Molly Brown's Junior Days Part 21

Of what earthly pleasure is a beautiful corn-colored evening gown when one's heart is like a lump of lead and one's conscience heavy within?

All her numerous partners at the ball could not console Molly, nor could the knowledge that she was looking her best as she floated through the dances in her diaphanous dress.

"I know now how Judy felt after she was so unkind to me at the junior play," she thought, "and, if heaven is kind to me, I hope never to say anything to hurt anyone again."

In the meantime there were those who were enjoying themselves to the utmost limit of enjoyment.

Otoyo Sen, in a seventh heaven, was dancing with young Andy, who towered above her like a lighthouse over a cottage.

Judy in her black dress was sparkling with vivacity. Her fluffy light brown hair gleamed yellow and her skin was cream white, against the dark folds of her chiffon frock. Could this be the same Judy who, only a few weeks ago, was contemplating--heaven knows what?

Nance, with one eye on Andy, was also happy and light-hearted. How trim and charming she looked in her white silk dress!

Molly found herself laughing and talking a great deal, and all the time she was thinking:

"We'll be back to-morrow at noon. On Monday the holidays begin. Oh, if I can only see him before he goes!"

A great many young men came down to the station to see them off next morning. There was a din of farewells. On all sides girlish voices were calling:

"Good-bye!"

"It was the jolliest dance!"

"I never had a better time in all my life!"

"Awfully nice of you to ask us."

Molly had joined in the chorus with the others and had grasped many outstretched hands and smiled and waved her handkerchief and listened to Otoyo in one ear, crying:

"Oh, Mees Brown, I do like the American young gentleman veree much,"

while Judy in the other was saying:

"Wasn't it glorious fun? I never saw you look better. I have a dozen compliments for you."

The car fairly crept back to Wellington, so it seemed to poor Molly. At last they arrived and a carry-all took them back to the Quadrangle.

Without waiting to explain, she left her suitcase in the hall and ran to the cloisters. Pausing at the door marked "E. A. Green," she knocked urgently.

There was no answer. A door farther down the corridor was opened and the professor of French looked out.

"Professor Green has gone away," he said. "He will not return until after the holidays."

CHAPTER XIV.

AN INVITATION AND AN APOLOGY.

Millicent Porter invited Molly to go to New York with her for the holidays and visit in the grand Porter mansion. Molly understood it was a palace filled with tapestries and fine pictures. Millicent had mentioned all those things casually. They would go to the theaters and the opera and ride about in motor cars. But Molly was glad she had kept her head and declined.

"I have some work to do, Millicent," she said. "I appreciate your invitation, but I can't accept it."

"You must," exclaimed Millicent, too accustomed to having her own way to take no for an answer. "Is it clothes?" she added. Somehow, she gave the impression of not being used to wealth.

Molly hardly felt intimate enough with her to go into the subject of her own poverty and answered briefly:

"Not entirely."

Millicent was not famous for generosity and the basket of red roses sent to Molly on the night of the junior play had been her one outburst; but she was determined to have Molly go home with her at any cost.

"Because," she continued, "if it's a question of clothes, I can arrange that perfectly. My dresses will fit you if they are lengthened and--well, there'll be plenty of clothes. Don't bother about that. Your yellow dress is good enough for anything----"

"I should say it was," thought Molly, rather indignantly. "Good enough for the likes of you or anybody else."

"I'll lend you my mink coat and turban," went on this munificent young person, "and I have a big black velvet hat that would look awfully well on you. Now, you must come, please. I want you to see my studio at the top of the house. To tell you the truth, I'm rather lonesome in New York. I don't know any girls well, because I've never stayed at one school long enough to make friends."

"What's the reason of that?" asked Molly.

"Oh, I always get tired or something," answered the other carelessly.

"But say you'll come, do, please," she went on pathetically. Then, unable to stifle her grand airs, she said: "I doubt if you have such fine houses as ours in the south."

"Oh, no," answered Molly, quickly, "I doubt if we have. Our homes are very old and simple. The only works of art are family portraits. We have no tapestry or statuary. The house I was born in," she went on half-smiling to herself, "was built by my great-grandfather. Most of the furniture came down from him, too. Some of it's quite decrepit now, but we keep it polished up. My earliest recollection is rubbing the mahogany. You would doubtless think our house very empty and plain. We have some old crimson damask curtains in the parlor, but the rest of the curtains are made of ten-cent dimity. There is no furnace. We depend on coal fires in the bedrooms and wood fires in the other rooms and we nearly freeze if there's a cold winter. We have no plumbing. Every member of the family has his own tub and there are six extra ones for company. A little colored boy named Sam brings us hot water every morning for our baths. He gets it from a big boiler attached to the kitchen stove, and when we are done bathing he has to carry it all down again. Rather a nuisance, isn't it? But Sam doesn't mind. Oh, I daresay you'd think our house was a kind of a hovel." Molly paused and looked at Millicent strangely. There was a hidden fire in her deep blue eyes. "As for me," she said, "no palace in all New York or anywhere else could be as beautiful to me as my home."

Millicent looked uncomfortable.

"Be it ever so homely, there's no face like one's own," cried Judy, who at that moment had come into the room and caught Molly's last words.

"What's all this talk about home?"

"I was just telling Millicent about the old-fas.h.i.+oned, whitewashed brick palace wherein I was born," answered Molly.

"I'm sorry you won't accept my invitation," said Millicent, taking no notice of Judy whatever. "Perhaps, after you think about it awhile you'll change your mind." Her manner was heavy and patronizing, and implied without words:

"After you have had time to consider the honor I am paying you and the advantages of visiting in my splendid home, you cannot fail to accept."

"You are very kind, Millicent, but I shall not reconsider it," announced Molly coldly. "I have made up my mind to spend Christmas right here in the Quadrangle. I hope you'll have a beautiful time. Good-bye." They shook hands formally.

"I'll try to see the best in her," she thought, "but I'd rather not see it at close hand. She grates on me."

Judy waved an open letter with a dramatic gesture.

"Oh, Molly, dearest, I'm glad you didn't accept. It's my own selfish pleasure that makes me glad, but I'm going to spend Christmas right here in the Quadrangle, too."

Molly looked at her friend's eager, excited face in surprise.

"Do you mean your mother and father are coming here?"

"No, no. They're on the Pacific Coast, you know, and will be detained until spring. It's too far for me to take the trip just for the few days I could spend with them, so I'm going to stay here."