Barbara Morrison, chink-filler; a story for girls

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Chapter I The Precious Problem

T HE room still vibrated with the slamming of the door.

“Mother,” said Susie, and her usually gentle voice almost trembled with indignation, “ I really think you are too lenient with Barbara.”

“Yes,” joined in Amy, an unwonted fire in her beautiful eyes, “she was simply outrageous ! Beyond all bounds! I can’t help it, mother, I could hardly keep from slapping her!”

Laura, with frowning brow, stood holding a torn piece of music in her hand, and said:

“Well, I did slap her, and richly she deserved it! Now, mother, this has got to be decided one way or other. If I am to go on giving her music lessons, she must do as I tell her. If, because I insist on her prac¬ tising a certain exercise, she is free to fly into a rage, and snatch it out of my hand and tear it across, that ends it. I wont go on !”

Mrs. Morrison, altogether the calmest of the group, looked around on her three daughters.

“You are all right enough in what you say, and, Laura, you were quite justified in slapping her, though

i

I am not so sure that it was wisely done or will secure the best results.”

“She won’t tear my music again, that I know,” an¬ swered Laura confidently. ‘‘ She really looked scared.’’

Mrs. Morrison continued:

“I shall tell her she must pay for it out of her pocket-money.”

“And I shall tell her that I will on no account take her money. I paid myself in the coin I preferred when I slapped her. The loss of the music was the least part of it all—nothing as compared with the abominableness of her conduct.” Her mother nodded assent, and Laura went on: “I am not boasting, mother, but you know yourself that it is I who am doing the favor in giving her lessons, and it wouldn’t be a bit easy even if she behaved herself, for she hasn’t any natural aptitude for music; but when she treats me as if I were a persecutor and she were putting me under obligations by even consenting to be taught, it is—it is ”

“Maddening,” suggested Amy.

“It is true,” said Laura, “it makes me ‘hopping mad,’ as the children say, if that is what you mean, Amy, by being ‘maddening.’ Now, mother, what is to be done?”

“Girls,” answered Mrs. Morrison to all three, “I feel that you are not taking a broad enough view; perhaps I should rather say a long enough view of this matter. It is more in relation to Barbara’s fu¬ ture that I am considering and handling her stormy present. You will remember that Barbara always was from her infancy a tempestuous young creature.”

“Goodness!” said Amy, “can I ever forget how

THE PRECIOUS PROBLEM 3

she used to scare me stiff by holding her breath until she was black in the face when she was in an infantile rage. And the clever mite found out quickly enough that I would do anything for her rather than have her get into one of those fits.”

Mrs. Morrison continued: “For two years now, indeed ever since your father and I returned from Eu¬ rope, Babs has been a puzzle to us both. We call her our precious problem. It began when she joined the church and the difficulties were with her wild remorse and fears; but since then I have seen that more and more she has drawn away from us all, and taken an antagonistic stand. She complains that you girls care nothing for her and shun her society. She is not far wrong in the complaint.” Each of her daughters started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Hear me out, girls. I am not blaming you at all. I know perfectly well that you have tried until you consider further trying useless, and naturally you have lost in¬ terest in efforts which landed you nowhere. I am right, am I not?”

“Yes, mother, you are,” Susie answered for them all. “And you are the dear you always are to read us so justly.”

“Well, then, girls, be convinced that I also read her justly, and that I am no more lenient than the case requires. I must sacrifice everything else for the allimportant purposes of retaining her belief in my sym¬ pathetic love for her during this difficult period of ferment and transition. All I ask of you girls is to pray for her, love her at least a little, and hold your¬ selves ready to meet any favorable turn in her moods.”

“You are such a blessing, mother,” responded

Laura; “I certainly ought to be able to do more than you ask, for I verily believe I should have de¬ veloped just like Babs if you had not guided me so wisely. Indeed, but for you I fear I should often break loose even nowadays, when I am supposed to have cut my own wisdom teeth.’’

“ I always have felt,” Mrs. Morrison went on, “that that year I was away with your father, Barbara con¬ tracted some sort of a twist in her character—at least in the manifestation of it. She has by nature many peculiarities, but I thought she was learning to control their outbreak quite creditably.” Here the lady sighed. “It did seem unfortunate that she had to be left that entire year alone with your poor aunt Barbara, who had no more idea how to manage her than a kitten.

“ But with you three in college, it couldn’t be helped; for go I had to. Your father would have died if he had remained here, and equally if he had gone alone; and of course it was not practicable for one of you to be left in charge.” She sighed again. “I do very much wish, though, that I knew of some outside, inspiring influence that might give her mind a new direction. She has sunk so deep in morbid brooding these days that familiar home influences do not reach her.”

“ I have it!” cried Susie. “She is one of the King’s Daughters, and the annual rally is next week at Bridgeton, and that Mrs. Barton, whom they say every girl adores, is to make the address. We three were mourning because we had made other engage¬ ments before we knew of it; but Babs simply must go. It is said that Mrs. Barton has a way that no girl can resist, or even wants to resist. Some one told me:

THE PRECIOUS PROBLEM 5

‘ It s her way more than her say that steals the girls* hearts.’ ”

Her mother brightened. “I am glad you sug¬ gested that, Susie; I shall certainly try having her go. Pray for the success of the experiment upon our pre¬ cious problem, daughters, and see how happy you will be when she becomes at last our precious pride.” And she smiled on the subdued group as she left the room.

“ Mother is right about Aunt Barbara; she did a lot toward spoiling Babs. From babyhood the child wound her around her fingers.”

“That wasn’t the worst of it, Susie,” said Laura. “ It seems a dreadful thing to say now that poor, dear auntie is gone; but she had a quick temper too, you know, and used to dispute with Babs, and that ended her being able to control her. And then, too, when Babs found that auntie dreaded her stinging remarks about that disastrous love-affair, she did with auntie just what she did with you, Amy, by holding her breath.”

“Yes,” answered Amy, “I remember how she would make auntie cry. It is really pathetic, though, to see how careful poor mother is in what she says of Babs’s faults. To her they are only ‘peculiarities.’ Though at times I am sure mother is nearly dis¬ tracted. The truth is, Barbara is the most selfish, can¬ tankerous, suspicious, jealous, and insolent of young¬ sters. There, I feel better for having said it; I feel nearly as satisfied as if I really had slapped her.”

Here the “youngster” under discussion walked in and slammed some money onto the table, saying: “Mother said I had to pay you for that music, Laura, so now we are quits.”

As she turned to leave, her sister held her and said:

“No, we are not quits on the value of the music, because I shall not accept your payment for it.”

Barbara put her hands behind her defiantly: “You can’t force me to take it back.”

“I shan’t try. There it goes into mother’s poorbox. And now, childie, listen to me. I consider that I punished your conduct as it deserved, and that is all I really cared about. And you might as well un¬ derstand here and now that I do not intend to lose my temper again no matter what you do. But that, all the same, I shall certainly slap you, and slap you hard , every time you indulge in an outbreak while I am teaching you.”

“Suppose I won’t take any more of your old les¬ sons,” sneered Barbara.

“That,” returned Laura calmly, “is just as you can arrange it with father. He was the one who asked me to give you lessons, and I fancy he intends you to take them whether you want to or not. Personally, I should find it a great relief if you gave them up.”

“Then I won’t give them up.”

Laura laughed good-humoredly. “What a contrary puss it is!” she said.

“Barbara,” said Amy, whose indignation was still not wholly allayed, “if mother wasn’t so easy with you, I wonder if you wouldn’t be better.”

“I confess,” added Susie in her quiet tones, “I for one should like to see the extreme rigor of the law ap¬ plied. I just wonder how it would work.”

Again the room vibrated with the slamming of the door.

Chapter II

WHAT BARBARA HEARD AT THE RALLY, AND WHAT SHE HEARD AFTER THE RALLY

B ARBARA, you will miss your train if you don’t hurry!” called a voice from down-stairs.

“Oh, mother,” called back Barbara fretfully, “have I got to go ?”

“ Is it really necessary to thrash that all out again ? ” her mother asked in a tone of weary impatience. “You know as well as I do that the other girls can’t go—Susie is at her history lecture, Laura is at the church-concert rehearsal, and Amy is at the dress¬ maker’s.”

“But I don’t see,” persisted Barbara, “why I should have to go to the old rally just because the girls can’t—or think they can’t,” she added to her¬ self spitefully. “I don’t see the harm of my staying away too!”

“Well, I do,” answered her mother decisively. “So come down at once.”

Barbara flung her book onto the bed, jammed on her hat, and, seizing jacket and gloves, hastened down¬ stairs, where her mother stood holding the money for her car-fare.

“ Now, Barbara,” said she kindly, “do try to muster up a smile. I am sure you will enjoy it, after all.”

“Well, I am sure I won’t; and I don’t see why I can’t be allowed to do the things I like as well as the others. They stay or go as they please, and I have to do all the horrid old things they wriggle out of!”

She flung herself out of the house, ignoring her mother’s look of mingled distress and displeasure. As she appeared at the station, a group of merry girls exclaimed:

“Here comes Barbara Morrison!”

“Looking as cross as a bear!” added one.

“Hello, Babs,” called another. “What’s the mat¬ ter?”

“Matter enough! I don’t want to go to the old rally of the King’s Daughters, and I have to; and just when I was reading the best story yet!”

Here they had to board their train; but as they clustered together in the end of the car, one said:

“I’ll bet you anything, Babs, that you’ll be glad you came. Mrs. Barton, of Boston, is to give the ad¬ dress, and she is de-li-cious ! ”

“The sweetest darling!” cried another.

“A perfect peach!” added a third.

“Simply adorable!” confirmed a fourth.

Barbara’s lips took on a curve of utmost scorn as she retorted: “These sweet, darling, adorable, de¬ licious peaches of women who go about with their pious St. Catherine look ”—and Barbara rolled up her eyes—“giving sugar-taffy advice to girls are the limit; and I’m sure I shall find your Mrs. Barton, of Boston, de-te^-able! ”

The girls exchanged indignant glances, and one voiced her feelings: “Barbara Morrison, you talk like an old spitting tabby-cat!”

WHAT BARBARA HEARD

This made all but Barbara laugh. She replied with glum dignity: “Mary Ann Peters, if you don’t like my conversation, you’re not obliged to listen to it!”

Another girl, standing in amused silence, interposed:

“There’s one thing I will say for you, Babs, you’re as honest as they make them; so I want you to promise that if, after all, you do like Mrs. Barton, you’ll ’fess up to us.”

“I’ll do about that, Grace Alden, just as I please !” snapped Barbara.

“Why didn’t you say as you darned please?” gibed Mary Ann Peters. “It would just suit your pious St. Catherine expression, you delicious, adorable peach of a girl!”

Here Mary Ann was pushed into a seat by her com¬ panions and ordered to “behave”; and one of them, in the interests of peace, changed the subject by ask¬ ing Barbara on what committees she intended serv¬ ing, but was shortly answered: “None.”

So they left her to herself, and she sat out the re¬ mainder of the ride in gloomy silence, and in gloomy silence trailed behind the others to the place of meet¬ ing; where among the crowd of sunny, smiling girl faces hers glowered conspicuously.

When Mrs. Barton, of Boston, arose to speak, and the audience enthusiastically gave the Chautauqua salute, Barbara’s grudging participation was almost as marked as if she had refrained altogether. But her determination not to become interested soon weakened under Mrs. Barton’s sympathetic voicing of girlish perplexities and aspirations; and her clear and practical suggestions for solving the former and fulfilling the latter, though her discontent deepened with her interest. Nothing that was said seemed to fit her individual case, and she scowled impatiently.

Suddenly Mrs. Barton paused, looked the assembly over thoughtfully, and then flashed into Barbara’s eyes a smile that was as personal as if she had called her by name. It was only for an instant, but the un¬ expectedness of it made the girl catch her breath and redouble her attention.

“Let us get to fundamentals,” continued Mrs. Barton. “There exists a talent which is the most im¬ portant a girl can possess. In fact, it is by itself an endowment; and, though it includes neither organiz¬ ing nor administrative ability, more than any other it has power to hold society together. It differs from all other talents in this important respect, that it can be acquired by every one, and probably with less effort than is given to following the fashions. And yet it is a talent not greatly prized by its possessors, although to others it is their chief attraction.”

The girls were listening in smiling curiosity, but the gloom on Barbara’s face said as plainly as words: “Of course I’m not ‘in it’! ” Then she started and leaned forward, for Mrs. Barton, stepping to the edge of the platform, looked directly into her eyes as she continued:

“This crowning power and grace of life which every individual of you either does or may possess, but which hardly a handful of you covet, is the talent for making people happy.”

There was a gasp of surprise followed by a distinct letting down of interest in her audience.

“Just as I anticipated,” she said laughingly. “But let me illustrate my point. I know of a fine monu-

WHAT BARBARA HEARD ii ment, built of great blocks of granite, which was in danger of ruin because bits of mortar had dropped out here and there leaving open chinks. If rain had filled these and then frozen, it would have forced the solid blocks apart. Therefore, however much the mortar used in repairing might despise its office of chink-filler, it really was the monument’s preserver. Just as serving others holds society together, by shutting out the ruinous forces of mere self-seeking.

“So, girls, to be a social chink-filler is no mean vo¬ cation for any of us; nor is it an easy one. It is never easy to accept all the poorer portions and places so that others may be made happy by the best; to smile when you feel like snarling; to efface yourself in hum¬ ble services; in short, to fill chinks when you long to build palaces.

“But let a girl undertake with her whole heart to become a master-hand at this vocation, and she will soon discover that it is as stimulating as basket-ball, and far more absorbing than bridge-whist. To push the button that brings smiles to tearful faces and hap¬ piness to lonely hearts is even worth the sacrifice of being out of sight behind the machine. It means walking in the footsteps of Him who came in the form of a servant, ‘to comfort all that mourn—to give them a garland for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness.’ ”

What more Mrs. Barton said Barbara hardly knew; she was too busy speculating whether she could master this vocation. When the meeting broke up she hur¬ ried to the station, and slipped into a seat behind the open door of the waiting-room to think it out. She hardly heard the chatter and laughter as the other girls gathered on the platform outside; nor was she aware of the two ladies who entered hastily and seated themselves on the other side of the open doorway.

“There!” exclaimed one softly. “We did get in undiscovered. Those girls are dears, but I was starv¬ ing for a few minutes alone with you. I can’t begin to tell you, Nettie, how much your talk meant to me! I was so glad, too, that you said what you did about making others happy, for girls are apt to forget its importance in their keenness to do big things; but I was surprised, too, for it did not seem to fit in with what you were saying just before.”

The other laughed. “You are right, Florence, it didn’t fit in at all. It was spoken on the spur of the moment. Three seats from the front sat a girl who would have been pretty but for her discontented, peevish expression. She was a most unresponsive listener; and I suddenly felt that I must reach the poor child. It was pathetic that any girl could look so disgruntled with life when everything about her indicated that she came from a prosperous home. I wonder if by any chance you know her ? She wore a particularly natty suit of blue with red facings, and a blue velvet hat with a chic bow of red ribbon.”

The lady’s voice had risen to a conversational tone, and as she uttered the last words a familiar note in it disturbed Barbara’s revery with the knowledge that Mrs. Barton was speaking.

“Oh, yes,” answered the other lady, and Barbara recognized the voice of Mrs. Gerald, her former Sun¬ day-school teacher. “That was Barbara Morrison.”

Barbara started to reveal herself, but shrank as the speaker added:

WHAT BARBARA HEARD

“And, frankly, she is the most disagreeable girl I know.”

The involuntary listener could not now bring her¬ self to make her presence known, and therefore, much as she tried not to eavesdrop, could not help hearing what followed.

“She used to be in my Sunday-school class, and I had to ask to have her changed to another.”

Barbara had always resented this transfer, though not suspecting the reason for it, and she could hardly control her distress and anger as the voice continued.

“ It was a real trial to me to do it. Oh, how I had prayed for that girl! And how I tried and hoped to win her! But whenever spiritual matters came up seriously, and the girls began to express themselves, she made mocking, cynical remarks that spoiled every¬ thing. I have wondered since whether I ought to have kept her a bit longer; even though she was thwarting all my efforts for the others as well as for herself. You, Nettie, would have managed better. Tell me, was I utterly derelict ? ”

“Oh, Florence,” laughed the other, “you are taking it too seriously. Of course you had to consider the good of the greater number. Besides, if she was a misfit in your class it was better also for her to go into another. How does she get on now ?”

“I fear not at all. She has been shifted from class to class.”

“Is she the proverbial only child?”

“ No, indeed; she has three sisters and a brother all considerably older than herself. Her three sisters are quite remarkable; all so handsome, and so pleasant in their ways that they are immensely popular. Besides, the oldest is a brilliant student, and the next one almost a musical genius, while Amy, next older than Barbara, is such a beauty that she would be an ornament to society if she never opened her lips. Barbara is simply a nonentity beside her sisters.”

“ Poor girl,” said Mrs. Barton. “How discouraging to be so overshadowed.”

“Yes, I judge she resents it bitterly, and makes a personal grievance of it. Barbara has fair enough mental ability, and as you saw isn’t bad-looking. She could easily hold her own in an ordinary family. For that matter, she could as it is but for her un¬ gracious manners. She seems determined to go through life with a chip on her shoulder. It is a very disheartening case; such a needless manufacturing of unhappiness for herself and every one about her.”

“What sort of parents has she?”

“The best possible; devoted to the interests of their children, and with very high ideals.”

“Then you consider that nothing can be said for her in extenuation or excuse ?”

“No, I think it should be taken into account that she is greatly handicapped by a morbid nature and a suspicious, jealous disposition; and I do feel sorry for her. Still, all that is no excuse for blighting the hap¬ piness of every one else.”

“Why, look at it, Nettie; not one girl in a thou¬ sand is either pretty or brilliant. The big majority don’t begin to have Barbara’s advantages of health, happy home, and easy circumstances; yet they don’t go around like wandering thunder-clouds.

“Sometimes I long to put it to her plainly. Per¬ haps I ought to have done so in the first place; but it

WHAT BARBARA HEARD didn’t seem to me wise. Oh, she is cut on the bias! Come, we won’t discuss her any more. Isn’t that draft too strong for you? It is more sheltered over there.”

With that the ladies moved out of ear-shot, and from their frequent laughter had evidently found a pleasanter topic.

Barbara was in a tumult of resentful mortification. To have her secret faults, secret even from herself, set forth in the light of day; to see herself as others saw her, and to find the vision altogether repellent, was a staggering experience.

Chapter III The Unexpected Meeting

I T seemed an eternity to Barbara before the train for Borderville came in, and then instead of both friends going out onto the platform, Mrs. Barton bade Mrs. Gerald good-by in the doorway. In angry dis¬ may Barbara shrank back to await the next Border¬ ville train, by which time the Boston train would have carried the lady off.

“ This ,” she said to herself, “is the limit!”

But it was not. For at that instant Mrs. Barton with a shiver closed the door and found herself face to face with the startled girl behind it.

“Well!” exclaimed she, her look of surprise quickly changing to one of pleasure. “This is luck! I thought you had gone on that train.”

Then she paused, for Barbara, white and agitated, had risen.

“I want you to understand—I don’t want you to think—you mustn’t suppose,” stammered the unhappy girl, “that I hid there on purpose to listen !”

“Oh, my dear girl,” interrupted the lady, “such an idea never entered my head. How could it? You must have been here when we came in.”

“Yes, and just as soon as I knew you were talking about me I started to come right out; but before I could do it Mrs. Gerald had told you—I was dis- 16

THE UNEXPECTED MEETING agreeable; and that almost knocked me down; and be¬ fore—I could get over it, she had told you about the class, and—and other things; and then I just couldn’t show myself; I was so—so ”

“So hurt,” suggested her companion sympathet¬ ically.

Barbara shook her head. “No,” with dogged hon¬ esty, “I was so furious—I was afraid of what I’d say or do. I didn’t want to make a scene and have the other girls hear; and, oh, I didn’t want to make you think any worse of me than you did already. I liked you so much, and I’d been trying to think out what chinks I could fill—and now she’s spoiled it all! It was horrid, horrid, horrid of her to say what she did !”

“Do you think she was purposely horrid?”

“Oh, no, she isn’t that sort.”

“But you do think she was mistaken?”

“ I don’t know, I’m sure. I wasn’t nice in the class, that’s true. I felt mad inside all the time. I couldn’t help seeing she cared more for the others than for me, because they had been in her class longer.”

“Do you think it would have been better had she told you plainly what she thought?”

“ No, it would have only made me madder and more sure that she was partial, and wasn’t giving me a fair show. But I did like her, and I was trying to do as she said, and she ought to have seen that .”

“Even when you took all possible pains to conceal it from her?”

Barbara stirred uneasily but made no reply, then in a moment blurted out, as she turned toward Mrs. Barton a face expressing mingled chagrin, wistful¬ ness, and rebellion:

i8

“I don’t see why every one should care for every one else, and no one, not a single person , care for me. I’ve got rights, too; and it’s cruel of God to make it so that no one will care for me.”

“Your parents, and brother, and sisters?”

“Oh, they!” and Barbara turned down her lips scornfully. “The girls are wrapped up in themselves and their doings and haven’t time to care for me; and Mark trots after them like a pet dog; so of course he hasn’t time for me. I sometimes doubt if he knows I’m in existence. Mother watches me, and corrects me, and makes me do the things the others don’t like to do. And father idolizes them. He sits by the hour to hear Laura play the piano, or to discuss books and things with Susie, and as for Amy, she is petting him every chance there is.”

“And what do you do for your father?”

“I ? Why, I don’t see what there is left for me to do. You heard Mrs. Gerald say that I was a non¬ entity beside my sisters.”

“Yes, but why do you acquiesce in such a posi¬ tion?”

Barbara opened wide eyes of astonishment. “Ac¬ quiesce ? I don’t, I loathe it! But it doesn’t depend on me.”

“It certainly does, my dear girl. You could make yourself so useful to every member of your family that you would be in constant demand. There are thousands of little services that you can do, better, I’ll warrant, than any of the others.”

“I don’t see why I should do all the services for them when they’re not willing to do them for me,” re¬ torted Barbara with sullen obstinacy.

THE UNEXPECTED MEETING

“Ah, that’s the rub, is it? Well, I will tell you why. Because your Master said that He came to min¬ ister, and not to be ministered unto, and that the servant was not higher than his lord; but it was enough for him to be as his lord.”

“Yes,” said Barbara in a more subdued voice. “And I would minister to Him; but to them , that is different. Why is it any more my duty to them than theirs to me ? ’ ’

“It isn’t. But then you have nothing to do with what is their duty, but only with what is your own. And your duty is to minister as your Master did; and as He did, to minister freely without looking for re¬ payment. Don’t you remember that He said your Father in heaven gave rain and sunshine alike to the evil and the good, and that He added ‘ Be ye there¬ fore perfect-’ ”

“ ‘Even as your Father in heaven is perfect,’ ” quoted Barbara. “But I didn’t suppose that that meant anything more than that we should be as good as we can. Of course we can’t be perfect like God.”

‘ ‘ Then why was it put that way ? Jesus never spoke idle, senseless words. ‘Perfect’ is used in the sense of complete, consistent. God does not discriminate, but is kind to all, to the unthankful as well as to the appreciative and thankful.”