“Alas! how light a cause may move
Dissension between hearts that love.”
Meg came down-stairs to breakfast humming a gay little air to herself,
and looking so young and fresh that Mrs. Weston looked at her
disapprovingly as she took her seat at the table.
The morning light was unmerciful, showing up the wrinkles and
sallowness of the fretful little woman, in direct contrast to the
smooth purity of Meg’s skin and the brightness of her eyes. The elder
woman wore a somewhat soiled blue wrapper, and there was not the care
bestowed upon her appearance that usually characterized it.
She glanced pettishly at Meg as she poured the coffee, and said, “I
don’t see why you always wear white.”
Meg smiled at her sunnily, and replied, “Well, I like it—it doesn’t
fade, washes well, is economical—”
“And—?” queried her aunt with uplifted eyebrows.
“And is becoming,” finished the girl calmly. Then she added: “What
would you have me wear? It would be neither suited to you nor to the
glorious summer season to wear drab.”
“Pink?” suggested her aunt.
“Oh, Auntie, with my hair!”
Mrs. Weston almost smiled.
“Yellow?” she continued.
“Too vivid,” objected Meg.
“Then blue,” said her aunt hesitatingly.
“That’s _your_ color,” replied Meg, with laughing eyes, “and as it
wouldn’t become me so well, I wouldn’t think of wearing it.”
Mrs. Weston’s smile deepened, spread all over her face, into the
creases she still fondly believed to be dimples, and diplomatic
relations were established.
Meg picked up the morning paper, and propping it against the
coffee-pot, began scanning the head-lines of the first page. “I
declare,” her aunt commented, “you are as bad as a man about reading at
the breakfast-table.”
The girl smiled. “When I marry,” she announced, “I shall take a lesson
in managing a husband from that dear, clever little friend of mine in
Atchison, whose husband takes his ‘ease in his inn,’ sitting in a
rocking-chair while he eats. He shows his appreciation of the
privilege, by holding her hand between bites. Just think!” she added
pensively, “they have been married five years, and he still loves her!”
“I don’t see what that has to do with your reading the paper at the
breakfast table.”
“Why, Auntie,” and Meg looked reproachfully at her over the paper, “you
know I do it to save you the trouble of reading it yourself. Let me see
what is happening.” And she glanced over the front page. “‘More
Macedonians murdered,’—we won’t go into the details, please,—‘Jealous
lover shoots sweetheart,’—I’m glad I’m redheaded; it saves
complications,—‘Woman murders faithless husband,’—oh, what a bloody
world we live in! No, it is a beautiful world,” she said softly, after
a little pause, “when there are such women as Helen Gould in it. She
has been giving the waifs another outing at her lovely home. Mrs.
Stuyvesant Fish has consented to an interview. She declares that
America must have an aristocracy. She doesn’t say whether it will be an
aristocracy of brains or money. It must be the former, as she deplores
the depredations on the outskirts of society, committed by the vulgar
rich. Yes, of course it is of brains,—that order of brains which can
originate ‘cute’ things with which to amuse and entertain the elect.”
Mrs. Weston, growing restive, interposed, “That does not interest me.
Read the local news.”
“You are so provincial, Auntie,” was Meg’s comment, as she turned the
paper; “you belong so hopelessly to Valencia!”
“Well, so do you,” was the brief retort.
“Not in the way I mean, my dear Aunt! My spirit is cosmopolitan,
though, Prometheus-like, I am chained to Valencia. While my head is in
the clouds, my feet are, oh, very much on the earth!”
“You do talk the greatest nonsense.”
“Do I? Then I’ll read to you instead of talking. ‘Mrs. Guy Worthington
Deflurry has returned from an extended Eastern trip.’”
“Mrs. who? oh, Mrs. Deflurry? I suppose she had some handsome clothes
made while she was gone.” Mrs. Weston was tremulous with excitement.
“Do you know the lady?” Meg asked idly. “No? I thought from your
interest that she was a dear friend. ‘Miss Cordelia Jamison has
departed for Michigan to visit friends.’ ‘It is rumored that a rich
bachelor is to be wedded to a handsome young widow.’”
Mrs. Weston was all in a flutter instantly. “Who can it mean? Surely,—”
she giggled foolishly, “surely people cannot think that Mr. Spencer and
I—”
Meg put down the paper with a judicial air. “I have always held,” she
said, “that the newspaper habit was a pernicious one for some people. I
will read no more to you. It goes to your head.”
“Why, Meg Anthony, you might at least remember that I am older than
you, and treat me with some respect!”
Meg opened her eyes wide. “But you are not!” she protested. “I am
centuries older than you. I am a relic of the dark ages, while
you,—Auntie, I really believe you are the youngest woman I know.”
A smile encompassed Mrs. Weston’s entire face at what she considered a
compliment, and in the exuberance of her sudden good-humor, she said,
“How would you like to invite Mr. Spencer, his sister and nephew to
come to dinner to-morrow night?”
“Oh, Auntie, can we really do it?” Meg cried ecstatically.
“Yes,” answered her aunt; “I’ll go and interview Delia about it. I
think I’ll have some little-neck clams—the canned ones, you know,—some
kind of cream soup, a roast course, an entrée, salad—”
“Auntie!” interrupted Meg sternly, “You know we can’t afford any such
frills! And with only one servant! Let’s call it supper, and give them
just a plain meal, nicely cooked and served.”
A dull purplish color mingled with the yellow of Mrs. Weston’s face, as
she questioned with angry dignity, “Am I, or am I not mistress here?
When did I give over the reins of government into your hands? If I need
your advice, young lady, I’ll seek it.” With ruffled plumage, she went
into the kitchen to settle the details with Delia.