by Oliver Optic
XX
WEARY WAITING
Toward the end of June letters from Arthur were infrequent. Indeed, butone had come from him since he had left camp for Cuba, and this, likethe earlier letters, had been addressed to Agnes, not to Brenda. Letterswere mailed to him twice a week, and various things had been sent to himthat the family hoped might be of use in camp. But although Brendahelped pack the little boxes, and though she had bought, or at leastselected, many of the things that went in the boxes, she did not write.She was still waiting for Arthur's letter.
The last week in June several of the girls from the Mansion went home tobe with relatives for a few days before going up to the farm, and Brendaat last agreed to go down to Rockley. Mrs. Barlow had told her that shemight bring with her any of the girls whom she wished to have with her."Naturally, I suppose, you will wish to bring Maggie, as she is yourespecial protegee."
Mrs. Barlow had not realized the waning of Brenda's interest in Maggie,but Brenda, as she read the letter, knew that she would not inviteMaggie. She had not yet spoken to Maggie about the silver clasp, but shesaw that the time had now come to do it, and she nerved herself to thedisagreeable task. Accordingly, a day or two before she was to start forRockley she called Maggie to her room, but when Maggie appeared she wasnot alone. Concetta was with her. It hardly seemed wise to send Concettaaway, and the two little girls sat down, as if to make an afternoonvisit. Hardly had she been seated five minutes, however, when Concettaspied the little silver clasp that Brenda had laid on the table near by.At first she put out her hand as if to take it, then even more quicklydrew it back. But Brenda had noted the action, and after they had talkeda few minutes of other things she brought up the subject of the lostpurse.
She had described the pretty purse that she had so valued, because itwas a present from one of whom she was especially fond, and told how itsloss had distressed her. It must be admitted that her heart beat atrifle more quickly as she looked at the two, but neither of the girlsappeared the least self-conscious. Then she held up the clasp--perhapsit wasn't just right to say this before Concetta--and added:
"It surprised me very much a day or two ago to find this little clasp inthe possession of one of the girls here at the Mansion, for it is thevery clasp that I lost with the silver purse."
Then Maggie reddened and looked at Concetta, and Concetta looked fromMaggie to Brenda.
"Did you think that somebody stole it?" asked Maggie anxiously, andthen she seemed to search Concetta's face for an answer.
"I hardly care to say what I think," replied Brenda. "I should not liketo believe that any one had stolen it."
This time her gaze was so evidently directed toward Maggie that Maggiewas almost driven to reply.
"I know that it was in my drawer, Miss Barlow, but--"
"Oh, it was I who gave it to her, I really did; but I didn't steal it."Concetta spoke very positively.
Brenda was certainly puzzled by the turn of affairs, the more puzzledbecause she realized as well as any one else in the house that Maggieand Concetta had never been good friends, yet it was Maggie whom she nowheard saying:
"Oh, I'm sure, Miss Barlow, that Concetta isn't to blame."
"I never saw the purse," explained Concetta, "but the clasp was given tome--that is, I paid twenty-five cents for it. The girl I got it fromlives in the next house to my uncle's; you can ask her about it."
"Well, I'm obliged to you, Concetta, for freeing Maggie from suspicion.It is indeed strange that the day I lost the purse was the very day onwhich I first saw Maggie. You remember, Maggie, the day when I went homewith you."
"Yes, indeed, Miss Barlow, the day I broke that vase; that was a badbargain for you."
"Why, I'm not so sure, Maggie; you see I seem to have found you inexchange for the vase, and perhaps, after all, I have had the best ofthe bargain. But tell me, Concetta, how it happens that you and Maggieare good friends now. Only a little while ago you seemed to be far fromfriendly, yet now you would not have been so ready to tell me about thesilver clasp if you had not been anxious to help free Maggie from anychance of blame."
So Concetta--for in spite of occasional mistakes in English she wasalways more voluble than Maggie--explained that several times of lateMaggie had been very kind to her, and she gave among her instances theday when Maggie had helped with the lamps; "and then I thought that shewas dreadfully good when she never told about Haleema the day theammonia got spilled, for it was Haleema that broke the bottle, butMaggie never told; and then," concluded Concetta magnanimously, "I gottired of hearing every one find fault with Maggie, so she and I aregoing to be great friends now. That's one of the things I've learnedhere, that it's better to be good friends with every one, 'to love yourneighbor as yourself.' Miss South often talks to me about it, and so I'mtrying to think that every one is as good as I am;" and Concetta tossedher pretty head, and her expression seemed to say that she did not findthis sentiment the easiest one in the world to hold.
On investigation--for Concetta urged her to investigate--Brenda foundher story true so far as it concerned the way in which she had come intopossession of the silver clasp. The little girl from whom she had boughtit referred her to an old woman who had a long story as to how it hadcome into her possession, and Brenda at last decided that it was uselessto follow the clew further. But the outcome of all this was a betterunderstanding between Brenda and Maggie, for Brenda, when she had oncemade a mistake, was never unwilling to rectify it. Whether this littlegirl had stolen it or whether the old woman was to blame she did notcare. She felt sure that neither Maggie nor Concetta had taken thepurse. She praised the latter for her frankness, and became so kind tothe former, that Maggie actually blossomed out under her smiles.
Before the end of the month Pamela had written that she must stay inVermont all summer, and in consequence could take no part in thevacation work that Julia had planned. Nora accordingly offered herservices, and Amy wrote that she volunteered to spend August with thegirls.
Brenda's cousin, Edward Elton, who happened to be present when the planswere discussed, expressed himself as being so gratified that Julia andMiss South would not be left to carry on the work quite alone, thatAnstiss Rowe, ever a fun lover, began to speculate as to the reason forhis concern.
"Do you suppose that this is on account of his interest in Julia? Juliahas so many others to worry about her, that he need not be especiallyfearful on her account, or--there, I'll ask her--" and running up toMiss South, who had just been bidding Mr. Elton good-bye at the door,she put the question so suddenly that Miss South actually blushed. Thena certain idea came into Anstiss' mind, which just then she did not putinto words.
It was the end of June before Brenda consented to go down to Rockley,and when she went Maggie accompanied her. The observing little girl wasstill disturbed as she noted how thin Brenda had grown, and even beforeMr. and Mrs. Barlow noticed it, Maggie had seen that Brenda's step was alittle heavy, that her bright manner had given place to listlessness.Her one interest seemed to consist in buying and collecting things forthe benefit of the Volunteer Aid Association. No one now reproached herfor extravagance, and when her father found that it would please her, hedoubled his contribution to this Association, and sent another inBrenda's name.
One afternoon Julia came down and spent the night, and the two cousinswandered on the beach, just as they had in that summer that now seemedso long past--that summer that had been Julia's first at Rockley. LittleLettice, skipping along beside them, begged her aunt to tell her aboutthe day when she had sat on the rock and had dropped her book on theheads of Amy and Fritz seated just beneath her. It always interestedLettice to hear this, for Brenda had a fashion of ending the story with"and if I hadn't dropped that book, I might never have known your cousinAmy." For Amy was "Cousin Amy" in the vocabulary of Lettice, who wouldhave thought it a great misfortune never to have known this adoptedrelative, since nobody else in her whole circle of acquaintances had somany delightful stories to tell. But on this particular evenin
g Brendawas not ready to repeat her story nor to tell any other, and littleLettice, with a grieved expression, ran on ahead of Brenda and Julia toskip stones in the water. Julia did not remonstrate with Brenda, for sherealized that her cousin was not acting wholly from perversity.
Now Brenda was not the only one of the Mansion group whom the prospectof Cuban fighting troubled. Miss South's brother Louis was at the front,and two of Nora's brothers, and Tom Hearst, who had written severalamusing letters from camp. Yet although those who were in the army triedto cheer the hearts of their friends at home, and although the latterwrote cheerfully in reply, all felt that the time was far from a happyone. The more timid, like Edith, had recovered from their fear that theSpanish fleet would pounce down upon the defenceless inhabitants of theNorth Shore. Yet some of them would have faced this danger rather thanto live in dread that their sons and brothers were to meet the troops inactual conflict under the hot Cuban sun.
Even the strongest, even those who had no relatives in the army, werestirred, as they had seldom been stirred before, on that Sunday morningwhen they received the first news of the attack on Santiago. Howterrifying were the broad headlines with letters two or three incheslong, and how meagre seemed the information given in the columnsbelow,--meagre, yet appalling: "The volunteers were terribly raked.Nearly all the wounded will recover." How much and yet how little thismeant until the names of the killed and wounded should be given! Brendaherself would not look at those Sunday newspapers. Agnes summarized thenews for her, and told her that in the short list given of wounded orkilled she had not yet found one that she knew.
"Oh, when shall we hear everything?" cried Brenda. "Oh, Papa, can't yougo; can't I go with you? I would so much rather be in Cuba than here."
"My dear child, you are foolish. In Cuba at this season! Even if youcould go, what could you do? The killed and wounded are a very smallproportion of those who are fighting, and we have no reason to thinkthat Arthur is among them. To be sure, I wish that Ralph were here; wecould, at least, send him South. As it is, I may go myself, but we canonly wait until to-morrow, when there will be more complete reports."
Were twenty-four hours ever as long as those that passed before theMonday morning papers arrived?
After her sleepless night again Brenda shrank from reading the reports.Agnes, going over the long list of killed and wounded, gave anexclamation of surprise,--or horror,--then checked it, with an anxiouslook at Brenda. The latter, watching her narrowly, sprang forward.
"What is it Agnes? You must tell me at once."
"Poor Tom Hearst!" cried Agnes, as her tears fell on the paper; "he waskilled by a bursting shell during the early part of the attack on SanJuan Hill."
But Brenda apparently did not hear.
"Is Arthur's name there?" she asked impatiently.
"Why, yes," said Agnes reluctantly, "it--"
But before she could utter another word Brenda had fallen heavily to thefloor, and for a few minutes everything else was forgotten. Indeed, fromthe moment when Brenda was placed on the couch in her room upstairsAgnes did not leave her side, and for twenty-four hours, by thedirection of the physician whom they had hastily summoned, they did notdare to refer to Santiago.
When she came to herself Brenda learned that the report about Arthur hadsimply been "slightly wounded;" that her father was expecting an answersoon to his telegram of enquiry, and that Philip Blair had startedSouth.
A faint smile passed over Brenda's face.
"I was sure--I was afraid that he was killed--like poor Tom. Isn't itdreadful that he should die? he was always so full of life." Then shebegan to weep silently, and said no more about Arthur.
Now it happened that Brenda passed through a more severe illness thatsummer than Arthur. Her physician, in anxious consultation with thefamily, concluded that she had stayed too long in town. "I think, too,"he said, "that she has had something to worry her. It would seem," headded apologetically, "that one situated as she is would have no cares;but it is hard sometimes to account for the workings of a young girl'smind. She may have magnified some little anxiety until it played seriousinjury to her nerves."
"It is this war," responded Mrs. Barlow. "I wonder that more of us donot have nervous prostration."
During those long weeks Brenda herself had little to say, even when shewas well enough to sit up. When she spent long hours under the awning onthe little balcony on which her windows opened, she seemed to take but alanguid interest in the world around her.
In those first two or three days when Brenda's condition was at itsworst, when there was even a question whether or not she would get well,no one thought much about Maggie, the newcomer at Rockley, whose griefwas greater than she could express. She kept her place in a corner ofthe piazza, hoping and hoping that some one would ask her to dosomething for the sick girl. Gladly would she have exchanged places withthe trained nurse who went back and forth to the sick-room, had she notknown that the nurse could do the things that she in her ignorance wasunequal to. At last there came a day when Brenda herself asked for her,and after that Maggie was always in the sick-room, except on thoseoccasions when she was carrying into effect some request of Brenda's.How thankful she felt for the lessons in invalid cookery, that nowenabled her to prepare a tempting luncheon that Brenda would eat aftershe had petulantly refused the equally good luncheon prepared by thenurse. Then there were hours when no one but Maggie could amuse Brenda,when, after listening to a chapter or two from the book that she hadasked Maggie to read, the sick girl would draw the other intoconversation. Any one who listened would have found that the subjectabout which they talked was war and battles--especially the eventful dayof the Santiago fight, concerning which Brenda would allow no oneelse to speak to her.
She seemed to take but a languid interest in the worldaround her]
Now it happened that one afternoon after Maggie had been reading to her,Brenda remembered the photograph that she had seen in Maggie's room, andagain, as on that former day, she asked her about it. So Maggie wasdrawn to tell all about Tim, even the sad story of his imprisonment.
"But now," she concluded, "everything is going to be all right. Hiscaptain is going to have him recommended for promotion for savinglife--great bravery," and she pronounced the words with extreme pride."He saved an officer at the risk of his own life, and when the war'sover he's coming to see me."
In fact, Maggie had good reason to be proud of Tim. She had read hisname in the newspapers, and though his own letters were modest, she wassure that he had been a real hero.
But the strangest thing of all was a letter from Philip Blair, that Mrs.Barlow read one day aloud in Maggie's presence.
"After all," he wrote, "sick as Arthur is, we may be thankful that it isfever and a very slight wound that keep him on his back. From all I hearhe had the narrowest escape, and but for a private soldier, TimMcSorley, he would probably have lost both legs." Then followed adescription of the way in which Tim had rescued him almost from underthe bursting shell; for, the newspaper report to the contrary, Arthurhad not been badly hurt by the shell, only stunned, with a slight woundalso from a grazing bullet. But the hardships of the campaign had sotold on him that he was soon on the sick list, and when he reached FortMonroe on the hospital ship he was in a raging fever.
Now to Philip in this eventful July had come an opportunity forusefulness, really greater than if he had gone to Cuba in the army. Ashis father could now spare him, he had given invaluable service to thesick. He had made one trip to Cuba and had had the grave of Tom Hearstmarked properly, and he had travelled the length of the country fromFlorida to Boston to report to the Volunteer Aid Association theespecial needs of the sick soldiers in the camps that he had visited. Hewas a real ministering angel--for angels are often masculine--to Arthurand other sick friends of his in the hospital at Fort Monroe; and thosewho knew how much he accomplished in this direction wondered how hefound time for the long and cheerful letters that he wrote to thefriends of the sick to keep up their spirits.
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Lois, too, though belated, had a chance to serve as a nurse in one ofthe camps, and, while doing her duty there, had the satisfaction ofknowing that she was not neglecting home duties; for both her family andMiss Ambrose were at last in such a condition that she felt justified inleaving them. Though few persons would have envied her her hard hospitalwork, Lois considered herself the most enviable of mortals, and all thatshe went through only confirmed her in her strong desire to be adoctor.
