A PARTIAL SURRENDER.
In the midst of Derrice's frolic with the baby, Captain White appeared
in the doorway. "Good night," he said, composedly.
"Just as if he were going to bed," Chelda superciliously reflected.
This assemblage was becoming altogether too plebeian for her taste.
Derrice turned around in reproachful surprise. "Captain White, I
particularly hoped that you would not come."
"Did you, Cousin Derrice? I guess you haven't a monopoly of this house.
Mrs. Prymmer's off to a religious tea-party with some of the sisters,
and Mrs. Negus, seeing me on the steps and thinking I looked lonely,
asked me over. Please give me that baby."
"I am just having a little play with him myself."
"Keep him if you can," said Captain White. "Come, beauty," and he held
out his arms to the child. "Look at him now."
Hobbling over the floor, helping himself along by means of a hand and
a foot, waving his other hand in the air, chuckling and choking in
babyish delight, the tiny creature made his way to Captain White's
feet, and attempted to climb up his legs.
The man tossed him to the ceiling, laughing meanwhile at Derrice, who
sat in pretended dejection at the baby's desertion of her.
Captain White's twinkling eyes danced over every person in the room. He
possessed no organ of reverence. Miss Gastonguay and her niece were no
more to him than the humblest persons in the town, and, coolly tripping
away to the hall, he engaged in a long conversation with the baby, of
which such highly intelligible scraps as "Linktum, toddyum, widdy wee
Bootses--" occasionally floated to the people left behind.
"Why didn't you want that man to come?" asked Miss Gastonguay,
curiously.
"Because," said Derrice, "we become so riotous when he is here. He
is like a magician among the children, and they get so noisy and
I--sometimes I forget to be as dignified as a married woman ought to
be."
"Where did that baby come from?" said Miss Gastonguay. "I haven't got
on the track of this latest one."
"Nobody knows. Captain White brought him here. His past history does
not matter, Mrs. Negus says, for he will be well looked after now."
"Good for you, Cousin Derrice," said Captain White, returning
unexpectedly. "Some women adore a mystery. They fork it over and look
under and over it, and smell about it to see if they can't catch a
whiff of something more than they ought to catch. Now to reward you,
I'll tell who he is. I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance
down on one of the Boston wharves where he was about to attend his
own drowning, and was grinning like a Chessy cat over it. 'What are
you going to do with that baby?' I asked his mother. She was drunk as
an owl, and told me she was about to throw him to the fishes. No one
would give her work with that great baby hanging on her, and she was
too proud to starve him. 'How much will you sell him for?' I asked. She
steadied herself against a cask, and swore that she wouldn't sell her
own flesh and blood. 'Then give him to me,' I said, 'and I'll take care
of him.' The mother spirit cropped up in the drunken witch. She rolled
aboard the schooner, asked a few questions as to my character from the
men around, then, without a word, put the child in my arms."
Miss Gastonguay was listening in grim interest. Derrice had her face
buried in the child's pink neck, and even Chelda exhibited signs of
sympathy.
"Go on," said Miss Gastonguay, after a time. "What did you do for the
mother?"
"Nothing much," he said, sheepishly. "Only gave her address to some
folks who look after such like,--and of course I'll let 'em know how
the child gets on."
"Oh, oh, oh, Captain White!" and an avalanche of children descended
upon him. "You're going to stay to supper,--you're going to stay to
supper,--what fun!"
"Hello, you fellows, get out." And wheeling suddenly, he drove them all
into the hall and to the upper regions of the house, from whence sounds
of a wild frolic soon floated down below.
"Supper is ready, ladies," said Mrs. Negus, returning to the room. "We
won't wait for Mr. Huntington. Hark though, isn't he coming now?" and
she ran nimbly to the front door.
It was Mr. Huntington returning from a solitary walk. "We'll go right
on, dear boy," said Mrs. Negus. "Please send the children down-stairs,
and I'll get them to the table, and do you come as soon as you can."
Mr. Huntington did not look into the room as he went up the staircase.
Presently, at his bidding, the merry group of children came filing
down, breathing hard and fast, and making vain efforts to subdue their
high spirits.
Mrs. Negus scanned them through her glasses, shook her head till her
curls danced, and said, apologetically, to Miss Gastonguay, "They are
always frisky in frosty weather."
"So are my horses," said Miss Gastonguay. "And remember, Mary Potts
Negus, that I was once a child."
Mrs. Negus marshalled her family to the table, requested Captain
White to take the baby to Rebecca in the kitchen, then invited Miss
Gastonguay to say grace.
"I'll not do it," said her guest.
"Captain White, then," said the little woman, again nodding her head.
Captain White also refused, so she was forced to ask for a blessing on
the food herself, which she did with great amiability and reverence.
When a few minutes passed and Mr. Huntington did not come, she sent one
of the twins for him.
"He was reading," said the lad; "he had forgotten all about supper, but
when I told him who was here he wouldn't come."
"Flattering for us," said Miss Gastonguay, with such appreciative irony
that the children, thinking a joke was intended, laughed uproariously.
Captain White in some anxiety was surveying the table. There were on
it sundry stacks of bread and butter, that would fly like chaff before
the whirlwind when the boys got at them, a small pyramid of cheese cut
in squares, and only part of a plum loaf in wedge-shaped pieces. Miss
Gastonguay, as the most honoured guest, had been asked to carve, and
sat in composed gravity behind a joint of cold beef that, judging from
its appearance, had already figured at the dinner-table. She was also,
being unused to planning, carving it in too generous slices.
"Beg pardon, ma'am," he remarked, "but you're not going to make this
spin out. This family is larger than usual this evening."
Sensitive, gentle Marion quivered with excitement. She it was who had
proposed having the cold meat for supper.
"Cheese is good enough for a relish," Mrs. Negus had said during the
progress of a somewhat impassioned interview in the pantry.
"But those people are accustomed to late dinner," Marion had pleaded.
"I think we ought to have meat and potato for them."
"Well, you may have the meat," Mrs. Negus had said, "but you can't have
the potatoes. If they want dinner at night let them stay at home. I
am very glad to see them, but they must accommodate themselves to our
ways. Bread and butter and cheese and apple sauce are good enough for
anybody."
And now the beef was going to give out and Marion would be covered with
confusion, for Aunt Negus would be sure to say, in her good-natured,
stubborn way, "You shouldn't have proposed it."
"I have a plan," said Captain White, his downcast face clearing
as he watched Miss Gastonguay's knife wandering vainly around the
promontories and head-lands of the joint, searching for meat and
finding none. "Pass me the plates, children, I'll doctor them."
When they stood in a row before him, he seized a fork, and
expeditiously lifting the slices from one plate to another, got at last
an equal quantity on each one. "Now we ought to have some potatoes.
I'll fry some. Marion, come help me."
"Micah White," ejaculated Mrs. Negus, "you impertinent boy."
"I saw them in the pantry," he said, "a whole dish full. Here, Cousin
Derrice, is another piece for you. I've too much on my plate. Good
Aunt Negus, forgive me, and come too;" and as he passed her place he
stretched out his muscular arms, lifted her bodily, chair and all,
and carried her out to the kitchen with him, she meanwhile clutching
at the little cap set over the knob of hair on the back of her head,
exclaiming loudly at his foolishness, and trying to control the
shrieking crew of children behind her.
"That wild sailor," said Chelda, scornfully.
"He is not as bad as O'Toole," said her aunt. "I'd rather have a sober
riot than a drunken one. What, has Derrice Mercer gone, too? She likes
a bit of fun. Well, as they have all deserted us, it is not worth while
for you and me to stay," and seizing a newspaper she threw herself into
an armchair and began to read.
Captain White was addressing Mrs. Negus. "You see, auntie, we must do
something to flank that supper. There are the cat and dog to come yet,
and also Rebecca," and he pointed to the old black woman holding the
white baby and grinning at the invasion of her kitchen. "You draw the
line a little short. If you and John Gilpin's wife could have set up
housekeeping together you would have died millionaires," and humming,
gaily, "She was of a frugal mind," he turned up his coat-sleeves,
sliced the cold potatoes rapidly, and tossed them to Marion, who put
them into a hot frying-pan.
In ten minutes they returned to the dining-room, flushed and happy, and
bearing between them a huge platter of smoking hot potatoes with a ring
of fried onions around them.
"Who is for onions?" asked Captain White. "Miss Chelda Gastonguay, you
must have some. Great beauty-feeders are they. Ugly girls can become
pretty by eating onions--"
Miss Gastonguay suppressed a smile. The sharp-eyed captain had
discovered Chelda's disdain.
"Aunt Negus," he rattled on, "don't water that teapot before you pour
my cup. I take it stronger than the children."
She paused with the cover of the teapot in her hand, and, after filling
his cup, went on with the watering process.
"Auntie's tea-tray looks like the square when a parade is going on,"
said the more waggish of the twins. "See how the cups are drawn up in
battle array. Those that don't take sugar, bayonets at the side,--that
is, spoons in saucers. Those that do, present arms,--spoons upright in
cups. Then quick, march,--here they come," as she started on their way
the rows of cups she had filled with precision as to the exact quantity
of milk and sugar desired by each person.
Derrice and Captain White talked to the children. Chelda took
what little she ate in silence, and Miss Gastonguay addressed her
conversation to Mrs. Negus, who gave her various items of information
with regard to a busy life of sewing, darning, baking, shopping, and
caring for the children cast off by relatives, but now happy objects of
her affection.
After supper, Captain White fled to the attic, pursued by the children
and Derrice, who half-shamefacedly said that she would go to keep them
quiet.
"She likes a romp," said Mrs. Negus. "She was pretty young to be
married." Then following the law of association she turned to Chelda.
"My dear girl, I am thinking of that poor boy shut up in his study. He
must have one of his gloomy fits on him. Would you think it a liberty
if I asked you to take up a supper-tray? He would not be vexed with
you, for he likes you."
"I should not mind it at all," said Chelda, graciously, and she
followed her to the kitchen.
A minute later, Mrs. Negus, after giving some directions, hurried back
to Miss Gastonguay, and Chelda stood gazing at the black woman who was
phlegmatically disposing of the remnants of the beef and potatoes.
"Mrs. Mercer comes here pretty often, I suppose," said the young lady.
"Oh, law, yes, miss,--every day an' mos' evenin's, an' I'm always
ponderin' an' ponderin' about her."
"What are you pondering?"
"'Cause she's the moral image of a lady I onct knowed."
"Where?"
"In Boston city. Yo know, miss, I was onct a housemaid thar in a
boarding-house on Beacon Hill. Law me, them houses roun' about was a
sight to see at meal-times. People comin' out of 'em like rats out of
holes. Every room plum full."
"Who was the lady?"
"German born, American married. Her husband warn't no good,--he
favoured Cap'en White somewhat."
Chelda's face did not alter, but her questions did. They had been
prompted by a subtle wish to acquaint herself with every detail of
life in the house of the man she loved. Now she was reminded of the
conversation between her aunt and Derrice that she had overheard a few
hours before, and she at once became keenly interested, and asked,
sharply, "What do you mean by no good?"
"I dunno, miss. I jus' heard his wife goin' for him one day."
"Didn't she say what he had done?"
"I jus' misremember."
Chelda drew a dollar bill from her purse, rolled it up and tucked it
between some dishes on the dresser.
Rebecca's thick lips moved greedily. "I'll tell you all I know, miss,
but I ain't got no more memory nor a badger. She was a German an' her
hair was so light it was mos' white. She was pretty, too, and w'en her
husban' used to stay out late she'd cry an' talk, but I never heard
what she said; but I knew she was good, an' if she cried he mus' be
bad."
"Have you told Mrs. Mercer this?"
"Law, no. I asked her what her name was before marriage, an' she said
somethin' different. Lan--Lan--"
"Lancaster?"
"That's it; now the name of my folkses was different. Jones or James or
some such, so it ain't the same 'ceptin' her mother had a sister, an'
she says she hadn't."
"Probably it is a case of casual resemblance."
"Prob'ly, miss."
"I don't think Mrs. Mercer's mother was a German."
"Yes she were, miss, she tole me."
"Indeed--oh, well, it is a coincidence, you had better stop pondering
over it."
"I guess I will, miss."
"By the way, what was the address of that boarding-house?"
"Persia Street. I misremember the number, but it's writ down in my
Bible. I'll get it," and she hobbled up a back stairway.
Chelda glanced once at the title-page of the shabby volume held open
before her, and with an assumption of perfect indifference took the
tray that Rebecca made ready for her, and went to Mr. Huntington's
study.
"Who is there?" he asked when she knocked.
"Chelda," she replied, in a soft, low voice.
He immediately threw open the door and presented to her his flushed
face and burning eyes.
"May I come in? I have brought you something to eat."
"You are very kind," he said, but there was no gratitude in his tone.
"We have missed you;--the table is nothing without you," she said,
gently.
"I could not go down," he muttered.
She sat down, and with her whole soul in her dark eyes looked up at
him. "You wished to avoid me."
His silence was an answer in the affirmative.
"Have you no pity for me? Do you think I have no shame? Who is there in
your church that has your interest at heart as I have?"
There was no one. Her love for him was unwomanly in its forwardness,
yet it was sincere.
"Come away from here," she said, pleadingly, "come with me. My aunt
likes you. We can go where we will. You need never see this place
again."
He clenched his hands at her words, and his face, in his mortal
struggle with himself, was more like the face of a beast than a man,
yet she did not quail.
"It disgusts me," she cried, springing to her feet and laying a hand on
his quivering breast, "the way in which these uneducated people order
you about. It almost makes me despise you. Are you willing to pass your
life here? Can you be content to live in this poor way--these howling
children surrounding you--in these stuffy rooms? You who are so, so--"
and her head sank on his arm--"you who would become a palace."
"And after death the judgment," he said, in a husky voice. "Do you know
the vows that I have taken? Can you promise me peace of mind after I
have broken them?"
"Yes," she said, boldly. "I can promise you more than you have now."
"An easy promise," he said, bitterly.
"Come while you have the privilege," she urged. "They are going to
drive you out. I hear complaints. They say your manner is strange,
your words severe. Even the saintly Mrs. Prymmer has lifted her voice
against you, and yesterday I overheard two of your lambs. They spoke of
your coming to French Cross and taking a friendly glass of wine with
us. They called you a wine-bibber. It makes my blood boil that such
ignorant creatures should have you at their beck and call,--you, who
used to be so free."
Her sufferings were as deep, and even deeper than she described them;
and making no attempt at disguise, she dropped her hands that he might
see how distorted was her own face.
"Two human beings on the rack," he muttered, "and we could so easily
put a stop to it. If it were not for the pangs of conscience,--absence
will not blot out remembrance. There are some people here that I cannot
leave. What would they say?"
A feeling of triumph took possession of her. Formerly his answers to
her pleadings had been altogether of his obligations to his Maker. In
spite of unhappiness, mental disgust, and seasons of torture, he must
struggle on, hoping for light and a clearer understanding. Now he had
descended to the lower level. He feared the voice of men more than the
voice of God.
"Bernal," she whispered, pleadingly.
She had reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. He did not love
her. His whole being was merged in his life and death struggle for the
losing or gaining of his soul. Yet she exerted a strange fascination
over his senses.
"Poor girl," he murmured, stroking the hair from her hot forehead. "If
you were only--"
"If I were different. Ah, yes, for your sake, but I love you, Bernal, I
love you."
He could not repel her. It was not in his nature to be unkind to a
woman, and she spoke truly. She loved him. Never again would he meet
with such devotion.
"Chelda," he said, hoarsely, "I cannot marry you and stay here. You
would not be willing. If I were to give up this church, if I were to go
to some other--"
"Never, never," she said, vehemently. "You are not fitted for a
clerical life. You are too high-strung, too proud. They are killing
you here. They would do the same elsewhere."
He groaned miserably. Had the time come for his surrender? This fever
of unrest was killing him, and if he persisted in staying he would rend
his church in pieces and bring dishonour to the cause of religion. And
yet, in spite of his proposal, he could never leave here to roam from
place to place in search of a new flock.
"Chelda," he stammered, "I will decide to-night. Give me a little
further time."
She pressed her glowing face against his arm. "No, Bernal, now, now--"
He was about to yield, to give an unconditional assent, when a voice
came gently up the stairway, "Miss Chelda, Miss Chelda!"
The impassioned woman trembled in her lover's arms. Always an
interruption from that persistent girl. Some day she would be revenged
on her.
"I must not keep you," said Mr. Huntington, hurriedly. "I will see you
to-morrow."
She went reluctantly from the room, casting a backward glance at him as
he turned his nervously working face to the window.
"To-morrow, to-morrow, always to-morrow,--would to-day never come?"
She passed a hand over her dark features. They resumed their usual
expression of calm disguise, and she rejoined the circle below.
"Yes, aunt, I am ready. Mr. Huntington and I were talking theology. I
really think I must become a member of his church."
Mrs. Negus was the only one who received her words with unbounded
faith. Miss Gastonguay looked doubtful, Derrice was non-committal,
while Captain White winked openly at the hall light.