Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 11 (12 page)

 
          
           
"Why DO you want to study and poke all the time?" asked Ethel, as
they followed Mrs. Homer and a French acquaintance round the Palais Royal one
day with its brilliant shops, cafes, and crowds.

 
          
           
"My dream is to be able to take a place as teacher of German and history
in a girl's school next year. It is a fine chance, and I am promised it if I am
fitted; so I must work when I can to be ready. That is why I like Versailles
better than Rue de Rivoli, and enjoy talking with Professor Homer about French
kings and queens more than I do buying mock diamonds and eating ices
here," answered Jenny, looking very tired of the glitter, noise, and dust
of the gay place when her heart was in the Conciergerie with poor Marie
Antoinette, or the Invalides, where lay the great Napoleon still guarded by his
faithful Frenchmen.

 
          
           
"What a dismal prospect! I should think you'd rather have a jolly time
while you could, and trust to luck for a place by-and-by, if you must go on
teaching," said Ethel, stopping to admire a window full of distracting
bonnets.

 
          
           
"No; it is a charming prospect to me, for I love to teach, and I can't
leave anything to luck. God helps those who help themselves, mother says, and I
want to give the girls an easier time than I have had; so I shall get my tools
ready, and fit myself to do good work when the job comes to me," answered
Jenny, with such a decided air that the French lady glanced back at her,
wondering if a quarrel was going on between the demoiselles.

 
          
           
"What do you mean by tools?" asked Ethel, turning from the gay
bonnets to a ravishing display of bonbons in the next window.

 
          
           
"Professor Homer said one day that a well-stored mind was a tool-chest
with which one could carve one's way. Now, my tools are knowledge, memory,
taste, the power of imparting what I know, good manners, sense, and—patience,"
added Jenny, with a sigh, as she thought of the weary years spent in teaching
little children the alphabet.

 
          
           
Ethel took the sigh to herself, well knowing that she had been a trial,
especially of late, when she had insisted on Jane's company because her own
French was so imperfect as to be nearly useless, though at home she had
flattered herself that she knew a good deal. Her own ignorance of many things
had been unpleasantly impressed upon her lately, for at Madame Dene's Pension
there were several agreeable English and French ladies, and much interesting
conversation went on at the table, which Jenny heartily enjoyed, though she
modestly said very little. But Ethel, longing to distinguish herself before the
quiet English girls, tried to talk and often made sad mistakes because her head
was a jumble of new names and places, and her knowledge of all kinds very
superficial. Only the day before she had said in a patronizing tone to a French
lady,—

 
          
           
"Of course we remember our obligations to your Lamartine during our
 
 Revolution, and the other brave
Frenchmen who helped us."
 
 

 
          
           
"You mean
Lafayette
,
dear," whispered Jenny quickly, as the lady smiled and bowed bewildered by
the queerly pronounced French, but catching the poet's name.

 
          
           
"I know what I mean; you needn't trouble yourself to correct and interrupt
me when I'm talking," answered Ethel, in her pert way, annoyed by a smile
on the face of the girl opposite, and Jenny's blush at her rudeness and
ingratitude. She regretted both when Jane explained the matter afterward, and
wished that she had at once corrected what would then have passed as a slip of
the tongue. Now it was too late; but she kept quiet and gave Miss Cholmondeley
no more chances to smile in that aggravatingly superior way, though it was very
natural, as she was a highly educated girl.

 
          
           
Thinking of this, and many other mistakes of her own from which Jane tried to
save her, Ethel felt a real remorse, and walked silently on, wondering how she
could reward this kind creature who had served her so well and was so anxious
to get on in her hard, humble way. The orders were all given now, the shopping
nearly done, and Mademoiselle Campan, the elderly French lady who boarded at
their Pension, was always ready to jaunt about and be useful; so why not give
Jane a holiday, and let her grub and study for the little while left them in
Paris
?
In a fortnight Uncle Sam was to pick up the girls and take them home, while the
Homers went to
Rome
for the winter.
It would be well to take Miss Bassett back in a good humor, so that her report
would please Mamma, and appease Papa if he were angry at the amount of money
spent by his extravagant little daughter. Ethel saw now, as one always does
when it is too late to repair damages, many things left undone which she ought
to have done, and regretted living for herself instead of putting more pleasure
into the life of this good girl, whose future seemed so uninviting to our young
lady with her first season very near.

 
          
           
It was a kind
plan,
and gratified Jenny very much when
it was proposed and proved to her that no duty would be neglected if she went
about with the Homers and left her charge to the excellent lady who enjoyed
chiffons as much as Ethel did, and was glad to receive pretty gifts in return
for her services.

 
          
           
But alas for Ethel's good resolutions and Jenny's well-earned holiday! Both
came to nothing, for Ethel fell ill from too much pastry, and had a sharp
bilious attack which laid her up till the uncle arrived.

 
          
           
Every one was very kind, and there was no danger; but the days were long, the
invalid very fretful, and the nurse very tired, before the second week brought
convalescence and a general cheering and clearing up took place. Uncle Sam was
amusing himself very comfortably while he waited for his niece to be able to
travel, and the girls were beginning to pack by degrees, for the accumulation
of Ethel's purchases made her share a serious task.

 
          
           
"There! All are in now, and only the steamer trunk is left to pack at the
last moment," said Jenny, folding her tired arms after a protracted
struggle with half a dozen new gowns, and a perplexing medley of hats, boots,
gloves, and perfumery. Two large trunks stood in the ante-room ready to go; the
third was now done, and nothing remained but the small one and Jenny's shabby
portmanteau.

 
          
           
"How nicely you have managed! I ought to have helped, only you wouldn't
let me and I should have spoilt my wrapper. Come and rest and help me sort out
this rubbish," said Ethel, who would have been dressed and out if the
arrival of a new peignoir had not kept her in to enjoy the lovely pink and blue
thing, all lace and ribbon and French taste.

 
          
           
"You will never get them into that box, dear," answered Jenny, gladly
sitting down beside her on the sofa, which was strewn with trinkets of all
sorts, more or less damaged by careless handling, and the vicissitudes of a
wandering trunk.

 
          
           
"I don't believe they are worth fussing over. I'm tired of them, and they
look very mean and silly after seeing real jewels here. I'd throw them away if
I hadn't spent so much money on them," said Ethel, turning over the
tarnished filigree, mock pearl, and imitation coral necklaces, bracelets, and
brooches that were tumbling out of the frail boxes in which they came.

 
          
           
"They will look pretty to people at home who have not been seeing so many
as we have. I'll sew up the broken cases, and rub up the silver, and string the
beads, and make all as good as new, and you will find plenty of girls at home
glad to get them, I am sure," answered Jenny, rapidly bringing order out
of chaos with those skilful hands of hers.

 
          
           
Ethel leaned back and watched her silently for a few minutes. During this last
week our young lady had been thinking a good deal, and was conscious of a
strong desire to tell Jane Bassett how much she loved and thanked her for all
her patient and faithful care during the six months now nearly over. But she
was proud, and humility was hard to learn; self-will was sweet, and to own
one's self in the wrong a most distasteful task. The penitent did not know how
to begin, so waited for an opportunity, and presently it came.

 
          
           
"Shall you be glad to get home, Jenny?" she asked in her most
caressing tone, as she hung her prettiest locket round her friend's neck; for
during this illness all formality and coolness had melted away, and "Miss
Bassett" was "Jenny dear" now.

 
          
           
"I shall be very, very glad to see my precious people again, and tell them
all about my splendid holiday; but I can't help wishing that we were to stay
till spring, now that we are here, and I have no teaching, and may never get
such another chance. I'm afraid it seems ungrateful when I've had so much; but
to go back without seeing
Rome
is a
trial, I confess," answered honest Jane, rubbing away at a very dull paste
bandeau.

 
          
           
"So it is; but I don't mind so much, because I shall come again
by-and-by,
and I mean to be better prepared to enjoy things
properly than I am now. I'll really study this winter, and not be such a fool.
Jenny, I've a plan in my head. I wonder if you'd like
it?
I should immensely, and I'm going to propose it to Mamma the minute I get
home," said Ethel, glad to seize this opening.

 
          
           
"What is it, deary?"

 
          
           
"Would you like to be my governess and teach me all you know, quietly, at
home this winter? I don't want to begin school again just for languages and a
few finishing things, and I really think you would do more for me than any one
else, because you know what I need, and are so patient with your bad,
ungrateful, saucy girl. Could you? would you come?" and Ethel put her arms
round Jenny's neck with a little sob and a kiss that was far more precious to
Jane than the famous diamond necklace of Marie Antoinette, which she had been
reading about.

 
          
           
"I could and I would with all my heart, if you want me, darling! I think
we know and love each other now, and can be happy and helpful together, and
I'll come so gladly if your mother asks me," answered Jenny, quick to
understand what underlay this sudden tenderness, and glad to accept the
atonement offered her for many trials which she would never have told even to
her own mother.

 
          
           
Ethel was her best self now, and her friend felt well rewarded for the past by
this promise of real love and mutual help in the future. So they talked over
the new plan in great spirits till Mrs. Homer came to bring them their share of
a packet of home letters just arrived. She saw that something unusual was going
on, but only smiled, nodded, and went away saying,—

 
          
           
"I have good news in MY letters, and hope yours will make you equally
happy, girls."

 
          
           
Silence reigned for a time, as they sat reading busily; then a sudden
exclamation from Ethel seemed to produce a strange effect upon Jenny, for with
a cry of joy she sprang up and danced all over the room, waving her letter
wildly as she cried out,—

 
          
           
"I'm to go! I'm to go! I can't believe it—but here it is! How kind, how
very kind, every one is to me!" and down she went upon her own little bed
to hide her face and laugh and cry till Ethel ran to rejoice with her.

 
          
           
"Oh, Jenny, I'm so glad! You deserve it, and it's like Mrs. Homer to make
all smooth before she said a word. Let me read what Mamma writes to you. Here's
my letter; see how sweetly she speaks of you, and how grateful they are for all
you've done for me."

 
          
           
The letters changed hands; and sitting side by side in an affectionate bunch,
the girls read the happy news that granted the cherished wish of one and gave
the other real unselfish pleasure in another's happiness.

 
          
           
Jane was to go to
Rome
with the
Homers for the
winter,
and perhaps to
Greece
in the spring. A year of delight lay before her, offered in such a friendly
way, and with such words of commendation, thanks, and welcome, that the girl's
heart was full, and she felt that every small sacrifice of feeling, every
lonely hour, and distasteful duty was richly repaid by this rare opportunity to
enjoy still further draughts of the wisdom, beauty, and poetry of the wonderful
world now open to her.