of literature. Brenda had happened to buy a “Countess” novel at a news-stand, while waiting for a train, another had been sent her by Belle, who had already read it and pronounced it “perfectly fine,” and then Brenda, as she had the opportunity, had bought the others. There was no great harm in the books,—or what there was was beyond Brenda’s comprehension,—but they were foolishly sentimental, and she had had a distinct consciousness more than once that if her father and mother should discover her reading them they would be far from pleased. At the same time, she let the books stand on her bookcase, instead of hiding them (as some girls might have hidden them) in her closet. It had never been a family rule that she must ask, before reading new authors, and yet she knew perfectly well that in reading “The Countess” she had not done right. On the other hand, she eased her conscience by saying to herself that she did not hide her books, and that if her mother should happen to examine her bookshelves she would find these novels, and could express herself about them.
“In fact,” so her thoughts ran on, “I am not sure that she has not seen them; and as she has n’t said anything to me about them, she must think them all right.”
But Mrs. Barlow, if she had noticed these books in Brenda’s room, had never really examined them. They were as innocent in appearance, when one looked only at their backs, as “Dosia” or “Le Roi de Montagnes,” which had a place on the same shelves, and, like the English novels, were bound in paper covers.
Now Nora, perceiving that the subject was not altogether an agreeable one to Brenda, said no more about the tabooed books. But she laid the matter up in her mind, intending, as soon as she could, to make an opportunity to speak about them.
The very next day, fairly early in the afternoon, Julia arrived from Cambridge.
“You really do look pale,” cried Nora, after the first greetings had been exchanged. “I am going to join Brenda in pitying you.”
“Well, you need n’t,” responded Julia. “I can assure you that it would be pity wholly thrown away.”
“But are n’t you tired, and were n’t the examinations fearful?”
“Oh, I am a little tired, and the examinations did seem a trifle wearing. But everything seems wearing in hot weather, even pleasure-seeking,” and she glanced mischievously at Brenda, recalling one or two hot days when they had vainly tried to amuse themselves.
“Oh, it is positively cruel to make people study and work in June. I would n’t do it for anything,” and Brenda shook her head very emphatically.
“Well, it’s all over now—for this June, at least; and while I won’t wholly agree with you about the cruelty of making people study in June, I ’ll admit that I am very glad to settle down to the business of amusing myself. Have n’t you planned something especially in my honor?” and Julia glanced mischievously at Brenda.
“The Fourth of July is the next exciting event,” responded her cousin; “but you and Nora must do just as much as you can to make it a great occasion. Without any boys in the family, it is n’t the easiest thing in the world to be patriotic.”
“What an idea!” exclaimed Nora. “Can’t girls be as patriotic as boys?”
“Not in the way of firecrackers, and things like that. It takes boys to make things lively.”
“I agree with you there,” said Nora, thinking of her own houseful of brothers. “Boys do make a Fourth of July uncommonly lively. Let me see, I believe that Teddy singed both of his eyebrows last Fourth, and got a spark in his eye that we thought at first might destroy the sight, and Rupert was hit in the head by a rocket, and had to be revived by a pailful of water, and Jim Buller, who was visiting us, broke his arm by falling off the roof of a shed where he had been sitting and waving a flag enthusiastically, and—”
“Oh, what a chapter of horrors!” cried Julia. “If we should try, I am sure that we could n’t equal it here at Rockley.”
“We ’ll have plenty of fireworks,” said Brenda.
“And if we could borrow a small boy or two,” added Nora.
“There’s Fritz,” responded Brenda. “But then he might n’t like to be called a small boy.”
“Who’s Fritz?” asked Julia.
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” answered Brenda; “he’s some kind of a friend of Amy.”
“Oh, yes,” said Julia.
“Who is Amy?” asked Nora.
“I don’t believe that Brenda knows much more about Amy than she does about Fritz,” said Julia, “unless you ’ve called on her during my absence?” and she looked questioningly at Brenda.
“No, I have n’t,” replied Brenda, a little shortly; “but I ’ve seen her once. I ’ll tell you about it some time. It would bore Nora to hear about a girl she has never seen.
“Speaking of girls,” said Nora, “reminds me of Angelina. We saw her the other day on our way to Nahant.”
Thereupon, between them, Nora and Brenda told Julia about their rather singular meeting with Angelina. Julia looked serious when they had finished the story.
“Do you know,” she said, “I believe that we shall have more trouble with Angelina than with all the rest of the Rosas. I have a letter here from Miss South; let me read what she says,” and she pulled he letter from her pocket.
I must tell you now that the other day we drove over to Shiloh. I spent half an hour with Mrs. Rosa, while my grandmother drove out toward the Lake. Mrs. Rosa is looking much better for the change of air, and the children are as happy as can be. Angelina is the only discontented one. The place is too quiet for her, and she makes her mother miserable by repining for the city. I wish that Mrs. Rosa could be a little sterner with her. She is inclined to let Angelina have her own way. Perhaps when there are more boarders in town Angelina will feel less lonely. But I am afraid that she will never find Shiloh as gay as Hanover Street. Hoping to see you soon at Marblehead,
Sincerely yours,
“Well, I declare,” said Brenda, when Julia had finished the letter, “how ungrateful Angelina is after all we have done for her. The idea of her wishing to live in that wretched place again—with mice running about, and all kinds of disagreeable things. Ugh!”
Julia laughed at Brenda’s disgusted expression.
“I don’t suppose that Angelina is exactly longing for the mice; by this time she has probably forgotten them. But you see she has always lived in the city, and she naturally finds the country a trifle dull.”
“Dull!” and Brenda gave a sniff of disdain. “I hope that she ’ll have so much work to do this summer that she won’t have time to know whether she’s dull or gay.”
“Why, Brenda, how you are progressing! To advocate hard work for any one! The next thing you ’ll be looking for work for yourself.”
Brenda took this chaffing in good part. There was never a real sting in anything that Nora said.
“No, indeed,” she responded. “It may be a long time before I advocate work for myself. It’s one thing to prescribe medicine, and altogether another to take it one’s self.”
“Oh, well, Angelina is not thirteen yet. We can’t expect much from a girl of that age.” Of the three girls, Julia was the most apt to look at a subject rom all sides.
“Well, she seems more than that, and I’m sure she is old enough to realize her duty.”
“I’m older than she, and I’m afraid that I don’t always realize mine.”
“The idea, Nora, of comparing yourself with Angelina!”
“I ’ll admit that we ’re not exactly twins, but still—”
“Girls, girls,”—the three looked up to see Mrs. Barlow standing at their door,—“isn’t it pleasanter on the piazza? The moon rises early, and you ought to be there to see it.”
“Grand show! Free admittance!” and Nora caught Brenda by the waist to whirl her two or three times around the room.
“Yes, Aunt Anna, we ’re coming almost immediately; I want to write a note first,” concluded Julia, in a lower tone, as the other two started to go downstairs.
The windows of Julia’s room looked out toward the sea, and now, as she gazed out, an involuntary exclamation of delight broke from her. The moon, seeming to rest on the edge of the waters, was of a deep orange, or rather of a color that was neither orange nor yellow nor red, but a mingling of all three, and it had a transparency that made it seem almost possible to look through it. Off to the right, the sharp reddish lamp of the lighthouse revolved in its regular course.
Julia counted the regular revolutions, then laughed at herself for doing so. “Creature of habit!” she murmured reprovingly. “ I know perfectly well just how many revolutions there are, and what the interval is between them; but still it fascinates me to count. I half hope that the count will once in a while be different, that I may find the lighthouse in a fault. I wonder what would happen if it should go a little wrong for a night or two. It’s more to be depended on than the moon, for sometimes the moon hides behind a cloud. I suppose that that is one reason why we are so fond of the moon. If she were as absolutely unchanging as a lighthouse, we might consider her rather tiresome. I believe I can understand why Brenda is so annoyed with people who claim to be perfect. Angelina seems to be her one exception. Well, the sooner I write that note to Miss South the better!”
Although the light was really too dim for writing, Julia pushed a little table to the window, and soon had the note finished which was to apprise Miss South of Angelina’s recent visit to Lynn. She asked her friend to make sure, by sending a messenger to Shiloh, that Angelina had really returned home. She knew that in a general way Miss South needed no suggestion as to what ought to be said to Angelina, and Julia felt sure that she would devise some plan for preventing Angelina’s leaving home again.
When the note was finished Julia still sat near the window. It was nearly dark, and the moon, paler in color, had grown to look more metallic. It was high enough to throw a trail of light on the water, and, the better to enjoy the scene, Julia stepped out on the little balcony, upon which her windows opened. She found it, indeed, pleasanter to stay there than to join the rest of the family on the larger piazza below. Her examinations had really tired her more than she had realized, and she was glad to have this time to herself. Her mind went back over the past year. Could it be only a year since she had sat with her father in that little adobe house in the hills of New Mexico, the place to which they had gone in their last effort to bring back that health which was never again to be his? He had lingered until September; and then the end had come so unexpectedly that Julia had not had time to send for any of her relatives in the East. But she had had Eliza with her,—good, faithful Eliza, who had understood her and sympathized with her, and had come with her on that sad journey across the continent. Her father’s will had been very explicit. He had requested that he should be buried in the old cemetery just outside the town where he died. In a letter he directed Julia, as soon as the funeral was over, to go immediately to Chicago. There she was to rest for a few days at the house of an old friend of his, who was also one of the executors of his will, and, as soon as possible, still under Eliza’s care, she was to go on to Boston to her uncle, Robert Barlow’s. Julia had obeyed her father’s commands, and had left the placing of the stone over his grave to his friend. Colonel Amsden, then stationed at Fort Marcy. Her stay in Chicago had so brightened her that when she reached Boston she had felt able to take up the work of the school which her cousin Brenda attended. Before she reached Boston, the faithful Eliza had had a letter from a brother in Maine, urging her to come to him to take care of his motherless children.
“You don’t really need me now, Miss Julia,” Eliza had said; “but I promise you that if you ever do I will come to you.”
So Eliza had gone away a day or two after Julia found herself settled in her uncle’s house, and she had taken with her the faithful setter, “Prince,” who for several years had been the companion of Julia’s wanderings.
“A city house ain’t no place for a dog—even if your aunt wanted him, and I kind of understand that she don’t. He can roam where he wants to at my brother’s farm, and perhaps next summer you can have him with you at the shore.”
But in the late spring Prince had died,—“of old age,” Eliza had written, and Julia, though she had not said so very much about it, had really felt his death deeply. Perhaps you may think it foolish for a girl who had just taken her preliminary examinations for College to sit in the moonlight on a warm June evening, shedding a tear as she thought of the faithful old dog whom she was never to see again. But Julia felt no shame as she sighed, “Poor Prince,” and wiped away the tears.
The murmur of voices came up to her from the piazza below. But she felt no desire to go down.
“Julia, Julia,” called Brenda, “we want you.”
“Please excuse me,” responded Julia; “I really am tired. Let me say good-night from the balcony.”
“A perfect Juliet,” cried Nora, running out on the path in front of the house, and gazing up where Juliet stood on the balcony.
“As I see that you merely mean a pun, I will forgive you,” cried Julia. “I am too tired to do even the balcony scene. Good-night.”
Yet, although she withdrew to her room, Julia was by no means displeased that her cousin, as well as the others, desired her presence. Six months before, Brenda would have been slow to admit that she had any pleasure in Julia’s society. She had permitted herself to be the victim of unreasonable prejudice, which it had taken much effort on Julia’s part to remove. Or perhaps it might be truer to say that, without making a special effort, Julia, by merely showing what she really was, had conquered the prejudice of her impulsive cousin.