SEEN AT THE MARKET.
During the first week of September Freda saw nothing of Mauney. Each day
she kept expecting that he would either call or telephone. She tried
to explain his delinquency by the excuse of work; but no excuse could
justify it, especially when she might be returning to Merlton at the end
of the month. Her impatience increased daily. She was remaining quietly
at home, assisting in the house work, and systematically declining
invitations. She was prompted on Saturday morning to telephone him and
find out what was the matter. On second thought she decided not to make
any overtures whatever. She had planned going to the market.
That was one thing about Lockwood that Freda loved. Saturday morning,
she insisted on going to market for her mother. Long before sunrise
the quietness of Queen Street was disturbed by the creaking wheels of
farmers’ wagons coming into town, and by eight o’clock River Street
Square presented a varied assembly of picturesque conveyances, each
backed accurately to the cement walk that surrounded the enclosure. In
the centre of the square stood a fountain, well covered by a generous
canopy of faded maroon canvas, under which the farmers’ horses were
allowed to stand while their owners presided, for three busy hours,
beside their wagon-loads of produce.
It was a turbulent market, invaded with throngs of bargain-seeking
citizens, and defended by shrewd, rustic salesmen, who withheld all
bargains until the last possible moment. On certain days—no one
knew why—a spirit of great conservatism reigned, when the farmers
ill-temperedly refused to lower prices, and the customers with equal
stubbornness, refused to buy. At other times a happier contact prevailed,
and citizens captured what seemed stupendous bargains until, on walking
further along the rows of wagons, they discovered, too late, the
advantages of caution.
On this Saturday, early in September, Freda set out for River Street
Square to indulge her great Lockwood affection. A woman could wear any
kind of clothes at market, and Freda accordingly donned a yellow silk
sweater, and set forth bareheaded. Carrying a large market basket, she
walked leisurely along Queen Street, enjoying the spectacle of other folk
arriving, similarly equipped.
On reaching the edge of the square, she almost collided with one, Fenton
Bramley, a tall, ill-groomed, but strong-featured man of possibly sixty.
Although slightly stooped, his carriage suggested the British army as
unerringly as his polite manner betrayed the fundamental gentleman that
he was. Bramley’s lines had fallen in barren places, but he was in direct
descent from English nobility and could have been a knight even now, if
he had possessed the necessary funds to clarify his title. Every one
liked and tolerated “Fen.” He was a Lockwood fixture. In conversation
he maintained the off-handed ease and abruptness of introduction
characteristic of his thorough self-possession. He spoke to every one and
every one spoke to him.
“Freda,” he commenced in a quiet, conversational tone, as if he had been
talking with her continually for the past hour, “I see where that cove
that murdered the bank teller’s got his sentence. Did ye see that?”
“Why, no, Fen,” she laughed; “I’m afraid I missed the item.”
“It was an item all right,” he continued. “And I had a letter yesterday
from Frank Booth. He’s away up in the Yukon an’ says things are boomin’.”
“Frank Booth,” repeated Freda, trying to place the name.
“Maybe you don’t remember him,” admitted Bramley, scowling down
attentively into her face. “You’re lookin’ the picture of health, Freda.
And I’m not so bad myself. It’s a big market to-day. Some time when
you’re passing the house, slip in tu see my furnitoor. Yer feyther was
lookin’ it over and said he liked it. Did ye see where they arrested the
head of the drug ring in Merlton?”
She nodded.
“I had a letter last week from Mac Tupper,” continued Bramley in his
discursive way. “He’s down in New York, an’ says since prohibition came
in they—”
“Tupper?” interrupted Freda.
“Maybe he was before your time. A great man wi’ the billiard cue was Mac!
How’s yer feyther?”
“Oh, he’s fine.”
“An’ yer mother?”
“She’s well too.”
“And yerself?”
“Dandy.”
“Good-bye.” Bramley plucked off his cap, bowed and walked quickly away.
“How, much are your eggs?” Freda asked a farmer.
“The cheapest they’ll be this here autumn, lady,” he answered
indifferently, with scarcely a look at his intending customer.
“But that gives me very little idea of the price,” she replied.
“Strictly fresh, them eggs is, too,” he said. “Picked right out o’ the
hay last night. It’s one thing to get fresh eggs, but it’s a different
thing to get strictly fresh!”
He picked up one of the eggs and balanced it on the points of his fingers.
“Look at that!” he invited. “Nice, clean, white egg. D’ye notice the
shape of that egg?”
“Yes.”
“Then notice them in the basket,” he said, pointing to the wagon. “They’s
all the same shape. You can depend on ’em lady.”
“Suppose I put it this way,” smiled Freda. “What are they worth a dozen?”
“I’m not saying what they’re _worth_, lady, but—”
At this juncture the dialogue was interrupted by a short, florid-faced
woman, with big, wide, blue eyes, who recognized Freda and came waddling
toward her.
“Well, well, Freda,” she began, putting down her basket. “I don’t know
when I’ve seen _you_. I always _like_ to see you. It always makes me
think of poor Jennie. Poor Jennie always liked you, poor child! Even when
she could hardly sit up she’d always talk about you. Poor Jennie! She
always sat next to you in school, didn’t she? She liked you because you
said she was so pretty; and she _was_ a pretty child, too. Just think of
her and you sitting there together. Ain’t it strange how as it’s always
the beautiful are taken?”
Freeing herself as soon as possible from the garrulous mother of the
departed Jennie, Freda began to market in earnest. A wagon-load of meat
attracted her attention first. When the farmer had finished with a group
of customers, she pointed to some choice-looking mutton.
“How much is the lamb?” she enquired.
“Gawd knows ’tis little enough,” he replied in a rasping, sorrowful tone,
while he made gestures of innocence “Gawd knows I’m not tryin’ to flace
dacent people like yourself. Gawd bless ye. And when ye see the rubbitch
as yon jackeen does be haulin’ t’ town”—he nodded towards his nearest
opposition—“and see the rediculeus price he does be afther askin’ fer it,
Gawd knows, woman, ’tis little enough that I shud ask ony twinty-foive
cints.”
“Still,” objected Freda, “it seems a little high, doesn’t it?”
“High!” he exclaimed. “Wirra, woman, ye misjidge me! Gawd knows ye’d pay
nigh double the price at the butcher’s shop. An’ I’m afther thinkin’
that it’s dodderin’ little that a pretty, young lady ass yerself does be
knowin’ o’ the price o’ butcher’s mate, so it is. Gawd bless ye!”
“Gawd know’s that’s done it,” laughed Freda, placing her order. “I’d buy
it now even if I didn’t want it.”
While the farmer was carefully weighing the meat, Freda was surprised
by the sudden appearance of Edward Courtney, walking through the crowd
toward her.
“Girl,” he said, in his deep voice, “how much more do you intend to buy?”
“Not much, Ted,” she replied. “Why?”
“Nothing. I was waiting to spin you home and maybe play you a game of
cribbage before lunch. Like it?”
“Um-hum,” she nodded.
“But don’t hurry,” he said. “I’m idle to-day as usual, and totally at
your service.”
“Aren’t you an obliging person! Do you want to take my basket?”
“Pardon, how stupid of me!”
Marketing eventually finished, although not nearly so well finished as
might have been, they wound their circuitous way to Queen Street, and,
depositing the basket in the back of Courtney’s car, climbed quickly in
and motored home.
Courtney had a way of making himself swiftly at home with people he
wished to befriend. He carried Freda’s purchases boldly into her house,
through the dining room and into the kitchen, where Mrs. MacDowell was
peeling potatoes.
“I rescued your daughter just as she was finishing,” he announced.
He was pressing her wet hand, obdurate to her excuses, and bowing as
punctiliously as at a drawing-room reception. “I hope you’re quite well,
Mrs. MacDowell. Freda and I are going to have a game of cribbage before
lunch.”
On the verandah they arranged chairs by the small table and began playing.
“The old town does bear down pretty heavily, Freda—what?” he enquired
as he dealt the cards. “The mater is slipping down to New York and
Phily for a short duty call, and I’m wondering what wild schemes I can
perpetrate during her regretted absence. I had thought of a foursome up
the river in the big boat to-morrow night, but unfortunately the skipper
has been graciously granted a week’s shore-leave. Damn! The mater takes
this generous tack merely as a curb on my propensities.”
“Hard luck, Edward.”
“But mark my vow, Freda—some time before I’m eighty, I’m going to stage
a buster aboard the gentle _Cinderella_. However, I’ve got the launch in
shape and all I need now is a personnel for this proposed voyage. What
say?”
“Ted, I simply couldn’t go.”
He smiled while his eyes wandered over her fingers.
“I don’t notice either a diamond or a frat-pin,” he replied, teasingly.
“No; but, nevertheless, Ted, I’m practically engaged.”
“What, ho!” he exclaimed, in a low tone of surprise. “Freda, girl, are
you genuine?”
“I really mean it, Ted.”
“Dear heavens!” he mused. “Incidentally, though, my congratulations! Is
it a secret?”
“Yes, just at present.”
“Then, I’ll regard it so. But to think of the partner of my youthful
adventures being no longer available. Well,” he added in a voice
unusually serious for him, “Somebody’s lucky.”
“Why! You know you don’t care,” she rejoined offhandedly.
Courtney’s face was sufficiently mask-like to hide whatever feelings he
experienced, and accustomed enough to all contingencies to smile with its
usual ease.
“Tell me, then,” he presently inquired, “aren’t you going to come dancing
with me any more?”
“Possibly.”
“There’s going to be a _bon_ affair at the Country Club in the shape of
an informal free-for-all for clubbers and guests. It’s on Wednesday.
You’d better come.”
“Well, Ted,” she sighed, after a moment’s hesitation, “I’m on. What time?”
“Expect me at nine—and thanks awfully.”
The cribbage game was soon finished and Courtney, with a final _bon mot_,
was striding towards his car, while Freda in an idle mood was thinking
that, for all his shallow opulence and apparent emptiness, he possessed a
social grace that was admittedly worth while.