"You have been busy," Constance said gently, "and then, in a certain sense, I feel as if these cases were my work just as much as Greek and History. Mother does not believe in indiscriminate giving. She believes in personal investigation as far as possible. That takes longer, of course, and is much more bother, but she has made me feel that I have no right to waste my money (even if I do have more than most girls), by a lazy way of giving. What I give carelessly to some unworthy person who asks aid, may really belong by right to someone else who is deserving and whom I would have found, had I investigated personally. Do you see what I mean? I cannot help everyone, and so where I _do_ help, I want my money to do good, not harm."
"Your way must cost a great amount of time and trouble."
"It often does, and that is my real, personal part of the giving. I cannot take credit to myself for giving the money which comes to me with no exertion on my part."
"What shall you do when you are out of college and in society?"
"I never expect to be in society, as I suppose you understand that term. I have no particular fondness for receptions and germans and b.a.l.l.s. One tires of it all fearfully soon. I shall do some sort of college settlement work, but I shall not undertake it until I feel better prepared than at present."
"Dolly always said that I never knew anything about you, and she was right. In your place I know that I should just be getting all of the good times that I could for myself. I"m afraid that I should not care for much except the frivolous part of life. It is well that I am poor, and not likely to see much gaiety, because it has an irresistible attraction for me. You would not imagine it, would you?"
But Constance could understand perfectly how Mary"s hard, prosaic life on the western farm had caused her to think with deep longing of the bright, fashionable world in which she had no part or lot. Constance"s comprehension was so perfect, and her sympathy so delicate, that Mary grew bitterly ashamed of the narrow feelings and jealousy which had marred all her soph.o.m.ore year. There should be no more of it, she told herself sharply. Mary was not afraid to face facts when she once met them.
She owned, now, that she had been jealous of Dolly"s open admiration for Constance. Then she had called Constance proud and unfeeling. Who had stood Margaret Hamilton"s friend? Who was helping Margery Ainsworth to regain her self-respect? Who had gone to Mrs. O"Flaherty on the first hint of sickness? And had not the doctor declared that the college girls were ignorant of the greater part of her charitable deeds?
"I believe that I have been a big sn.o.b," Mary told herself. "We can only be measured by our inclinations and our deeds. Certainly, even in proportion to my limited means, I have done far less good than Constance.
It never occurred to me, for instance, to look up Mrs. O"Flaherty for her own sake, because she might be ill. I only thought of getting my dress."
Mary never resorted to half-way measures. She now gave as frank and open admiration to Constance as did any of the "diggers;" Dolly and Beth rejoiced over her conversion.
But Beth said, "If she felt at all toward Constance as I now feel toward Margery Ainsworth, when I see Constance wasting her sweetness in that direction, I can sympathize with her. Mary was rather jealous of your affection for Constance, Dolly, and while I do not think that I myself am jealous, I surely hate to see Con lavishing time and patience on Margery."
"You are sure it is wasted?"
"Yes, I am. Don"t forget that I was Margery"s room-mate. I flatter myself that I know about all that there is to know concerning that young lady."
"Yet I think that Constance is a tolerably good judge of character.
There must be latent possibilities in Margery which you have never discovered."
Beth shook her head obstinately, but that very day proved the correctness of Dolly"s conclusions and made Beth resolve to be more charitable in her judgments.
CHAPTER XVII
That evening Dolly was wishing for some one"s note-book on Greek art, that she might make up a lecture she had lost because of a headache.
Beth noted rather anxiously that Dolly had many headaches in these days.
This was something new. Until very lately, Dolly and headaches had been strangers.
The junior year was conceded by everyone to be the easiest year in the entire course, so Beth did not believe that Dolly was working too hard.
Yet she seemed tired so much of the time! She had been so anxious that athletics at Westover should be revived, but now, when an effort was being made in that direction, Dolly took only a languid interest in the matter. Beth helped her in many little ways, and hid her increasing anxiety, although she was fully determined to write to Mrs. Alden, if Dolly did not grow stronger within a short time.
Beth looked up as Dolly was expressing her wish for the notes on Greek art. She, herself, was not taking that course, for she preferred logarithms and abstruse calculations, to the marvels of the Parthenon.
"I"ll get you Margery Ainsworth"s note-book, Dolly; she has full notes on everything, the girls say."
"Yes, her book would do splendidly, if she will loan it, but I ought to get it myself. There is no reason in the world why you should be running my errands in this fashion."
"I like it, so don"t talk nonsense," and Beth went off briskly.
She gave a little tap at Margery"s door, then entered, thinking that she had heard Margery speak. When she was fairly in the room, however, she saw Margery lying on her couch, sobbing as if her heart would break.
"Why, Margery, what is the trouble? have you had bad news? Do tell me."
Margery sat up hastily. Beth was not the person whom she would have selected as her confidant. "I have just received a letter from Father.
He has been crippled in business for some time by the recent bank failures, and now he has lost everything."
"Oh, Margery, I am dreadfully sorry."
"Mother is such an invalid that it will be hard on her. She has a little money of her own, not much, but enough, Father says, to pay up every cent he owes and to keep me here until I graduate."
"It must be a comfort, Margery, to feel that he will not owe any person a cent."
"Yes, it is," with an irrepressible sob, "but, oh, I want to be at home helping, but Father says that I can help best by going through and graduating. He was afraid of this, and that was the reason he was so determined that I should graduate here and be prepared to teach. Mother may need to depend upon me entirely some day, for, of course, Father is not young any more, and we have no near relatives; no one, at least, upon whom we would ever call for help."
"You must be proud of the fact that your father can depend upon you, dear."
"There is not much to be proud of. Just think, Beth, if I had not wasted so much of my time, I should be graduating this year. Now I cannot be of any help for nearly two years. That is the bitterest part of all. We have never been rich people, but Father made a comfortable living for us. I ought to have realized that it cost a great deal for him to send me here, and I should have made the most of my time--but I didn"t."
"No one could have done better than you have been doing lately, Margery."
"But I cannot make up that lost year. That is the dreadful part of it.
Repentance doesn"t take away the consequences of one"s folly, does it? We have to pay for it all. Just now, when I ought to be in a position to help at home, I am only an added burden. Father has seen this coming for years, but I did not know it. He lost many thousands of dollars in a great bank failure four years ago. He has never quite recovered from that blow. If there had not been several failures lately, though, among people who owed him money, he would have managed to pull through."
"But you knew nothing of all this, Margery, so do not blame yourself too severely."
"I knew that Father was not rich, and I ought not to have wasted my time. I know that I must graduate now, if I would teach, but it is dreadfully hard to think that I must use up my mother"s little pittance for it."
"But she wants you to take it, dear, and I am sure that the best thing you can do for your parents, now, is to be cheerful and happy. You will probably have many long years in which to work for them both; and really, Margery, you are working for them now just as truly as if you were earning money for them."
But even Beth"s bright reasoning failed to console the girl, and Beth went back to Dolly feeling quite downcast.
"There, if I didn"t forget your book! Let me tell you the news and then I will go back and get it."
"Never mind the book," said Dolly when Beth had told the story. "I feel too wretched to use it tonight. I wish you would tell Constance, though. She may know how to comfort Margery a little, and perhaps she can devise some plan for helping her."
But while Constance was sympathetic and kind, she could think of no way for a.s.sisting Margery just then. "When she is ready to teach, I can help her, I am sure. I think it likely that she may be able to get a good position in one of the fashionable boarding-schools in New York; then she will not be obliged to leave home."
So Margery"s friends did all that they could for her in a quiet way, but, after all, they could not carry her burden, and Margery felt in those days as if life were a hard thing.
Dolly"s headaches had grown no better; they had become perpetual, until Beth, in frightened desperation, wrote to Mrs. Alden. Before her mother reached the college, however, Dolly had been removed to the hospital, and several of the other students were developing symptoms of the same malarial fever that had attacked Dolly.
"There is much of this disease in the lower portion of the city. I have been attributing the trouble there to bad drinking water, but that hardly seems to account for the outbreak here, because your drinking water is wonderfully clear and pure."
"We are often in that part of the city, though," Beth said, "and we almost always get a drink at the fountain."
"That accounts for it, then. How often have you been in the habit of going to that part of Westover?"