Part 19 (1/2)
”And yet,” Berta spoke slowly, ”you are going to help Lucine Brett with that essay. And you know how much my little sister cares about being at college with you.”
Laura gave a startled jump and turned to run. ”Oh, Berta, I had forgotten. She's waiting. I've stayed too long. She'll be so angry!”
”Let her,” growled Berta; but Laura had fled.
Meanwhile Lucine when left alone had dropped the sheets of her essay in her lap and planting her elbows on the sill crouched forward, staring miserably out at the brown soaked lawn flecked with sodden snowdrifts in the shadows of the evergreens that were bending before a rollicking March wind.
”n.o.body cares,” she mourned, ”even Laura doesn't care whether I succeed or not. I want the girls to like me, but they won't.”
Tears of self-pity dimmed her lashes when Laura slipped timidly into the room and after a worried glance at the scattered papers resumed her former seat.
”Now, Lucine, if you will read that last paragraph once more, I will try to see where the difficulty lies. It--it's fine so far.”
Lucine looked down at her essay, then across at the attentive small face that appeared quite plain when fixed in such a worried pucker. ”No,” she said at last, ”I won't. You are not interested in the essay or in my hopes of success. You offer to help merely because you think it is your duty. I refuse to accept such grudging friends.h.i.+p. You toss aside my affairs at the slightest whim of an outsider, and then expect me to welcome the remnant of your mental powers. No, thank you.”
Laura bit her lip. ”I'm sorry,” she said, ”you ought not to feel that way about it. I do truly wish to help you all I can. Please!”
Lucine made a half-involuntary movement to gather up the sheets; then checked herself. ”No, I have too much pride to play second fiddle. Your neglect has wounded me deeply, and I do not see how I can ever forgive you. To forsake me for such a shallow, disagreeable person as Berta Abbott is an unpardonable insult.”
Laura gave a little s.h.i.+ver and lifted her head sharply. ”I have tried to be your friend. I have endured--things. But I won't endure this--I won't--I can't. Berta is my friend. You shall not speak of her like that to me. Say you're sorry--quick! Oh, Lucine, say you didn't mean it and are sorry.”
”I am not sorry,” said Lucine distinctly, ”and I did mean it. I am glad I have dared to speak the truth about her. She is shallow and disagreeable.”
”And what are you?” Laura sprang to her feet. ”A conceited selfish inconsiderate----” She clapped her hand to her mouth with a quick sobbing breath. ”Oh, Lucine, we can't be friends. I've tried and tried, but we can't.”
From beneath lowered eyelids Lucine watched the slight little figure hurry to the door and vanish. Then rising abruptly she jerked a chair in front of her desk, slapped down a fresh pad of paper, jabbed her pen into the inkwell, shook it fiercely over the blotter--and suddenly brus.h.i.+ng the pages. .h.i.ther and thither she flung out her arms upon them and buried her face from the light.
A few minutes later Laura entered noiselessly and stopped short at sight of the crouching form with shoulders that rose and fell over a long quivering sob. Laura took one step toward her, next two away; finally setting her teeth resolutely she glided softly across the room and patted the bent, dark head. For an instant Lucine lay motionless; then with a swift hungry gesture she reached out her arms and swept the younger girl close to her heart.
”Laura, I can't spare you, I can't spare you. You are all I have. Forgive me and let me try again. It is an evil spirit that made me talk that way.
And, oh, Laura, dear, I want you to like me better than you like Berta. I need you more.”
Laura put up her mouth in child-fas.h.i.+on for a kiss of reconciliation. ”I like you both,” she said, and freeing herself gently stooped to pick up the loose leaves of the essay. ”Shall we go on with revising this now, Lucine? It is due this evening, you know. The board meets at eight in the magazine sanctum.”
Lucine watched her with a wistfulness that softened to tenderness the faint lines of native selfishness about her mouth. ”Laura, I want you to room with me next year. We can choose a double with a study and adjoining bedrooms. It will make me so happy. Do you know, last autumn when I lived in the main building and you away off in the farthest dormitory, I used to sit in a corridor window every morning to watch for you. I care more for you than for any one else. I shall teach you to care most for me next year.”
Laura seemed to have extraordinary trouble in capturing the last sheet, for it fluttered away repeatedly from her grasp and she kept bending to reach it again. Lucine could not see her face.
”Will you,” she repeated, ”will you room with me next year, Laura?”
Laura coughed and made another wild dive in pursuit of the incorrigible paper. ”Let's not talk about next year,” she mumbled uncomfortably, ”it is so far off and ever so many things may happen before June. Of course,”
she faltered and swallowed something in her throat, ”I'd love to room with you, if--if I can. But now we must hurry with this essay.”
”Well, remember that I have asked you first,” said Lucine, ”and I can't spare you.”
Laura said nothing.
After the essay had been read and discussed by Laura whose critical insight was much keener than Lucine's, the older girl settled herself to rewrite the article before evening. Dinner found her still at her desk, fingers inky, hair disordered, collar loosened in the fury of composition. In reply to Laura's urgent summons to dress, she paused long enough to push back a lock that had fallen over her brow.
”Don't bother me now. I'm just getting this right at last. Go away. I don't want any dinner.” The pen began again on its busy scratching.
”Lucine, you know the doctor warned you to be more regular about eating.