“And both were young and one was beautiful.”
Valencia was a western town, with about forty thousand inhabitants who
believed in and were immeasurably proud of the place. There were no
factories, and there was no great value in real estate, since the wild
boom of the early eighties, which made and broke so many western towns;
but it was quite a railroad center, one of the principal western roads
having headquarters there. Amusement there was none, save band concerts
twice a week in summer, and an occasional show in the opera house in
winter.
The town had perhaps more than a fair allotment of that class of people
who find fault with everything, from the price of ice to the sparsity
of amusements. It was said, also, to be no more free from public
officials with itching palms, than other cities of its size.
Saloons were supposed to be unknown in Valencia, in accordance with the
laws of the State, and it did truly present a clean, moral aspect to
the casual observer.
Valencia was essentially a “home” town, with its wide streets, its many
trees, comfortable homes and green lawns, and it was much beloved by
its inhabitants, who, if they moved away, inevitably moved back again,
with untiring loyalty.
Robert Spencer had been borne into the town on the tide of prosperity
that had carried so many into it in 1882, and he was one of the
barnacles who had remained, firmly fastened, when the tide receded,
taking with it a few of the industries that had sprung up like
mushrooms during the boom. He had had a competence when he drifted into
Valencia, which by judicious investment had increased until he was
independently rich.
The first few years of his life there had been uneasy ones, for he had
to be constantly on the alert to avoid matrimony, so many were the
enticements thrown out to land him. He was unquestionably the biggest
fish in the pond, and the hooks had been baited for him repeatedly, but
he had not bitten.
The first evening after Mrs. Malloy and Robert reached Valencia, Mr.
Spencer entertained two of his nearest neighbors, a widow and her young
niece, at dinner.
Mrs. Weston had been a pretty girl in her youth, and it was a hard
habit for her to break from. She still affected baby blue, which had
set off to advantage her pink-and-whiteness twenty years before, but
which now exaggerated the faded lemon color into which that complexion
had degenerated. In place of dimples, there were creases in her cheeks,
but she clung to her original conception of them, and used them
accordingly. Her hair, from being golden, had become dull and lifeless,
but she still wore it in the jaunty frizzes which had once set off her
doll-like face.
She was an easy victim for complexion agents, and her generous
patronage had done much to hasten the decay of her delicate complexion.
She was entirely satisfied with herself, but nevertheless she felt a
pang of jealousy whenever she looked at her young niece, and was only
moved out of her complacency and simplicity, to indulge in caustic
remarks to her.
Robert Malloy felt himself shy and awkward in the presence of girls,
for his life had been spent close to his mother, with books and study,
and he was ignorant of their ways.
Before dinner was announced he found himself seated by the girl,
Margaret Anthony, vaguely wondering what to say, and wishing he dared
look at her to see what she really was like.
He ventured a remark about the weather, and looked at her as he did so.
She answered in a monosyllable, but kept her eyes cast down. Following
the direction of her eyes, he saw that she was twirling her thumbs.
In a flash he glanced at his own hands, and then he realized that he
was being ridiculed.
He looked hastily at her again, and this time she met his eyes with an
unmistakable gleam of laughter in hers. For a moment he was inclined to
be angry, but changed his mind and laughed outright, a musical, boyish
laugh, with which hers chimed.
The older folks looked over at them, and an expression of satisfaction
appeared on Mr. Spencer’s face.
“That little vixen is up to some mischief, I know,” twittered Mrs.
Weston.
“Whatever it is, I am grateful to her,” responded Mr. Spencer. “I don’t
think I ever heard Robert laugh like that before. Did you, Stella?” he
asked, turning to his sister.
“He wasn’t so different from other boys, Bob,” she said smilingly; “he
and I have had many a romp together.”
“Maybe so, maybe so,” he muttered.
“If I should say ‘booh!’ you’d run,” said Margaret with conviction, to
Robert.
“Try me and see,” was his good-humored response, just as dinner was
announced.
Mr. Spencer had seated the two young people together, for he rightly
concluded that the ice would be broken sooner, over soup and fish, with
the assistance of warm candlelight and flowers, than in a drawing-room
with the accompaniment of voices no longer young.
In taste, Robert was no acolyte, and he gave a little sigh of
satisfaction as his eyes took in the exquisite details of the table of
polished, massive mahogany, with gleaming silver and glass, the bowl of
gorgeous, rich red roses, and the candles with their red shades.
Turning, he met the eyes of his companion, and involuntarily thought
that she fitted with the environments. Her hair had a decidedly reddish
cast, and framed a face which was small and white, with a refractory
red mouth and an insignificant nose.
Her eyes were peculiar, but very beautiful, large and full and greenish
in color, shaded by lashes so long and dark that they gave a dazzling
brilliance to her face.
As she met his eyes she smiled and said, as though he had spoken, “Yes,
_isn’t_ it pretty?” Then she added, “But I am a gourmand. I like the
pretty surroundings _and_ a good dinner, but if I had to choose between
the two, I would take the latter.”
“That’s because you are such a child,” he said patronizingly.
“Of course, judging from the standpoint of _your_ experience, I must
appear like one,” was her lofty reply.
Her remark reduced him to an awkward consciousness of his inexperience,
and beside this small girl he felt himself suddenly to seem like an
uncouth school-boy.
After this little encounter they listened to the conversation of their
elders. Mrs. Malloy was expressing her opinion of a new book which she
did not like, and said that people were better off with no books at all
than with one of that character.
Mrs. Weston, who had never delved very deep into any subject, said with
a little giggle: “I would hate to acknowledge, though, that I had not
read a book of which every one was talking. But I have often heard Meg
express herself the way you have been doing.”
After they were back in the drawing-room Robert said to Margaret, “Did
I understand your aunt to call you ‘Meg’?”
“You did,” was the reply; “I have as many names as Eugene Field’s
‘Bill,’ in the little poem ‘Jes ’fore Christmas.’ You remember it?”
He nodded.
“Well, it’s this way with me: Father called me Margaret, the girls they
called me Peg, Mother called me Margie, but Auntie calls me Meg.”
“And—?” he queried.
A sudden gravity settled over her face, as she replied, “There is no
one now to call me Margaret or Margie. Auntie’s name for me sort of
sticks. But I suppose it’s all right. I’m not big enough to be entitled
to the big, dignified name of Margaret.”
“When I know you well enough, I shall call you Margie,” Robert said
confidently.