Just Sixteen — A Little Knight of Labor, Part 2

* * * * * How little we guess, as we grope in the mists of our own uncertainties, just where the light is going to break through!

Georgie Talcott, starting for a walk with her cousin on the third day of her stay at Miss Sally's, saw the St. John carriage pass them and then pull up suddenly at the curb-stone; but she had no idea that so simple a circumstance could affect her fate in any manner.

It did, though.

Mrs. St. John was leaning out of the window before they got to the place where the carriage stood, and two prettily gloved hands were stretched eagerly forth.

"Georgie!

oh Georgie, how glad I am to see you out, dear!

I made Henry stop, because I want you to get in for a little drive and then come home with me to lunch.

Mr. St. John is in New York.

I am quite alone, and I'll give orders that no one shall be admitted, if you will.

Don't you think she might, Miss Talcott?

It isn't like going anywhere else, you know,--just coming to me quietly like that."

"I don't see that there would be any impropriety in it," said Miss Talcott, doubtfully; "though--with you, however, it _is_ different.

But please don't mention it to any one, Mrs. St. John.

It might be misunderstood and lead to invitations which Georgie could not possibly accept.

Good-morning."

With a stately bend Cousin Vi sailed down the street.

Mrs. St. John, I am sorry to say, made a face after her as she went.

"Absurd old idiot!"

she muttered.

"Such airs!"

Then she drew Georgie in, and as soon as the carriage was in motion pulled her veil aside and gave her a warm kiss.

"I am so glad to get hold of you again!"

she said.

Mrs. St. John, rich, childless, warm-hearted, and not over-wise, had adopted Georgie as a special pet on her first appearance in society two years before.

It is always pleasant for a girl to be made much of by an older woman; and when that woman has a carriage and a nice house, and can do all sorts of things for the girl's entertainment, it is none the less agreeable.

Georgie was really fond of her friend.

People who are not over-wise are often loved as much as wiser ones; it is one of the laws of compensation.

"Now tell me all about yourself, and what you have been doing this past week," said Mrs. St. John, as they drove down to the beach, where the surf-rollers had swept the sands clean of snow and left a dry, smooth roadway for the horses' feet.

The sea wore its winter color that day,--a deep purple-blue, broken by flashing foam-caps; the wind was blowing freshly; a great sense of refreshment came to Georgie, who had been wearying for a change.

"It has been rather sad and hard," she said.

"I have had the house to clear out and close, and all manner of things to do, and I was pretty tired when I finished.

But I am getting rested now, and by and by I want to talk over my affairs with you."

"Plans?"

asked Mrs. St. John.

"Not exactly.

I have no plans as yet; but I must have some soon.

Now tell me what _you_ have been doing."

Mrs. St. John was never averse to talking about herself.

She always had a mass of experiences and adventures to relate, which though insignificant enough when you came to analyze them, were so deeply interesting to herself that somehow her auditors got interested in them also.

Georgie, used to her ways, listened and sympathized without effort, keeping her eyes fixed meanwhile on the shining, shifting horizon of the sea, and the lovely arch of clear morning sky.

How wide and free and satisfactory it was; how different from the cramped outlook into which she had perforce been gazing for days back!

"If life could all be like that!"

she thought.

The St. John house seemed a model of winter comfort, bright, flower-scented, and deliciously warm, as they entered it after their drive.

Mrs. St. John rang for her maid to take off their wraps, and led Georgie through the drawing-room and the library to a smaller room beyond, which was her favorite sitting-place of a morning.

"We will have luncheon here close to the fire," she said, "and be as cosey as possible."

It was a pretty room, not over-large, fitted up by a professional decorator in a good scheme of color, and crowded with ornaments of all sorts, after the modern fashion.

It was many weeks since Georgie had seen it, and its profusion and costliness of detail struck her as it never had done before.

Perhaps she was in the mood to observe closely.

They were still sipping their hot _bouillon_ in great comfort, when a sudden crash was heard in the distance.

"There!"

said Mrs. St. John, resignedly; "that's the second since Monday!

What is it _now_, Pierre?"

She pushed back her chair and went hurriedly into the farther room.

Presently she came back laughing, but looking flushed and annoyed.

"It's really too vexatious," she said.

"There seems no use at all in buying pretty things, the servants do break them so."

"What was it this time?"

asked Georgie.

"It was my favorite bit of Sèvres.

Don't you recollect it,--two lovely little shepherdesses in blue Watteaus, holding a flower-basket between them?

Pierre says his feather duster caught in the open-work edge of the basket."

"Why do you let him use feather dusters?

The feathers are so apt to catch."

"My dear, what can I do?

Each fresh servant has his or her theory as to how things should be cleaned.

Whatever the theory is, the china goes all the same; and I can't tell them any better.

I don't know a thing about dusting."

That moment, as if some quick-witted fairy had waved her wand, an idea darted like a flash into Georgie's head.

She took five minutes to consider it, while Mrs. St. John went on:-- "People talk of the hardship of not being able to have things; but I think it's just as hard to have them and not be allowed to keep them.

I

don't dare to let myself care for a piece of china nowadays, for if I do it's the first thing to go.

Pierre's a treasure in other respects, but he smashes most dreadfully; and the second man is quite as bad; and Marie, upstairs, is worse than either.

Mr. St. John says I ought to be 'mistress of myself, though china fall;' but I really can't." Georgie, who had listened to this without listening, had now made up her mind.

"Would you like me to dust your things?"

she said quietly.

"My dear, they _are_ dusted.

Pierre has got through for this time.

He won't break anything more till to-morrow."

"Oh, I don't mean only to-day; I mean every day.

Yes, I'm in earnest," she went on in answer to her friend's astonished look.

"I was meaning to talk to you about something of this sort presently, and now this has come into my head.

You see," smiling bravely, "I find that I have got almost nothing to live upon.

There is not even enough to pay my board at such a place as Miss Sally's. I must do something to earn money; and dusting is one of the few things that I can do particularly well."

"But, my dear, I never heard of such a thing," gasped poor Mrs. St. John.

"Surely your friends and connections will arrange something for you."

"They can't; they are all dead," replied Georgie, sadly.

"Our family has run out.

I've one cousin in China whom I never saw, and one great-aunt down in Tennessee who is almost as poor as I am, and that's all except Cousin Vi."

"She's no good, of course; but she's sure to object to your doing anything all the same."

"Oh yes, of course she objects," said Georgie, impatiently.

"She would like to tie my hands and make me sit quite still for a year and see if something won't happen; but I can't and won't do it; and, besides, what is there to happen?

Nothing.

She was kind about it, too--" relenting;

"she offered to pay my board and share her room with me if I consented;

but I would so much rather get to work at once and be independent.

Do let me do your dusting," coaxingly; "I'll come every morning and put these four rooms in nice order; and you need never let Pierre or Marie or any one touch the china again, unless you like.

I can almost promise that I won't break anything!"

"My dear, it would be beautiful for me, but perfectly horrid for you!

I

quite agree with your cousin for once.

It will never do in the world for you to attempt such a thing.

People would drop you at once; you would lose your position and all your chance, if it was known that you were doing that kind of work."

"But don't you see," cried Georgie, kneeling down on the hearth-rug to bring her face nearer to her friend's,--"don't you see that I've _got_ to be dropped any way?

Not because I have done anything, not because people are unkind, but just from the necessity of things.

I have no money to buy dresses to go out and enjoy myself with.

I have no money to stay at home on, in fact,--I _must_ do something.

And to live like Cousin Vi on the edge of things, just tolerated by people, and mortified and snubbed, and then have a little crumb of pleasure tossed to me, as one throws the last scrap of cake that one doesn't want to a cat or a dog,--_that_ is what I could not possibly bear.

"I like fun and pretty things and luxury as well as other people," she continued, after a little pause.

"It isn't that I shouldn't _prefer_ something different.

But everybody can't be well off and have things their own way; and since I am one of the rank and file, it seems to me much wiser to give up the things I _can't_ have, out and out, and not try to be two persons at once, a young lady and a working-girl, but put my whole heart into the thing I must be, and do it just as well as I can.

Don't you see that I am right?"

"You poor dear darling!"

said Mrs. St. John, with tears in her eyes.

Then her face cleared.

"Very well," she said briskly, "you _shall_.

It will be the greatest comfort in the world to have you take charge of the ornaments.

_Now_ I can buy as many cups and saucers as I like, and with an easy mind.

You must stay and lunch, always, Georgie.

I'll give you a regular salary, and when the weather's bad I shall keep you to dinner too, and to spend the night.

That's settled; and now let us decide what I shall give you.

Would fifty dollars a month be enough?"

"My dear Mrs. St. John!

Fifty!

Two dollars a week was what I was thinking of."

"Two dollars!

oh, you foolish child!

You never could live on that!

You don't know anything at all about expenses, Georgie."

"But I don't mean only to do _your_ dusting.

If you are satisfied, I depend on your recommending me to your friends.

I could take care of four sets of rooms just as well as of one.

There are so many people in Sandyport who have beautiful houses and collections of bric-à-brac, that I think there might be as many as that who would care to have me if I didn't cost too much.

Four places at two dollars each would make eight dollars a week.

I could live on that nicely."

"I wish you'd count me in as four," said Mrs. St. John.

"I should see four times as much of you, and it would make me four hundred times happier."

But Georgie was firm, and before they parted it was arranged that she should begin her new task the next morning, and that her friend should do what she could to find her similar work elsewhere.

Her plan once made, Georgie suffered no grass to grow under her feet.

On the way home she bought some cheese-cloth and a stiff little brush with a pointed end for carvings, and before the next day had provided herself with a quantity of large soft dusters and two little phials of alcohol and oil, and had hunted up a small pair of bellows, which experience had shown her were invaluable for blowing the dust out of delicate objects.

Her first essay was a perfect success.

Mrs. St. John, quite at a loss how to face the changed situation, gave her a half-troubled welcome; but Georgie's business-like methods reassured her.

She followed her about and watched her handle each fragile treasure with skilful, delicate fingers till all was in perfect fresh order, and gave a great sigh of admiration and relief when the work was done.

"Now come and sit down," she said.

"How tired you must be!"

"Not a bit," declared Georgie; "I like to dust, strange to say, and I'm not tired at all; I only wish I had another job just like it to do at once.

I see it's what I was made for."

By the end of the week Georgie had another regular engagement, and it became necessary to break the news of her new occupation to Cousin Vi.

I regret to say that the disclosure caused an "unpleasantness," between them.

"I would not have believed such a thing possible even with you," declared that lady with angry tears.

"The very idea marks you out as a person of low mind.

It's enough to make your Grandmother Talcott rise from her grave!

In the name of common decency, couldn't you hunt up something to do, if do you must, except this?"

"Nothing that I could do so well and so easily, Cousin Vi."

"Don't call me Cousin Vi, I beg!

There was no need of doing anything whatever.

I asked you to stay here,--you cannot deny that I did."

"I don't wish to deny it," said Georgie, gently.

"It was ever so kind of you, too.

Don't be so vexed with me, Cousin Vi.

We look at things differently, and I don't suppose either of us can help it; but don't let us quarrel.

You're almost the only relative that I have in the world."

"Quarrel!"

cried Miss Talcott with a shrill laugh,--"quarrel with a girl that goes out dusting!

That isn't in my line, I am happy to say.

As for being relatives, we are so no longer, and I shall say so to everybody.

Great Heavens!

what will people think?"

After this outburst it was evident to Georgie that it was better that she should leave Miss Sally's as soon as possible.

But where to go?

She consulted Miss Sally.

That astute person comprehended the situation in the twinkling of an eye, and was ready with a happy suggestion.

"There's my brother John's widder in the lower street," she said.

"She's tolerably well off, and hasn't ever taken boarders; but she's a sort of lonesome person, and I shouldn't wonder if I could fix it so she'd feel like taking you, and reasonable too.

It's mighty handy about that furniture of yours, for her upstairs rooms ain't got nothing in them to speak of, and of course she wouldn't want to buy.

I'll step down after dinner and see about it."

Miss Sally was a power in her family circle, and she knew it.

Before night she had talked Mrs. John Scannell into the belief that to take Georgie to board at five dollars a week was the thing of all others that she most wanted to do; and before the end of two days all was arranged, and Georgie inducted into her new quarters.

It was a little low-pitched, old-fashioned house, but it had some pleasant features, and was very neat.

A big corner room with a window to the south and another to the sunset was assigned to Georgie for her bedroom.

The old furniture that she had been used to all her life made it look homelike, and the hair-cloth sofa and the secretary and square mahogany table were welcome additions to the rather scantily furnished sitting-room below, which she shared at will with her hostess.

Mrs. Scannell was a gentle, kindly woman, the soul of cleanliness and propriety, but subject to low spirits; and contact with Georgie's bright, hopeful youth was as delightful to her as it was beneficial.

She soon became very fond of "my young lady," as she called her, and Georgie could not have been better placed as to kindness and comfortableness.

A better place than Sandyport for just such an experiment as she was making could scarcely have been found.

Many city people made it their home for the summer; but at all times of the year there was a considerable resident population of wealthy people.

Luxurious homes were rather the rule than the exception, and there was quite a little rivalry as to elegance of appointment among them.

Mrs. St. John's enthusiasm and Mrs. St. John's recommendation bore fruit, and it was not long before Georgie had secured her coveted "four places."

Two of her employers were comparative strangers; with the fourth, Mrs. Constant Carrington, she had been on terms of some intimacy in the old days, but was not much so now.

It _is_ rather difficult to keep up friendship with your "dusting girl," as her Cousin Vi would have said;

Mrs. Carrington called her "Georgie" still, when they met, and was perfectly civil in her manners, but always there was the business relation to stand between them, and Georgie felt it.

Mrs. St. John still tried to retain the pretty pretext that Georgie's labors were a sort of joke, a playing with independence; but there was nothing of this pretext with the other three.

To them, Georgie was simply a useful adjunct to their luxurious lives, as little to be regarded as the florist who filled their flower-boxes or the man who tuned their pianos.

These little rubs to self-complacency were not very hard to bear.

It was not exactly pleasant, certainly, to pass in at the side entrance where she had once been welcomed at the front door; to feel that her comings and her goings were so insignificant as to be scarcely noticed; now and then, perhaps, to be treated with scant courtesy by an ill-mannered servant.

This rarely chanced, however.

Georgie had a little natural dignity which impressed servants as well as other people, and from her employers she received nothing but the most civil treatment.

Fashion is not unkindly, and it was still remembered that Miss Talcott was born a lady, though she worked for a living.

There were stormy days and dull days, days when Georgie felt tired and discouraged; or, harder still to bear, bright days and gala days, when she saw other girls of her age setting forth to enjoy themselves in ways now closed to her.

I will not deny that she suffered at such moments, and wished with all her heart that things could be different.

But on the whole she bore herself bravely and well, and found some happiness in her work, together with a great deal of contentment.

Mrs. St. John added to her difficulties by continual efforts to tempt her to do this and that pleasant thing which Georgie felt to be inexpedient.

She wanted her favorite to play at young ladyhood in her odd minutes, and defy the little frosts and chills which Georgie instinctively knew would be her portion if she should attempt to enter society again on the old terms.

If Georgie urged that she had no proper dress, the answer was prompt,--"My dear, I am going to give you a dress;" or, "My dear, you can wear my blue, we are just the same height."

But Georgie stood firm, warded off the shower of gifts which was ready to descend upon her, and loving her friend the more that she was so foolishly kind, would not let herself be persuaded into doing what she knew was unwise.

"I can't be two people at once," she persisted.

"There's not enough of me for that.

You remember what I said that first day, and I mean to stick to it.

You are a perfect darling, and just as kind as you can be;

but you must just let me go my own way, dear Mrs. St. John, and be satisfied to know that it is the comfort of my life to have you love me so much, though I won't go to balls with you."

But though Georgie would not go to balls or dinner-parties, there were smaller gayeties and pleasures which she did not refuse,--drives and sails now and then, tickets to concerts and lectures, or a long quiet Sunday with a "spend the night" to follow.

These little breaks in her busy life were wholesome and refreshing, and she saw no reason for denying them to herself.

There was nothing morbid in my little Knight of Labor, which was one reason why she labored so successfully.