"DEPARTED DAYS"
Miss Parthy Turner's back garden was separated from Miss Maria Hill's
by a fence in which a gate was cut that the two might sociably jog
back and forth without going around the block. One of Linda's windows
overlooked these gardens, where apple-trees disputed right of way with
lilac bushes and grape-vines, and where, just now, late roses were
cast in the shade by the more brilliant chrysanthemums. Miss Parthy,
it may be said, was of a more practical turn than her neighbor in that
she gave over to vegetables a larger part of her garden space, so
that there were still discernible rows of cabbages, slowly-ripening
pumpkins, high-poled beans, and a few late tomatoes.
The morning after her arrival, Linda noticed in the garden, beyond the
dividing line, a young man walking about with an evident eye to the
quality of the apples shining redly above his head. She regarded this
person with some curiosity, conjecturing that he was the mysterious
stranger who had taken the photographs for Miss Ri. "He doesn't look
like a fake," she told herself. "I suppose his story may be true. By
the way, Miss Ri didn't tell me his name nor where he hails from."
However, her thoughts did not long dwell upon the stranger, for this
was to be her initial morning at school, and she was looking forward to
it with dismay and dread. She scarce tasted her breakfast and looked so
pale and anxious, that Miss Ri's heart ached for her. Mammy, too, was
most solicitous, but knew no better way to express her sympathy than by
urging hot cakes upon the girl with such persistence that at last, to
please her, Linda managed to eat one.
In spite of fears, the morning went more smoothly than she had
anticipated, for Miss Patterson remained to coach her and she became
familiarized with the routine, at least. Her pupils were little boys,
none too docile, and naturally a new teacher was a target for tricks,
if so she did not show her mettle. Under Miss Patterson's watchful eye
there was no chance for mutiny, and Linda went home with some of her
qualms allayed. She had passed her examinations creditably enough and
felt that she could cope with the mere matters of teaching, but the
disciplining of a room full of mischievous urchins was quite another
question, and the next morning her heart misgave her when she met the
rows of upturned faces, some expressing mock meekness, some defiant
bravado, some open mirth. Courageously as she met the situation, it
was a trying morning. If her back was turned for but an instant, there
were subdued snickers; if she made a statement, it was questioned;
if she censured, there were black looks and whispers of disapproval.
At last one offender, sneaking on his hands and knees to the desk of
another boy, was captured and marched off to the principal, a last
resort, as poor Linda's nerves could stand no more. She was near to
crying, her voice trembled and her heart beat fast. She scarcely knew
how she went through the rest of the morning, for, though her summary
act had quelled open rebellion, she was not at ease and keenly felt
the undercurrent of criticism. She did not realize that the boys were
trying her spirit, and she went home discouraged and exhausted, a sense
of defeat overcoming her.
As she was entering the gate, she met someone coming out, a young man,
rather heavily built, with a keen, clever face, rather than a handsome
one. "Ah, Miss Linda," he exclaimed, holding out his hand, "I've just
been hearing about you."
"From Miss Ri, of course. Well, what has she been telling you?"
"It wouldn't do to say. How is the school going?"
"The school in general seems to be going very well; as to my part of
it, the least said, the better."
"Really? What's the trouble?"
"I don't know exactly. I suppose that I am the trouble, perhaps; Miss
Patterson seemed to get along well enough."
"Boys or girls do you have?"
"Boys; little wretches from eight to ten, such sinners, not a saint
among them."
"Would you have even one saint? I wouldn't, for he couldn't be a truly
normal, healthy boy. But I am keeping you standing and I know you are
ready for your dinner. I'll walk back to the house with you, and you
can tell me the particular kinds of sin that have annoyed you. I was a
boy myself once, you know."
He walked by her side to the house. Miss Ri, seeing them coming, was at
the door to meet them. "I thought I sent you home once, Berk Matthews,"
she said.
"So you did, but I took this way of going. Don't imagine for a moment
that my return involves an invitation to dinner, Miss Ri."
"That is an excellent thing, for I don't intend to extend one."
"Could you believe that she would so fail in hospitality?" said the
young man, turning to Linda. "I am mortified, Miss Ri, not because of
the dinner, but that you should go back on the reputation of an Eastern
Shore hostess. Isn't it a world-wide theory that we of the Eastern
Shore never turn a guest from the door when there is the faintest
possibility of his accepting a bid to a meal? Alas, that you should be
the first to establish a precedent that will change the world's opinion
of us."
Miss Ri laughed. "You would think I was a client for the other side and
that he was using his wiles to get me fined, at least. Come along in,
if you must; I can guarantee you better fare than you will get at the
Jackson House, I am bound to say."
"That sounds alluring, but my feelings are hurt because I had to hint
for an invitation."
"Could anything so obvious be dignified by the name of a hint? Very
well, go along and cut off your nose to spite your face, if you like;
you will be the loser."
"Not very complimentary, is she?" said Mr. Matthews, laughing. "I
believe I will come now, just to show you that I am not to be badgered."
"Then don't stand there keeping us from our dinner. It is all ready,
and I don't want it spoiled." Thus adjured, the young man followed the
others into the dining-room, where Phebe was just setting forth the
meal.
"Well, and how did it go to-day, Verlinda?" asked Miss Ri, when they
had seated themselves.
"Don't ask her anything till after dinner," put in Mr. Matthews.
"Things will assume an entirely different aspect when she has had
something to eat. Just now the shooting of the young idea is not a
pleasant process to contemplate, in the eyes of Miss Linda. We'll talk
about something else. Where did you get these oysters, Miss Ri? I never
tasted such a pie."
"Of course you didn't, for you never ate one made by such a cook. The
oysters came from the usual place, but I'm in high feather, Berk, for I
have the best cook in town. I have Linda's Phebe."
"You don't want another boarder?"
"Not I. Linda is adopted; she is not to be classed with common
boarders, and I certainly don't want to spoil my ideal household by
taking in a--"
"Mere man," interrupted Berkley. "Very well, I will find an excuse
to come in every day about meal time. What are you going to have for
supper?"
"Cold cornbread, dried apples and chipped beef," replied Miss Ri with
gravity.
"That's mean. Well, I'll come around with the papers to-morrow."
"We're going to have the remains of the chipped beef and dried apples
for dinner."
"Then I'll come about supper time; they can't last over three meals."
"You don't know the surviving qualities of those articles of diet; they
may last a week with proper care."
"I'll come and find out. I can go in the back way and ask Phebe, or
I might bribe her to throw the stuff over the fence to Miss Parthy's
chickens."
"Don't you be up to any of your lawyer's tricks, Berk Matthews. I
warn you, not a meal in my house shall you eat, if I hear of any
shenannyging on your part."
"I'll be good then, but I'd like a piece of that pie, a nice big piece."
While all this nonsense was going on, Linda kept silence. She was
really hungry and the light foolish talk was a relief, as the others
intended it should be. In consequence, she went back to school in
better spirits and the afternoon passed more satisfactorily.
True to his threat, Berkley Matthews did appear with some papers just
before supper time, but refused to stay, telling Miss Ri with great
glee that Miss Parthy had invited him to her house and that she was
going to cook the supper herself, while he and her other guest, Wyatt
Jeffreys, were going to help.
"Wyatt Jeffreys, Wyatt Jeffreys," repeated Linda. "That name sounds
very familiar. I wonder where I have heard it. Where is he from, Miss
Ri?"
"From Connecticut, I believe. Any more light on the case, Berk?"
"No. Nothing can be done till he shows up his papers, and they seem
to be lost irrevocably. It's pretty hard on the poor chap, if there is
really anything in the claim. Good-by, Miss Linda. I must be going,
Miss Ri; you can't wheedle me into staying this time."
"Wheedle you!" cried Miss Ri in pretended indignation. "I can scarcely
get rid of such a persistent beggar. Go along and don't come back."
"I'll have to," cried he. "You must sign those papers at once, this
very evening."
"I'll bring them to your office to-morrow morning," Miss Ri called
after him, but he only waved his hand with a parting "Shan't be there,"
and Miss Ri turned to Linda, laughing. "We always have it back and
forth this way. He attends to my business, you know, and runs in often.
Now that his mother and sister have left town, he boards at the hotel,
and likes the home feeling of coming here to a meal. Nice boy, Berk is."
Linda had known Berkley Matthews all her life. As a little stocky
boy he had come to play with her in Miss Ri's garden on some of the
occasions when she was brought from Talbot's Angles to spend the day.
Later he had gone to boarding-school, then to college, and she had seen
little of him during late years.
"He'll be back," said Miss Ri nodding, "just to get the better of me.
But to tell you the truth, Verlinda, he certainly is a comfort, for he
looks out for my interest every time. I wouldn't have a house nor a
field left by this time, if it had depended upon my kin folks. Don't be
an old maid, Verlinda. When their very nearest and dearest are gone,
old maids seem to be regarded, by the world in general, as things so
detached as to have no rights whatever; their possessions appear to be
regarded as so many threads hanging from them; whoever comes along in
need of a needleful, makes a grab, possesses himself of such a length
and makes off with it, never stopping to see that it leaves a gaping
rent behind."
Linda laughed. Miss Ri's grievances were not many, but were generally
those caused by her stepbrother's family, who lived not far away and
made raids upon her whenever they came to town.
"Oh, well, you may laugh," Miss Ri went on, "but it is quite true. Why,
only the last time Becky was here she carried off a little mirror that
had belonged to my great-grandmother."
"Why did you let her have it? Your great-grandmother was no relation of
hers."
"I know that; but she talked so much, I had to let her take it to get
rid of the incessant buzzing. You know what a talker Becky is."
"But you like Mrs. Becky; I've often heard you say so."
"Oh, yes, I like her well enough. She is entertaining when she is
talking about other people's affairs and not mine," remarked Miss Ri
with a droll smile. "That is the way it generally is, I suppose. Well,
anyhow, Berk Matthews keeps my business together, and I'm sure I am
satisfied to have him run in when he chooses, if only to keep me in a
good humor."
"I thought you were always so, and that you never got mad with fools."
"I don't; but Becky is no fool, my dear."
They turned into the big drawing-room, a room charming enough in
itself, without the addition of the fine old Chippendale chairs and
tables, the carved davenport, the big inlaid piano, and the portraits
representing beauties of a departed time. Linda knew them all. The
beautiful girl in white, holding a rose, was Miss Ri's grandmother, for
whom she was named and who was a famous belle in her day. The gentleman
in red hunting-coat was a great-grandfather and his wife the lady with
powdered hair and robed in blue satin. The man with the sword was
another great-grandfather, and so on. One must go up a step to reach
the embrasured windows which looked riverward, but at the others, which
faced the lawn, hung heavy damask curtains. Linda had always liked the
smaller windows, and when she was a little child had preferred to play
on the platform before them to going anywhere else. There was such a
sense of security in being thus raised above the floor. She liked, too,
the little writing-room and the tiny boudoir which led from the larger
room, though these were closed, except in summer, as so large a house
was hard to heat comfortably.
A freshly-burning fire in the fireplace sent glancing lights over
the tall candlesticks and sought out the brightest spots on the old
picture-frames. It picked out the brass beading on the yellow-keyed
piano, and flickered across Chinese curios on the spindle-legged
tables. Miss Ri's grandfather had been an admiral in the navy and many
were the treasures which were tucked away here, out of sight there, or
more happily, brought forth to take the place of some more modern gift
which had come to grief in the hands of careless servants.
"It is a dear old room," said Linda, sitting down at the piano and
touching softly the yellowed keys, which gave forth a tinkling response.
"I ought to have a new piano," said Miss Ri, "and now you have come, it
will be an excuse to get one. I'll see what I can do next time I go to
town. I remember that you have a nice voice."
"Nothing to boast of."
"Not very powerful, perhaps, but sweet and true. I wish you'd sing for
me, Verlinda, if you are not too tired."
"I will, if you will first play for me some of those things I used to
love when I was a child. You would play till I grew drowsy, and then
you would carry me off to bed."
"Oh, my dear, I don't play nowadays, and on that old tinkling piano."
"But it is just because it is the old piano that I want the old tunes."
"Then pick out what you like, and I will try."
Linda turned over a pile of music to find such obsolete titles as
"Twilight Dews," "Departed Days," "Showers of Pearl," and the like. She
selected one and set it on the rack. "Here is one I used to like the
best," she said. "It suggested all sorts of things to my childish mind;
deep woods, fairy calls, growling giants; I don't know what all."
"'Departed Days.' Very fitly named, isn't it? for it is at least
fifteen years ago, and it was an old thing then. Well, I will try; but
you mustn't criticise when I stumble." She sat down to the piano, a
stout, fresh-colored, grey-haired woman with a large mouth, whose sweet
expression betokened the kindly nature better than did the humorous
twinkling eyes. She played with little style, but sympathetically,
though the thin tinkling notes might have jarred upon the ears of one
who had no tender associations with the commonplace melody. To Linda it
was a voice from out of her long-ago, and she listened with a wistful
smile till suddenly the door opened and the music ended with a false
chord. Miss Ri shut the piano with a bang, and turned to greet the
young man who entered.