THE SUMMER'S END
One afternoon in late September, Martine sat under the trees in her mother's corner of the Red Knoll garden. A number of letters lay before her on a little round table, and beside her, swinging lazily in a hammock, was Priscilla, the practical, who had often been heard to say that she despised hammocks.
After a moment Priscilla, bringing herself to a full stop, leaned forward and gazed intently at Martine.
"I cannot see," she said at length, "that you look so very thin."
"Why should I be very thin?"
"Well, from what I heard I thought you must be. They said you weren't eating, and you are thinner than you were in the spring. I am sure your eyes look larger."
"Probably my eyes have grown; I am sure my waistbands have."
There was a twinkle in Martine's brown eyes, as she pushed back a wavy lock of hair.
"You are just a little paler, too," persisted Priscilla, "but except for that, no one would believe that you had been so ill."
"I don't believe it myself," replied Martine, "though I am perfectly willing to take the word of those who say they know. To tell you the truth, I am rather ashamed to hear that I barely escaped nervous prostration, just because I tried to stop a horse from running away."
"But you did stop him."
"Then he wasn't running away. It was only that Carlotta had let go the reins."
"Well, they all say that if you hadn't seized the bridle, he would have gone straight down the little embankment."
"Nonsense—at any rate I spoilt the effect of it all by fainting, and yet I shouldn't have fainted if I hadn't been following your example. The horse had nothing to do with it."
"Oh, Martine!"
"Yes, my dear Prissie. I had been following your old example of borrowing trouble, and I had been keeping my tribulations to myself, until I just couldn't bear them. You see it was this way. I was sure that father wouldn't get well, and that the shock of his death would kill mother, and Lucian would have to leave college, and I would have to start out at once to earn my living. Then little things were bothering me too, like Carlotta's being mean, and Angelina's leaving us with no one to help, and I was tired of being economical, so the horse was just the last straw."
Though Martine's explanation was not very lucid, Priscilla certainly understood her.
"I believe Clare was disappointed," she continued, "that I hadn't at least one bone broken. She wanted to make a heroine of me, and she isn't at all pleased when I tell her I wasn't in danger."
"Well, if you were not, Carlotta was. She is very grateful."
"I know, I know," said Martine, hastily. "But when you are not very fond of people, it is rather disagreeable to have them grateful, especially for nothing at all. I was really sorry that the person in the carriage was Carlotta. I suppose this sounds very hateful, for she has written me a fine letter—says she is sorry she couldn't see me before she went to the mountains, but still—"
"But still," echoed Priscilla.
"Oh, nothing, except that I like Mrs. Brownville's letter so much better. She says that I have been a great help to Herbert this summer—keeping him away from a set of young men the family didn't care for, and giving him ideals. I shouldn't expect Mrs. Brownville to know an ideal when she saw it. However, I dare say she's right, only it was unconscious goodness on my part. I didn't know Herbert had to be kept away from any set of foolish companions. I simply found him good company, and I am so used to giving advice to Lucian and Robert that I naturally favored Herbert in the same way. Then he was tremendously good in reading Latin with me. Except for this accident I should have been ahead of you, Prissie dear."
"I should like to have seen Herbert Brownville."
"Yes, it's a pity he had to go back to college before you came. But you'll see him in Boston some time."
"When do you expect your father?" asked Priscilla.
"Oh, in a week—just think of it—in a week, and he is almost well, and although he has lost money, things are not going to be so very dreadful,—not at all as I feared. I looked too far ahead."
"Yes," said Priscilla, mischievously, "jumping at conclusions is almost as bad as borrowing trouble. They mean much the same thing."
"I am not so sure. I cannot imagine a slow, deliberate person like you jumping at conclusions, though I have known you to borrow trouble."
"Sometimes I am very hasty," responded Priscilla, slowly, as if reflecting on something. "There is one thing I ought to tell you. Do you remember your prize essay last spring?"
"Oh, yes, but I didn't set out to get a prize."
"I know. If you had, I suppose you would have written it all alone."
"What do you mean? I did write it alone."
Then remembering Lucian's help, Martine flushed to the roots of her hair.
"I did not mean to offend you," continued Priscilla, "for even if Lucian helped you a little, this was all right; I was only thinking how unfair I had been. I accidentally saw some notes for your essay in Lucian's handwriting, and for a little while I felt that you had acted unfairly. Do you remember one week last spring, when I was stiff and disagreeable and wouldn't go anywhere with you?"
"One week!" exclaimed Martine, roguishly.
"Oh, I dare say there were others. Only I remember the why of that particular week."
"But it's so long ago," cried Martine, "Let's not remember it now."
"It's only fair that you should know that I sometimes jump to conclusions."
"As long as you are ready to jump away from them again, there's no great harm done."
"That's what I wanted to say. I realized after all that there was no rule in school against getting help in an essay, and that you didn't know a prize was to be given when you wrote yours. But I always thought you ought to know how unfair I had been."
"Then we are friends again," said Martine, laughing, "though I didn't know we had ever been anything else." Secretly, she thought Priscilla had made a great ado about nothing. "It's the Puritan way, I suppose," she said to herself. Then aloud,—
"As I have forgiven you, we may call it square about those Christmas photographs. Thus far I have always been able to prevent your paying me for them. But to-day, when I found your note with this money on my bureau—really, Priscilla, I was almost offended. So here, child," and she held out an envelope, "if you will take back this money, I will forgive you for your unfair thoughts."
Under the circumstances Priscilla could not refuse Martine, and thus both girls were satisfied.
"There's one thing," said Martine, to change the subject, "I have had some lovely letters lately. Just think of little Esther's writing me. Nora must have told her where I was. She hopes I will be able to go on with the Mansion Class next year—but dear me, Priscilla, she has got far beyond me; only look at this pen and ink," and she displayed the last page of the letter, in which Esther had drawn a picture that Priscilla at once recognized as Martine herself. "Then Alexander Babet has written me about Yvonne, that she is much stronger, and so happy with her music lessons,—and would you believe it, they still have some of that hundred dollars left. It's wonderful how far some people can make a little money go."
Here Martine sighed, recalling the time when she would not have thought a hundred dollars too much to spend in gratifying a single small wish.
"Do you know," she continued, "it may be that I can really do something for Yvonne next year. If papa can't spare the money, why I can give up something of my own—riding lessons, for example,—and spend what it would cost for Yvonne. This year I have been so frightfully useless; it seems as if I hadn't done anything for anybody."
"How foolish you are," exclaimed Priscilla. "If there were nothing else, you certainly have helped Yvonne and Esther, and just think what Mrs. Brownville writes about Herbert, and your mother says you have been a wonderful housekeeper, and that you have taken so much care off her shoulders, and Angelina—"
"Well, Angelina is rather absurd," interposed Martine; "I was just coming to myself that evening after—what shall I call it—the Carlotta incident, when Angelina rushed into the room, and almost threw herself on my neck. She seemed to think that something awful had happened to me because she had undertaken to leave us, and that my salvation depended on her. She said she had had queer feelings all day, and that she just felt drawn back to Red Knoll, which she never, never, would desert again. Really it was just as well that she came back, for although mother was able to get an extra helper, Angelina knew exactly where things were. Of course she was tremendously proud of what she had accomplished in her trip to Portsmouth, for she made the house-breaker admit that he was Miguel Silva, and though she can't recover her money, she has a kind of wicked satisfaction in knowing that he will be punished for his other misdeeds."
"She doesn't seem to be quite as Spanish as she was last winter. At least she doesn't say as much about it."
"No, she gives me the credit for that. She says that I have shown her that it is wrong to pretend anything. However, on that same Portsmouth trip, she went down the harbor to look at the island where Cervera's men were prisoners, and now she likes to speak of the Spaniards in a patronizing tone as people to be spoken of as inferiors rather than kinsmen."
"It's astonishing," mused Priscilla, "how many friends you make!"
"Why should it be astonishing? Why shouldn't I make friends?"
"I only meant it was astonishing in comparison with me. No one ever attaches importance to me. In the past year I have hardly made a new friend—while you—"
"You have made a friend of me for one thing, and Lucian thinks you are exactly right, and my mother considers you a perfect model. Oh, yes, and there's Eunice."
Priscilla, in spite of herself, smiled at Martine's droll tone.
"But think of all the people you have to your credit. Mr. Stacy says he never saw a young girl talk so intelligently about Plymouth, and the children are always asking me when you will come again, and in her secret heart I believe Aunt Tilworth prefers you to me,—and my mother—"
"What nonsense, Priscilla! It's only because people think me so very empty-headed when they first meet me, that they are surprised later to find that there's anything to me, just as I am surprised some times to discover these quiet dignified girls, like Elinor, and Clare, are really very good fun when you come to know them better."
"Then," continued Priscilla, "there are Balfour and Mr. Gamut. If you hadn't been considerate of Balfour's feelings, and invited him to your house, he wouldn't have met Mr. Gamut, and Eunice says he has made him a splendid offer, and he will take it as soon as he's through college."
"Oh, well, things may have happened that way; but you know yourself that I haven't any particular talent for anything, and I never go out of my way to help people."
"You help them just by being bright and pleasant and making them think the best of themselves."
"Perhaps; but as to Balfour, I am glad that he's to be helped by Mr. Gamut, and not by Mr. Blair, or even papa, as I once hoped. For, as it is, he's much more independent, without feeling that anything has been done for him, because he's a connection of ours, even though the cousinship is rather far away. It was so funny, though, to see Mr. Gamut the evening Carlotta's horse tried to run. He appeared on the scene just as I fainted, and later, when I came to, he was hopping about, anxious to do something, but not knowing what to do. Faint as I was, I almost laughed at him. But that would have been mean, for he had come almost expressly to bring me news that he had just heard about papa's affairs. He said he knew I had been worrying, and he wanted to be the first to tell me. Naturally, he was surprised to find me lying on my back in the middle of the road. But come, we mustn't waste all the morning here," and seizing Priscilla by the arm, Martine fairly dragged her from the hammock.
"I feel so energetic now," she cried, "that we must do something exciting—take a long walk to work off my energy—if we could gather a party, I believe I could climb Agamenticus. What would you say to that, Prissie?"
The diminutive no longer annoyed Priscilla. She had learned to understand Martine.
"It isn't necessary for me to say anything. Your mother will tell you what she thinks about your climbing Agamenticus."
"I suppose it is too far. You always do know better than I. I believe that next year I shall have to be known as Priscilla's, instead of Brenda's ward"—and with her hand in Priscilla's, Martine went into the house.