Hope Benham Part 2

"_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 a.s.sociated Charities a.s.sisted. 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 cla.s.s 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 matinee 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 s.h.i.+eld against tormentors. Thursday and Friday were equally pleasant and fairly profitable. Sat.u.r.day 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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, pa.s.sionately.

"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!"