CHAPTER EIGHTH
A MATTER OF LOYALTY
Mrs. Millard's irritation was not long in bearing fruit. On the hall table lay a card, and pausing on her way upstairs she examined it through her jewelled lorgnette. Charlotte, halfway down, leaned over the rail and watched her, admiring the sweep of her gown, the perfection of the gloved hand that held the card.
One might object to Aunt Caroline's methods and rebel against her mandates, and yet not be blind to the exquisite perfection of her appearance and belongings. Charlotte had privately borrowed one of Aunt Virginia's skirts, and practised before the cheval glass, but the flowing lines that so much pleased her she found unattainable.
"Miss Lucile Lyle," Mrs. Millard read aloud.
"It is for me, Aunt Caroline," said Charlotte, from above. "I have been walking with Miss Alex and missed her."
"Which is rather fortunate than otherwise; for," Mrs. Millard tapped the card with her glass, "I desire you not to make a friend of this young lady."
Charlotte sat down on the step. "Does that mean I am to be rude to her?"
"Certainly not. There are ways of letting people know you do not care for their society without being rude."
"I don't see how you can do it without being unpleasant," argued Charlotte; "and I like Lucile."
"That last fact has nothing to do with it. It is important at your age to form proper friendships. This I do not consider desirable, and I expect you to be guided by me."
"What am I to do?" Charlotte persisted.
"I see no occasion to do anything."
"She will think it rude if I do not go to see her."
"What she thinks is of little moment. You can say your aunt does not care to have you make visits while you are occupied with your studies."
"But she knows I have been to see the Mays."
"Well, really, Charlotte, I cannot argue the question further. I simply expect to be obeyed in the matter." With this final utterance Mrs. Millard swept past her.
Charlotte had come in from her walk in good spirits. She felt it an honor to be chosen as a companion by a grown young lady, and Miss Alex had been very entertaining as they walked about the park under the beech trees. In these days Charlotte's ideals were in an unstable state. On the one hand, she admired Lucile, longed to be Carlotta and the heroine of romantic adventures. On the other, she recognized a certain distinction in Alexina's severe style, and felt proud of her notice.
This afternoon Alex's influence had been in the ascendant. She had shown a flattering interest in all Charlotte told about her life at Aunt Cora's and the Landors'. She had read some of Cousin Frank's stories and poems and admired them, making Charlotte proud of being even distantly related to him.
"It must be splendid to do things," Alex said. "To feel that you have your own special work to do in the world."
"I should love to write stories or paint pictures," agreed Charlotte.
"Any sort of useful work,—work there was a demand for, and that I could do better, or at least as well as any one else, would satisfy me," said Alex.
Alexina had gone on to give Charlotte a great deal of good advice about making the most of her opportunities. She listened gravely to the story of the borrowed novel Aunt Caroline had taken away; and while she acknowledged it was trying, she pointed out that it was a foolish story, and not worth reading.
When Charlotte went on to describe Lucile, Alex did not seem impressed, only saying, "I wonder who the Lyles are; I never heard of them. Of course they may be nice people, but Lucile Lyle is such a silly name."
"I think it is beautiful," cried Charlotte, wondering what Miss Alex would think of Carlotta Creston.
"No," the young lady said, as if replying to her thought, "I prefer plain names. For instance, if you should turn out to be a brilliant beauty and all that, there is nothing inappropriate in your name, Charlotte Creston. You can glorify it; but if you are only an ordinary person, you are made absurd by a name you cannot live up to."
This was a new view to take of it. Charlotte wavered, and really Lucile's influence was a little on the wane when the encounter with Aunt Caroline gave it new life. At school next day Charlotte came again under her spell.
Lucile was undeniably pretty and almost as grown up in appearance as Miss Alex, though only fifteen. She was intensely romantic, her own personal experiences at this early age would have supplied several novels, and her manner toward Charlotte was caressing and flattering. Charlotte was one of the few who understood her, she said. They were kindred souls.
Lucile wrote verses which seemed to Charlotte quite as good as Cousin Frank's, and she could sing any number of love-songs charmingly. The girls would gather about the piano at recess and beg her to sing. The favorite was one beginning:—
| "Teach, oh, teach me not to love thee! |
| Turn those beauteous eyes away," |
and Lucile always bent a soulful gaze upon Charlotte when she sang it. Charlotte wondered if her eyes were beauteous.
"When are you coming to see me Carlotta?" Lucile asked one day.
They were walking home from school, and had paused on the corner where their ways divided.
"I don't know. They don't like me to go out alone," was the answer, given with a flushed face.
"But the cars bring you almost to our door. I shall be terribly hurt."
Charlotte looked gloomy. "I can't come if they won't let me. You don't know. They think I am six years old."
"You don't love me. I see it plainly." With a tragic gesture Lucile drew a ring from her finger and held it out. "Take it back," she said.
In the first ardor of their friendship they had exchanged rings, Charlotte feeling a little mortified at the time that Lucile's was so much handsomer than hers, and she had kept it carefully turned in to avoid comment. But after all it was not giving up the ring she minded. Lucile's apparent distress touched her affectionate heart.
"Don't say that!" she entreated, drawing back. "I do love you, and I will come to see you whether they let me or not." In the glow of her devotion she felt like a heroine in one of Lucile's favorite tales. It was a question of loyalty now. She had promised to be friends before Aunt Caroline issued her commands. So they parted with renewed vows, and Charlotte's assurance that she would come that very afternoon on her way from her music lesson, if she could escape unobserved.
Charlotte had very imperfectly learned the lesson of obedience to higher powers, and it was not difficult to convince herself that she was justified. It did seem a little underhand, this was all that troubled her.
Aunt Virginia, who was going down town in the carriage, offered to take her to her lesson; adding, "You can find your way back, I suppose."
"I should think so, after so many times," Charlotte answered, feeling guilty.
Aunt Virginia was particularly agreeable and funny that afternoon. Charlotte was really becoming very fond of her. She was a merry companion; she liked foolish things, such as soda-water and candy, and was even willing to stop and watch a circus parade.
"If it is cool when you leave, be sure to put your jacket on," was her parting injunction.
"And if it rains, I'll put up my umbrella," Charlotte called after her, saucily. At the same time she felt ashamed of what she had planned to do. If it had not been for the memory of Lucile's reproaches, she would have given it up.
It must have been the thought of Aunt Virginia that kept the call from being the pleasure she had expected. Lucile was very glad to see her, and took her over the large, showy house, which seemed exactly suited to the large blond woman with a complexion of pinkish lavender, whom she introduced as her mother. Mrs. Lyle wore a costume of black and white, in broad stripes, and a wonderful, black plumed hat, which brought to mind Aunt Cora's poster room.
She was most gracious, complimenting Charlotte's eyes, and asking if she did not find the Terrace dreadfully far down town. She also asked about the Russells; said Alexina was odd and Madelaine a beauty, and that it was a great pity the judge had not known how to keep his money,—all of which seemed strange to Charlotte, when she remembered Alex's question, "Who are the Lyles?"
Lucile seemed proud of the house and told the cost of a good many things. She wanted to know why Charlotte's aunts did not sell their house in the Terrace and build out on the Avenue.
"I don't believe they want to," Charlotte answered; "and I think the Terrace is very nice," she added, feeling Lucile was rather too complacent.
"Why, they are beginning to put up stores there!" Lucile exclaimed.
Charlotte had herself freely criticised the Terrace, but this did not keep her from resenting Lucile's remarks, and she carried away with her a consciousness of the friction. As she walked home, she felt a vague dissatisfaction with life in general, and heartily wished she had not gone. She could not help seeing, just a little, why Aunt Caroline did not care for the Lyles.
Charlotte had a strong impulse to confess, and say she was sorry for what she had done; but the right moment did not come. Aunt Caroline was out that evening and Aunt Virginia in one of her shy, elusive moods. She got as far as "Aunt Virginia, I want to tell you,—I did something dreadful to-day—" when a visitor was announced. Her aunt looked relieved.
"Never mind, my dear; if you are sorry, I have no doubt it will be all right," she said, rising hastily. "Go to bed early."
How could you tell people things if they did not want to listen? At any rate she would not go to the Lyles' again, and she gave herself to her studies with a new earnestness born of repentance.