Produced by Heather Clark, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) HOPE BENHAM. A Story for Girls. By NORA PERRY AUTHOR OF "LYRICS AND LEGENDS," "ANOTHER FLOCK OF GIRLS," "A ROSEBUD GARDEN OF GIRLS," ETC. Illustrated by FRANK T. MERRILL. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. _Copyright, 1894_, BY NORA PERRY. Printers S. J. PARKHILL & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A. [Illustration: "TEN CENTS A BUNCH"] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. "TEN CENTS A BUNCH" "HE LIFTED THE BOW AND DREW IT ACROSS THE STRINGS" "SHE TOOK HOPE'S VIOLIN FROM HER HANDS" "IT WAS THE WORK OF A MOMENT TO POSSESS HERSELF OF THE BOOK" "HOW DE DO, HOPE?" "SHE STOOD THERE AN IMAGE OF GRACE, HER CHIN BENT LOVINGLY DOWN TO HER VIOLIN" "DON'T, DON'T GO" "HOPE KNELT DOWN BY THE COUCH WHERE DOROTHEA HAD FLUNG HERSELF" HOPE BENHAM. CHAPTER I. "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" A party of three young girls coming briskly around the southwest corner of the smart little Brookside station, hearing this call, turned, then stopped, then exclaimed all together,-- "Oh, how perfectly lovely! the first I have seen. Just what I want!" and they pulled out their purses to buy "just what they wanted," just what everybody wants,--a bunch of trailing arbutus. "And they are made up so prettily, without all that stiff arbor-vitæ framing. What is this dear little leafy border?" asked one of the young ladies, glancing up from her contemplation of the flowers to the flower-seller. "It's the partridge-berry leaf." "Oh! and you picked them all yourself,--the arbutus and this partridge-berry leaf?" "Yes." "Oh!" repeated the young lady, giving a stare at the little flower-seller,--a stare that was quickly followed by another question,-- "Do you live near here?" "Yes; very near." "But you don't find this arbutus in Brookside?" "No, in Riverview." "In Riverview! why, I didn't know that the arbutus grew so near Boston as that." "We have always found a little in Riverview woods, but this year there is quite a large quantity." Riverview was the next station to Brookside. In Riverview were manufactories, locomotives, and iron-works, and in Riverview lived the people who worked in these manufactories. But in Brookside were only fine suburban residences, and a few handsome public buildings, for in Brookside lived the owners of the manufactories and other rich folk, who liked to be out of the smoke and grime of toil. The railroad station of Brookside, as contrasted with that of Riverview, showed the difference in the residents of the two places; for the Brookside station was a fine and elegant stone structure, suited to fine and elegant folk, and the Riverview station was just a plain little wooden building, hardly more than a platform and a shelter. "But you don't live in Riverview, do you?" was the next question the young lady asked of the flower-seller, about whom she seemed to have a great deal of curiosity. "Yes; I live in Riverview," was the answer, with an upward glance of surprise at the questioner and the question. Why should the young lady question her in that tone, when she said, "But you don't live in Riverview?" The next question was more easily understood. "You come over to the Brookside station to sell your flowers, don't you, because there are likely to be more buyers here?" "Oh, yes; I couldn't sell them at Riverview." Just then other voices were heard, and other people began to gather about the flower-seller, who from that time was kept busy until the train approached. As the cars moved away from the station, the young lady who had been so curious looked out of the window, and then said to her companions,-- "She has sold every bunch." "What? Oh, that flower-girl! Why in the world were you so interested in her?" one of the girls asked wonderingly. "Why? Did you look at her?" "I can't say that I did, particularly. What was there peculiar about her?" "Nothing. Only she didn't look like a poor child,--a common child, you know, who would sell things on the street. She was very prettily and neatly dressed, and she spoke just like--well, just like any well-brought-up little girl." "Did she?" politely remarked her friend, in an absent way. She was not in the least interested in this flower-girl. Her thoughts were turning in a very different direction,--the direction of her spring shopping, a gay little party, and a dozen other kindred subjects. In the mean time the little flower-seller, with a light basket and a lighter heart, was waiting for the down train. It was only a mile from Brookside to Riverview, an easy walk for a strong, sturdy girl of ten; but all the same, this strong, sturdy girl of ten preferred to ride, and you will see why presently. The down or out-going train from Boston passes the in-going train a short distance from Brookside, and she had only five minutes to wait for it. This five minutes was very happily employed in mentally counting up her sales, as she walked to and fro upon the platform. She had brought twenty bunches of arbutus in her basket, and she had sold every one. Twenty bunches at ten cents a bunch made two dollars. She gave a little hop, skip, and jump, as she thought of this sum. Two dollars! Now, if she should go again this very afternoon to the Riverview woods and gather a new supply, she might come back to Brookside and be ready when the 5.30 train brought people home from the city. So many people drove down to the station then to meet their husbands or fathers or brothers,--ladies and children too. It would be just the very best hour of all to sell flowers. Yes, she would certainly do it. It was only half-past one. She would have ample time, and then perhaps she would double--Cling-a-ling-a-ling, went the electric announcement of the coming train, and pouf, pouf, pouf, comes the train down the line, and there is her father looking out for her from the engine cab. He nods and smiles to her, and in another minute she has been helped up, and is standing beside him. "Well, Hope, how did the flowers go?" "I sold them all,--twenty bunches. Now!" The last word was thrown out as a joyful exclamation of triumph. Her father laughed a little. "And, father, I want to go to the woods again this afternoon for more flowers, and come back here for the 5.30 train,--there's such lots of people on that train." The father looked grave. "Oh, do let me, please!" "I don't like to have you hanging around a station so much." "But Brookside is different from a great many stations. There are no rough people ever about;" and with a brisk little air, "It's business, you see." Mr. Benham laughed again, as he said, "Two dollars a day is pretty good business, I should think." "But it won't last long,--only this vacation week. 'T isn't as if I were going to make two dollars every day all through the season." "That is true. Well, go ahead and 'make hay while the sun shines.' You'll be a better business fellow than your father if you keep on. But here we are at Riverview. Mind, now, that you leave Brookside to-night on the six o'clock train, no matter whether you've sold your flowers or not." "Yes, sir." There was a joyful sound in this "Yes, sir," and a happy upward look at her father, which he did not catch, however, for not once did his eyes move from their steady watchfulness of the road before him. CHAPTER II. "There he comes!" and Hope ran forward out of the little garden to meet her father, as he came down the street, while her mother turned from the door where she had been waiting and watching with Hope, and went back into the tiny dining-room to put a few finishing-touches to the supper-table. Mr. Benham nodded as he caught sight of Hope. Then he called out,-- "How's business?" "Two dollars more!" "Well, well, you'll be a big capitalist soon at this rate, and grind the poor." "Poor engineers like John Benham!" and Hope laughed gleefully at their joint joke. "Yes, poor engineers like John Benham, who have extravagant daughters who want to buy violins. But, Hope, you mustn't get your thoughts so fixed on this violin business that you can't think of anything else. Your school, you know, begins next week." "Yes, I know. I sha'n't neglect that. I wouldn't get marked down for anything." "You're going to learn to be a teacher, you know; keep that in mind." "I do; I do. Oh, father dear, don't worry about the music! 'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,' you said the other day. Now, music is my play. Some of the girls in my classes go to dancing-school, and do lots of things to amuse themselves. They don't seem to neglect their lessons, and why should I, with just this one thing outside, that I like to do?" There was a twinkle in John Benham's eyes, as he looked down at his daughter. "Who taught you to argue, Hope?" "A poor engineer named John Benham," answered Hope, as quick as a flash. John Benham laughed outright at this quick retort; and as he opened the gate that led into the little garden in front of his house, he put his arm over his daughter's shoulder, and thus affectionately side by side they walked along the narrow pathway. They were great friends, he and Hope. He used to tell her that as she was an only child, she must be son and daughter too, and he had very early got into the habit of talking to her in a confidential fashion that had the effect of making her a sort of little comrade from the first. The young lady who had wondered at the little flower-seller's looking and speaking just like any other well-brought-up little girl would have had further cause for wonder if she could have followed the engineer and his daughter into their home, and seen the good taste of its pretty though inexpensive furnishing and arrangements. Locomotive engineers were unknown persons to this young lady. They belonged to the laboring-class; and that in her mind included all mechanical workers, from the skilled artisan to the ignorant hod-carrier and wielder of pick and shovel. She knew that the latter lived poorly, in poor quarters, crowded tenement houses, or shabby little frame cottages or cabins of two or three rooms. As the difference in the different work did not occur to her, neither did the possible difference in the manner of living. There are older people than this young lady, this pretty Mary Dering, who are almost as unintelligent about the workers of the world, and they would have been almost as astonished as she, not only at the good taste of the simple furnishings, but at the signs of intelligent thought in the collection of books and magazines on the table. If pretty Mary Dering, however, could have seen all these things, she would not have wondered so much at Hope's speaking and looking like any well-brought-up little girl. Hope _was_ a well-brought-up little girl, as you will see,--as well brought up as Mary herself, or Mary's sister Dolly, who was just Hope's age. If you had said this to Mary Dering, she would have told you that she could not imagine a well-brought-up child selling things on the street. Dolly would never have been allowed to stand in public places and cry, "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" under any circumstances. But Mary did not know how much circumstances altered cases; and for one thing, if she _could_ have seen Dolly in Hope's place for one half-hour, she would have had to own that Hope was much the better behaved of the two, for in spite of Dolly's bringing up, she was the greatest little rattler in public places, calling down upon herself this constant remonstrance from each one of her family, "Now, Dolly, do try to be quiet, like a lady!" "But why, why, _why_," you ask, "did Hope, with such a nice, intelligent father, who could buy all those magazines and books,--why did she need to earn the money herself, to buy a violin?" I'll tell you. To begin with, all those books and magazines were not bought by Mr. Benham; they were, with one or two exceptions, taken from the Boston Public Library. Mr. Benham's salary was only fifteen hundred dollars a year, and it took every cent of this to keep up that simple little home, and put by a sum every week for a rainy day. Hope loved music, and she loved the music of a violin beyond any other kind. One day when she was in Boston, she saw the dearest little violin in a shop-window. What possessed her I don't know, for she knew she hadn't a penny in the world; but she went in and asked the price of it with the easiest air imaginable. "Twenty-five dollars," the shopkeeper told her. "Oh!" and Hope drew in her breath. Twenty-five dollars! It might as well have been twenty-five thousand dollars, for all the possibility of her possessing it. "Don't--don't they have cheaper ones?" she asked timidly. "They have things they _call_ violins for ten, fifteen, twenty dollars, but they'd crack your ears. If you're going to learn to play, this is a good little fiddle for you to begin with, for it's true and sweet;" and the shopkeeper lifted it up and drew the bow across the strings, in a melodious, rippling strain that went to Hope's heart. The man thought that she was going to take lessons; and she could, if she only had an instrument, for Mr. Kolb, an old German neighbor of theirs, who had once been the first violin in a famous orchestra, had said to her more than once when she had listened to his playing with delight: "Some day your fader will puy you a little violin, and I will teach you for notting, Mädchen; you have such true lofe for music." But twenty-five dollars! Oh, no! it could never be! and Hope went out of the shop with her plans laid low. A few minutes later, as she was walking to the station, she heard a boy's voice, crying, "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" She looked up, and saw that he held some very meagre little nosegays of arbutus,--meagre, that is, as to the arbutus, but made sizable by the border of stiff arbor-vitæ. Then, all at once, the thought flashed into her mind. Why shouldn't she turn flower-seller? She knew where the arbutus grew thick, thick; and why, why--There was no putting the rest of her thoughts into words; but right there on the street she gave a little jump, and hummed the rippling strain she had just heard drawn from the good little fiddle. Twenty-five dollars! What was that now with "Ten cents a bunch! ten cents a bunch!" ringing in her ears with such alluring possibilities? Mr. Benham at first would not hear to the flower-selling plan; but when he saw that Hope's heart was set upon that "good little fiddle," when he heard her say to her mother, "If father can't buy the fiddle for me, it seems to me he might let me try to buy it for myself," he began to relent; and when the mother and he had a talk, and the mother said, "Of course you can't afford to buy it, John, for we are a little behind now, with your and my winter suits, and the new range to pay for yet; but as I really think it will be a good thing for Hope to learn to play the violin, I don't see why it wouldn't be a good thing for her to earn it herself," he relented still more, and when the mother said further, in answer to his objections to having Hope hanging around in public places, as a little peddler, "John, you can trust Hope; she is a sensible child," he relented entirely; and the next week after, Hope entered upon her business as a flower-seller. The success of that first day was a surprise to her father, and he warned her not to expect anything like it on the succeeding days, telling her that the weather would very likely turn chilly and rainy, that fewer people might be going and coming from town, and that even these might not stop to buy flowers. He did not want to discourage her; he simply wanted to prepare her for disappointment. But Hope was not doomed to disappointment in this direction. The succeeding days proved both pleasant and profitable; especially profitable were Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, when so many ladies went in to the matinée performances. Yet with all this success, this pleasantness of weather, and steady increase in her sales, there was something very _un_pleasant for Hope to bear,--something that she had not in the least looked for, because she had never before met with anything like it. CHAPTER III. It was on Wednesday that a little party of girls came hurrying into the Brookside station, as if they had not a minute to lose, when one of them exclaimed: "Why, our train has gone; look at that!" pointing to the indicator. "The next train goes at 1.40. We shall have only twenty minutes to get from the Boston station to the Museum." "Time enough," answered Mary Dering; "we always go too early. But there's our little girl. We shall have ample opportunity now to buy all the flowers we want. Dolly," to her younger sister, who was marching up and down the platform with a friend of her own age, "Dolly, don't you want to buy some flowers?" "Flowers? Oh, yes!" and Dolly came racing up, calling out in a loud whisper, as she joined the group, "Say, Mary, is that your wonderful flower-girl?" "Hush, Dolly; don't!" "Don't what?" "Don't whisper so loudly; she can hear you." Dolly laughed. "What if she does? I didn't say anything that wasn't nice." The group of girls pressed around Hope, and bought lavishly of her stock. Dolly and her friend Lily Styles were the latest of the buyers, for coming up last they were on the outside of the group. As they stood alone with Hope, they picked and pecked first at one bouquet, and then another. This was fuller, and that was bigger, and still another was prettier and pinker. At last they made a choice, and Hope breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that now her exacting purchasers would leave her to herself. But Dolly Dering had no notion of leaving Hope to herself. No sooner was the purchase concluded than Miss Dolly, lifting her big black eyes with a curious gaze to Hope's face, asked abruptly,-- "Do you like to sell flowers on the street?" Hope flushed hotly. "I don't sell flowers on the street." "Well, in a station, then. I should think that was just the same as on the street; it's out-of-doors in a public place." Hope made no further reply. She would have moved away if she could have done so easily, but the two girls stood directly in front of her, completely shutting her into her corner. Perhaps, however, they would go away if she busied herself with her flowers, and she began to re-arrange and spray them with water. But Dolly, at sight of this operation, began with fresh interest, "Oh! is that the way you keep 'em fresh? How nice! let me try it, do!" and before Hope could say "yes" or "no," she had seized the sprayer out of her hands. Her first effort, instead of benefiting the flowers, sent a sharp little sprinkle directly against Hope's light cloth jacket. Hope started back with an exclamation of dismay. "Oh, it won't hurt it!" cried Dolly. Then, as she saw Hope rubbing the wet place with her handkerchief, she asked, "Will your mother punish you if she finds the jacket spotted?" "Punish me?" exclaimed Hope, looking up at the questioner. "Yes, punish you; whip you, perhaps." "My mother--whip me?" ejaculated Hope, staring at Dolly, as if she thought her out of her mind. "Yes, whip you; I didn't know--" "Would _your_ mother whip _you_ if you got spots on _your_ jacket?" inquired Hope, in a sharp, indignant voice. "_My_ mother? No." "Then why should you think _my_ mother would whip _me_?" Dolly was not a very sensitive young person, but she could not blurt out exactly what was in her mind,--that she thought all poor people, working-people, whipped their children when they offended them in any way. Her ideas of poor people were very vague, and gathered partly from the talk of her elders about the North End poor that the Associated Charities assisted. In this talk a word now and then concerning the careless way in which these people beat their children for the slightest offence impressed her more than anything. Then Bridget Kelly, who had been Dolly's nurse, had often related stories of her own childish naughtinesses, for her--Dolly's--benefit, and she had almost invariably wound up these stories with the remark, "And didn't my mother beat me well for being such a bad girl!" Dolly had put this and that together, and come to the conclusion that poor people were all alike,--a good deal as her sister had included all mechanical workers together. But if Miss Dolly couldn't blurt out all that was in her mind, she had very little tact of concealment, and when she replied to Hope's question something about people's being different, and that she knew that some people beat their children for doing things they didn't like them to do, she unwittingly made things quite clear enough to Hope, with her fine, keen intelligence, so clear that she comprehended at once the whole state of the case. What would have happened when this moment of comprehension suddenly came to Hope, what she would have said if there had been time to say anything, it is needless to conjecture, for there wasn't an instant of time for a word, as at that very moment, pouf, pouf, pouf, the train steamed into the station, and Dolly Dering and her friend Lily ran scampering down the platform. Hope looked after them, with eyes blinded by hot, angry tears. The last few minutes had been a revelation to her of the thoughtless misunderstandings of the world. To think that she--Hope Benham--should be ranked with that vast ignorant class of "poor people" who "lived anyhow," all because she was selling flowers in a public place! "They might have known better, if they had any sense; they might have known at a glance!" And with this indignant thought, Hope went into the ladies' waiting-room, and surveyed herself in the mirror that hung there. What did she see? A bright-faced girl, clean and fresh, with neatly braided hair; clothed in a little fawn-colored jacket, a brown dress, and with a pretty plain brown felt hat upon her head. To be sure, she wore no gloves; but her hands were nicely kept, the nails well cut and rosily clean. To mix her up with poor people who "lived anyhow"! Perhaps they fancied, those girls, that the fawn-colored jacket and the brown dress and the hat were given to her,--gifts of charity! Yes, that was what they fancied, of course. They had talked her over. "Is that your wonderful flower-girl?" she had overheard the younger girl say to the older. She had been called this because she was dressed decently, because she behaved herself decently. They couldn't understand--these rich people--how any one who sold flowers, who sold anything--_on the street_--yes, that was what they called it--could be decent. Oh, it was they who were ignorant,--these rich people! They didn't know anything about other people's lives,--other people who were not rich like themselves. Hope's little purse was full of shining silver pieces as she went back to Riverview, but her heart was fuller of bitterness. "You look tired, Hope," said her mother, anxiously, as Hope walked into the house. But Hope declared that she was not in the least tired, that it was only the tiresomeness of some of her customers,--fussy folk, who picked and pecked and asked questions. Not a word more did she say. She was not going to worry her mother, hurt her feelings as hers had been hurt with the foolish, ignorant talk of those foolish, ignorant, rich girls,--not she! So she comforted herself by counting up her silver pieces, and reckoning how much nearer she was to the "good little fiddle." She tried to keep the little fiddle and the sweet strain the shopkeeper had drawn from it, continually in her mind, as she stood in the station again that night on the arrival of the 5.30 train. The good little fiddle, with the sweet strain, should be the shield against tormenting questioners and questions. But she was not to be tormented that night by any one. Dolly Dering did not even look at her, as she skipped by. Dolly was too eager to secure a place beside her father on the front seat of the carriage, as they drove home, to see or think about anything else. Even Mary Dering did not find time, as she went by, to cast an interested glance towards that "wonderful flower-girl." There were plenty of purchasers, however, without the little matinée group,--ladies and gentlemen just returning from shopping or business,--plenty of purchasers; and Hope went home with only the sweet sense of success stirring at her heart,--a success unalloyed by any new bitterness. She had not needed a shield against tormentors. Thursday and Friday were equally pleasant and fairly profitable. Saturday would, of course, be the best day of all, and bring her sales up to almost if not quite the desired amount. But she dreaded Saturday, for she was quite sure that "that girl" would be at the station, and she could not help keeping a nervous look-out from the moment she took her stand in her chosen corner. The 12.35, the 1, and the 1.15 trains, however, went in, and Dolly was not to be seen. If she was not on the 1.40 train, there was little danger, Hope thought, that she would be there at all, for the 1.40 was the last early afternoon train. The next was 3.30, and Hope would be back at Riverview by that time, preparing another stock of flowers for her 5.30 sale. Just before the 1.40 steamed in, Hope heard a gay chatter of voices. There she was! But no; a glance at the party sufficed to show that Dolly Dering was not one of the party, and Hope drew a deep breath of relief. The week would end without further annoyance, and with _such_ a heap of bright silver pieces. CHAPTER IV. Forgetful of everything disagreeable, Hope stood in her corner for the last time, softly humming the sweet little strain she had heard from the good little fiddle. She was earlier than usual,--ten, fifteen minutes earlier. "Tum, tum, ti tum," she was softly humming, when-- "Do you stay here all day?" asked a clear, confident voice. She turned her head, and there stood that girl,--Dolly Dering. "No," answered Hope, politely, to this question, but with a coldness and distance of manner that was meant to check all further questioning. But Dolly Dering wasn't easily checked. "My sister says that you live in Riverview, and that you get your flowers in Riverview woods," was her next questioning remark. "Yes." "What other kinds of flowers are you going to sell when these arbutus are gone?" "I'm not going to sell any." "Why not?" "Because I--I don't want to." "I should think you would. You must make a lot of money." No answer. "To be sure, I don't suppose you'd make so much with garden flowers, but there are ever so many kinds of wild flowers coming on by and by, aren't there?" "I suppose so." "Perhaps you go to school, do you?" "Yes." "Oh! and this is vacation week at the public schools; that's why you can be here. I see. What you earn must be a great help, isn't it?" Hope's patience and dignity were giving way. She looked up with a fiery glance. "A great help in what?" she asked. "Why, why, in your home, you know,--in buying bread and things,--you know what I mean." "Yes, I know what you mean," burst forth Hope. "You mean that you think because I am selling flowers here in the station that I belong to poor people, who live anyhow,--poor, ignorant people, who are helped by the missions and the unions,--poor, ignorant people like those at the North End." Dolly Dering stared with all her might at the flushed, excited face before her. "Why--why--you _are_ poor, aren't you, or you wouldn't be selling things like this?" she blunderingly asked. Hope, in her turn, stared back at Dolly. Then in a vehement, exasperated tone, she said,-- "I didn't think anybody _could_ be so ignorant as you are." "I! ignorant! well!" exclaimed Dolly, in astonishment and rising resentment. "Yes, ignorant," went on Hope, recklessly, "or you'd know more about the difference in people. You'd _see_ the difference. You'd see that I didn't belong to the kind of poor folks who live any way and anyhow. My father is John Benham, an engineer on this road, and we have a nice home, and plenty to eat and drink and to wear,--and books and magazines and papers," she added, with a sudden instinct that these were the most convincing proofs of the comfort and respectability of her home. "What do you sell flowers on the street for, then, if you are as nice as all that?" cried Dolly, now thoroughly aroused by Hope's words and manner. "Because I wanted to buy something for myself that my father couldn't afford to buy. Don't you ever want anything that your father doesn't feel as if he could buy for you just when you wanted him to?" "Well, if I did, I shouldn't be let to go out on the street and peddle flowers to earn the money," replied Dolly, with what she meant to be withering emphasis. "And I shouldn't be _allowed_ to say 'let to go,' like ignorant North Enders," retorted Hope, with still more withering emphasis. Dolly reddened with mortification and anger; then she said haughtily, "I don't happen to know as much as you seem to, how ignorant North Enders talk." "No; I told you that you were ignorant, and didn't know the difference between people." "How dare you talk like this to me! You are the most impudent girl I ever saw," cried Dolly, passionately. "Impudent! How did _you_ dare to speak to me as you did,--to ask me questions? You didn't know me; you never saw me before. You wouldn't have dared to speak to a girl that you thought was like yourself. But you thought you could speak to _me_. You needn't be polite to a girl who was selling things on the street." Hope stopped breathless. Her lips were dry; her heart was beating in hard, quick throbs. As for Dolly she was for the moment silenced, for Hope had divined the exact state of her mind. Other things, too, had silenced Dolly for the moment, and these were the evidences of respectability that Hope had enumerated. She was also faced by these evidences in Hope's speech and manner, as those fiery but not vulgar words were poured forth from the dry, tremulous lips; and the effect had been confusing and disturbing to those fixed ideas about working-people that had taken root in her--Dolly's--mind. She was not a bad girl at heart, was this Dolly. She was like a great many people without keen perception or sensibility, and thoughtless from this very lack. The youngest of a prosperous family, she had been petted and pampered until her natural wilfulness and high spirits had made her heedless and over-confident. She had not meant to insult Hope. She had meant simply to satisfy her curiosity; and she thought that it was a perfectly proper thing to satisfy this curiosity about a poor girl who sold flowers on the street, by asking this girl plain questions, such as she had heard her mother ask the poor people who came to get work or to beg. But Hope's plain answers had at first astonished, then angered, then enlightened her. In the little breathless pause that followed Hope's last words, the two girls regarded each other with a strange mixture of feeling. Hope's feeling was that of relief tinctured with triumph, for she saw that she had made an impression upon "that ignorant girl." Dolly, humiliated but not humble, had a queer struggle with her temper and her sense of justice. She had been made to see that she was partly, if not wholly, in the wrong, and that she had wounded Hope to the quick. In another minute she would have blunderingly made some admission of this,--have said to Hope that she was sorry if she had hurt her feelings, or something to that effect,--if Hope herself had not suddenly remarked in a tone of cold dislike,-- "If you are waiting to ask any more questions, I might as well tell you it's of no use. I sha'n't answer any more; so if you'll please to go away from this corner and stop staring at me, I shall be much obliged to you." Scarlet with anger, all her better impulses scattered to the winds, Dolly flashed out,-- "You're an ugly, impudent, hateful thing, and I don't care if I _have_ hurt your feelings, so there!" It happened that John Benham had exchanged his hours of work for that day with a fellow engineer on the 5.30 train that came out from Boston. Dolly, watching the train as it came to a stop at the Brookside station, saw something that interested her greatly. It was an exchange of glances between that "ugly, impudent, hateful thing" and the engineer, as he stood in his cab. "So that is her father, is it,--that smutty workman! She'd better set herself up and talk about her nice home!" was Dolly's inward comment out of the wrath that was raging within her. "What is the matter with Dolly?" asked Mr. Dering, fifteen minutes later, as Dolly, red and pouting, and with a fierce little frown wrinkling her forehead, sat in unusual silence beside him on the front seat of the carriage. Matter? and Dolly, finding her tongue, poured forth the story of her grievance. With all her faults, Dolly was not deceitful or untruthful; and the story she told was remarkably exact, neither glossing over her own words, nor her humiliating defeat through Hope's cleverness of speech. Mr. Dering seemed to find the whole story very amusing, and at the end of it laughingly remarked: "I don't think you had the best of it, Dolly." Her mother, from the back seat, was mortified and shocked that Dolly should have been so vulgar as to quarrel on the street. "But Dolly began it by asking such questions," spoke up Mary Dering. "Dolly is such a rattler. I'm sure that flower-girl would never have spoken to her first." Then Mrs. Dering wanted to know what Mary knew about "that flower-girl," and Mary described Hope as she had seen her. "She said her father was an engineer on this road, did she?" asked Mr. Dering, turning to Dolly. "Yes, papa." "It must be John Benham. He is one of the best engineers on this road,"--Mr. Dering was one of the Directors of the road,--"yes, it must be Benham. I should think he might have just such a child as that." "Why, papa?" asked Mary Dering, leaning forward. "Well, because he's a proud sort of fellow, rather short of speech; doesn't give or take any familiar words. But he's an excellent engineer, excellent, and is full of intelligent ideas. He saved the road from quite a loss last year by a suggestion of his. He's always tinkering, I've been told, on one or another of these ideas,--has quite an inventive faculty, I believe; and some of these days I suppose he hopes, as so many of these fellows do, to make a fortune out of some invention. Hey, what do you say to that, Dolly?" turning from this graver talk, and pulling one of Dolly's black locks. "What do you say to your impudent little girl turning into a millionaire's daughter one of these days?" "I'd say 'Ten cents a bunch' to her!" cried Dolly, vindictively. Mr. Dering flung back his head, and laughed. "Do you _really_ think he may make a fortune in that way?" asked Mary, interestedly. "Well, no; really I don't, Mary," her father replied. "Such things don't happen very frequently. Most skilled mechanics, like Benham, make inventive experiments in their peculiar line, but it's only one in a thousand who is a genius at that sort of thing, and produces anything remarkable or valuable enough to bring them a fortune. Benham is a clever, industrious fellow, but he isn't a genius; so we won't make a hero for a story out of him, my dear." And Mr. Dering nodded with a smile at Mary,--a smile that brought a blush to Mary's cheek, for she knew that papa was making fun of what he called her sentimentality. CHAPTER V. Almost at the very moment that Mr. Dering was asking Dolly what was the matter, John Benham, speeding along in his cab, was mentally asking the same question in regard to Hope; for, as he caught that glimpse of her as the train stopped, he saw at once that something was amiss. There was a strained, excited look about her eyes, and a hot, uncomfortable color in her cheeks. Had any one been troubling her? His own color rose at the thought. Why had he allowed her to take such a position? But, thank Heaven, this was the last night. Two hours after this he put the question to Hope in words. What was the matter? Hope had not meant to tell. She would be brave and keep her annoyance to herself. But the suddenness of the question broke down her defences, and she burst into tears. "My dear, my dear, what is it? Who is it that has been troubling you? There, there!" taking her in his arms, "have your cry out, then tell father all about it." Hope was to the full as honest and truthful as Dolly, and her story was as exact; but she did not, for she could not, do full justice to Dolly, from the fact that she had not caught the faintest idea of that good impulse that she herself had nipped in the bud; and without this impulse Dolly's share in the story looked pretty black, and John Benham, as he listened to it, did not laugh, as Mr. Dering had done. It was not amusing to him to hear how his sweet little daughter had been hurt by all that impertinent questioning. He saw better than Hope that the impertinence was not malice, and that the ignorance it proceeded from was that old ignorance that comes from the selfishness that is born of long-continued prosperity. In trying to convey something of this to Hope, and to show her that she must not let her mind get poisoned by dwelling too much upon the matter, he said,-- "Try to put it out of your mind by thinking of something else." Hope lifted her head, and a faint smile irradiated her face. "I'll push it out with the good little fiddle," she answered. "That's my brave little woman!" That very night Hope carried her resolve into action by going over to see Mr. Kolb to arrange for the purchase of the violin. She had told him at the first, of the shop where she had seen the instrument that had taken her fancy, and of her flower-selling plan to buy it. "Yes, yes; it was a very good shop," he had told her, and the plan was a very good plan, and some day he would go with her to look at the little fiddle. He was quite astonished, however, when, on Saturday night, she ran in to tell him that her plan had succeeded so well that she wanted him to go with her on Monday afternoon to buy the little fiddle. "What! you haf all the money?" he asked incredulously. "Yes; I earned all but two dollars, and that my father gave me." The old German threw out his hands with a gesture of surprise. "Ah! you little American mädchen," he cried, "you do anything!" But when, on Monday afternoon, the two set out on their errand, Hope began to have a misgiving. Perhaps she had made a mistake. Perhaps, after all, it wasn't a good little fiddle, and she looked anxiously at Mr. Kolb when he entered the shop with her, and took the instrument in his hands, for Mr. Kolb would know all about it. And Mr. Kolb _did_ know all about it. He knew at the first sight of it; and when he lifted the bow and drew it across the strings, his eyes were smiling with approbation. [Illustration: "HE LIFTED THE BOW AND DREW IT ACROSS THE STRINGS"] "A good fiddle! ach! it is a peautiful little fiddle!" he exclaimed, as he ceased playing. Then he complimented Hope by saying: "You haf the musical eye, as well as ear, Mädchen, to put your heart on this little fiddle, and we shall haf so good a time, you and I, learning to play it." That night, just after supper, Hope took her first lesson. As she tucked the little fiddle under her chin, and drew the bow uncertainly and awkwardly across the strings, her heart beat, and her eyes filled with joyous tears. The little fiddle for the time quite pushed Dolly Dering and everything connected with her out of her mind. While she was thus happily occupied, her father was busily engaged with what looked like a toy engine. He was tinkering over one of those ideas of his, that Mr. Dering had spoken of. This particular idea was something connected with the speed of the locomotive and the economy of fuel at one and the same time. Two years before, certain improvements in this direction had been made, but they were not fully successful, because they did not combine harmoniously,--what was gained in one direction being partially lost in another. John Benham's idea was to invent something that should combine so harmoniously that a high rate of speed could be attainable with a minimum of fuel. When he first started to work out this idea, he was quite confident that he could carry it through to success; but he had been at it now for months, and the harmonious combination still evaded him. What was it? What had he missed? Over and over again he would ask himself this question, and over and over again he would add here or take away there, and all without achieving the result he desired. So many failures had at length beaten down his courageous confidence not a little, and he had begun to think that he must be on the wrong track altogether, and might as well give up the whole thing. He was thinking this very strongly that Monday night when he sat in his workshop,--a long, low room he had arranged for himself at the end of the house. The night was warm for the season, and through the open doorway he could hear the quavering, uncertain scraping of the little fiddle. "Dear little soul!" he thought; "I hope this good time is paying her for that bad time of hers." If he could only have known how thoroughly it was "paying her,"--that at that moment the bad time was pushed completely out of mind by the good time! He hoped that she was comforted; that was the most that he expected. For himself, nothing had put the story she had told him out of his mind; and while he sat there adjusting and readjusting the little model, it was half mechanically,--his thought being more occupied with his child's painful little experience, and all that it suggested to him. He was not a bitter or a violent man. He did not think that the poor were always in the right, and the rich always in the wrong in their relations with each other, as a good many working-people do. No; he was too intelligent for that. But what he did think, what he _knew_ was, that the rich were not hampered and hindered by the daily struggle for existence, for the means to procure food and clothing and shelter from week to week. He knew that his own abilities were hindered and hampered by the necessity that compelled him to work almost incessantly for the necessaries of life. If he could have had only a little of the leisure of the rich, a little of their money, he could have had constantly at his hand, not merely the books that he needed, and the time to study them, but various other ways and opportunities would have been open to him to follow out his strong taste for mechanical construction. As it was, he had been obliged to grope along slowly, working at odd times after his labor of the day, and generally at some disadvantage, either in the lack of proper tools, or needed books of reference directly at his hand. All these thoughts bore down upon him that night with greater force than usual, because of Hope's story; for here it was again in another direction, that difference between the rich and the poor. And while he thought these thoughts, scrape, scrape, went Hope's bow across the strings. "Do you hear that, John?" asked Mrs. Benham as she came into the workshop. "Yes, I've been listening to it for some time." There was an absent expression in John Benham's eyes, as he glanced up. His wife noticed it. "You look tired, John. I wouldn't bother over that"--with a nod at the engine model--"any more." "No; I've about made up my mind to give it up. I don't seem to be on the right track with it, anyhow." There was a depressed, discouraged note in the husband's voice that his wife at once detected. It was a new note for her to hear in that voice. She regarded him anxiously a moment, and then, smiling, but with a good deal of real earnestness, said,-- "Don't fret about it, John. Hope, maybe, 'll make all our fortunes yet. Mr. Kolb told me that she had a wonderful ear for music, and would be a fine performer some day." "Fortunes! 't isn't money only, Martha; I hate to give up a thing like this. I felt so sure of myself when I started; and--and--it is failure, you see; and failure is harder to bear than the hardest kind of labor. I've always thought, you know, that I was cut out for this sort of thing,--this inventive business,--but it looks as though I had been more conceited than anything else, doesn't it?" "No, no; it doesn't, John. Your worst enemy couldn't say that you were conceited. But you've had so little chance, so little time; that's what's the trouble. But you haven't come to the end yet, and I didn't mean that I wanted you to give up trying. I only meant that I wouldn't bother over _that_. You must start something new; that's all I meant, John," cried Mrs. Benham, full of affectionate sympathy and repentance. "Oh! I understand, Martha; I understand. What you said didn't discourage me. I dare say I shall tinker away at something again by and by; but _this_ thing"--striking the model a little blow with his hand--"is a failure." At that moment the door-bell rang, and Mrs. Benham hurried away to answer its summons. Left alone, her husband stretched out his hand towards the model, and opened the door of its fire-box. There was still a tiny bed of coals there. "We'll have a last run," he said, with a half-smile; and opening the steam-valve, he saw the beautiful little model start once more on its way along the rails he had laid for it upon the work-bench that ran around the room. As he had constructed a self-acting pressure that should close the steam-valve at a certain point, the model was
{'title': 'Hope Benham: A Story for Girls by Nora Perry', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}