AS WATER UNTO WINE
The time passed as gaily as Miss Ri meant it should: in receiving and
returning calls, in a little sight-seeing, in shopping, lunching,
dining, a moderate amount of theatre-going. There was a visit to the
old low-roofed, grey-shingled market one Saturday evening, when the
Goldsborough girls, with their governess, begged Miss Ri and Linda to
join them in a frolic.
"We want to buy taffy," they said, "and see the funny people. Do go
with us; it will be so jolly." The expedition was quite to Miss Ri's
taste and, that Linda might have the experience, she urged the going.
A merry time they all had of it, pushing their way from one end of the
long market-house to the other, and then parading up and down outside,
where the country people, with their wagons, exhibited their wares on
tables improvised from a couple of barrels with boards laid across. A
little of anything that might be salable was offered, from bunches of
dried herbs to fat turkeys.
"It hasn't changed a particle since I was a little girl," declared Miss
Ri. "My uncle used to take me to market with him before breakfast on
summer mornings, and would buy me a glass of ice cream from that very
stand," she designated one with a bee-hive on its sign. "I wonder how I
could eat such a thing so early in the morning, though then I thought
it a great treat. On Saturday evenings in winter he always brought home
a parcel of taffy, which tasted exactly as this does which we have
bought to-night. And my aunt, I can see her now with a colored boy
walking behind her carrying a huge basket, while she had a tiny one in
which to bring home special dainties."
"That custom isn't altogether done away with yet," Miss Carroll told
her. "Some of the good old housekeepers still cling to their little
baskets."
"And a good thing, too," asserted Miss Ri.
One afternoon, Grace brought her Major to call, and they found him to
be a stout, elderly man, rather florid, a little consequential, but
quite genial and polite, and evidently very proud of his young fiancée.
"He's not so bad," commented Miss Ri, "although he is not of our
stripe. I was sure he could not be a West Point man, and he isn't. He
served in the Spanish War for a short time, he told me. However, I
don't doubt that it is going to be a perfectly satisfactory marriage.
He likes flattery, and Grace is an adept in bestowing it."
Mrs. Matthews and her daughter, Margaret Edmondson, were among the
very first to call and to offer an invitation to luncheon. "We shall
not make a stranger of you any more than of Maria," said Mrs. Matthews,
taking Linda's hands in hers. "I remember you so well as a little
bit of a girl, of whom Berkley was always ready to make a playmate
when you came to town. My first recollection of you is when I brought
Berkie over at Miss Ri's request. You were no more than three and he
was perhaps six or seven. You looked at him for a long time with those
big blue eyes of yours, and then you said, 'Boy, take me to see the
chickens.' You liked to peep through the fence at Miss Parthy's fowls,
but were not allowed to go that far alone, you were such a little
thing. From that day Berkie was always asking when Miss Ri's little
girl was coming back, for you left that same evening."
Miss Ri looked at Linda. Her face was flushed and her eyes downcast.
"I shouldn't be surprised," put in Margaret, "if Berk were wishing now
that Miss Ri's little girl would come back."
Linda withdrew her hand from Mrs. Matthews' clasp and turned from the
gentle face, whose eyes were searching hers. "Oh, you are mistaken,
Mrs. Edmondson," she said hurriedly. "Berk and I very seldom see one
another; in fact, I have not laid eyes on him for weeks."
"He's working too hard," said Mrs. Matthews, turning to Miss Ri. "I
thought he looked thin and careworn when he was last here. I wish
you all would advise him not to overwork. He values your advice very
highly, Maria."
"We all think he is working too hard," returned Miss Ri, "but if he
listens to anyone, it will be his mother. I never knew a more devoted
son."
"He is indeed," replied Mrs. Matthews. "Maria, I hate to have him in
that comfortless hotel; he was always such a home boy."
"Come, Mother, come," broke in Mrs. Edmondson. "Miss Ri, if you get
mother started on the subject of Berk, she will stand and talk all day.
We shall expect you both on Thursday. Take the car to Cold Spring Lane
and you will not have far to walk."
The callers departed and though Linda said little of them, Miss Ri
noticed that she made no protest against the trip to the pretty suburb
where they lived. She had not been so ready on other occasions.
Mrs. Edmondson, proud of her pretty new house, was ready to show off
its conveniences and comforts, and to discourse upon the delights of
living in a place which was not city and yet was accessible to all
that one desired, for it was not half an hour by trolley to the center
of the town. Her husband, a young business man, was making his way
rapidly, Mrs. Matthews told Miss Ri with pride. "And he is a good son
to me," she added, "so I shall never want for a home while I have three
children. Margie insists that I shall never leave her; but, unless
Berkley marries, I think I should make a home for him. I can't have him
living in a hotel all his life." Then followed anecdotes of Berkley,
of this act of self-denial, that evidence of devotion. "You know,
Maria, that he is exactly like his father. The Doctor always thought of
himself last."
"Mother, dear," interrupted Margaret, "they didn't come to hear Berk
eulogized, but to see your pretty room. Come, Linda, let us leave them.
Miss Ri is almost as bad as she is when it comes to Berk." She put her
arm around Linda and drew her away, whispering, "Mother thinks I am
jealous, but I am not a bit; I only don't want her to get the notion
that she must leave me and go back to Sandbridge. After all Berk has
done for us, I think he ought to have his chance to get ahead, and
the very least I can do is to try to make mother happy here with me.
Herbert agrees with me. I wish Berk had a home of his own, and then
mother would be satisfied."
The two younger women went off to view other parts of the house, while
their elders talked of those things nearest their hearts. They were old
friends and had much in common. Margaret was a sweet womanly person,
not a beauty, but fresh and fair and good to look upon, with the same
honest grey eyes as her brother's, and the same sturdy frankness of
manner. Linda thought her a trifle expansive, till she realized that
herself was anything but a stranger, in spite of the fact that she had
not met these two since she was a little girl.
"I am glad I wasn't brought up within hail of the monument," said
Margaret as she exhibited her spick and span kitchen. "I should hate
to be deprived of the privileges of my own kitchen, and I shouldn't
like to believe I must live on certain streets or be a Pariah. There
is too much of that feeling in this blessed old city, and I must say
our Cavalier ancestors did give us pleasure-loving natures as an
inheritance. Half the girls I know are pretty and sweet and amiable,
but they never read anything but trash, think of nothing but wearing
pretty clothes and of having a good time. However, I think they do
make good wives and mothers when it comes to settling down. Someone
said to me the other day, that Southern girls married only for love
and that poverty came in at the door to mock them for being so silly
as to think any marriage was better than none; that they didn't mind
love flying out of the window half so much as they did going to their
graves unmarried. There may be some truth in that, but I think they are
generally pretty contented and are satisfied to take life as it comes."
Margaret was a great chatterer, and was delighted to get Linda to
herself, to air her own views and to learn of Linda's. "Aren't you
glad, Linda," she went on, "that you are making a place for yourself in
the world? Berk has often said that you were quite different from most
of the girls he knew, and that he wished we could be good friends. He
says you can talk of other things than dress and gossip, and that you
are quite domestic. Are you domestic?"
"Why"--Linda paused to consider--"yes, I think I am. I like to keep
house. I did for my brother, you know; yet I like a good time and
pretty clothes as much as anyone."
"Of course. So do I. But you care for other things, too. Berk thinks
you are so wonderful to write so well, and to get along so successfully
with your teaching."
Linda made a little grimace. "Berk is very kind to say so, but that is
something for which I do not feel myself fitted and which I really do
not enjoy."
"So much the more credit for doing it well. Linda, you must come to the
Club while you are here. I know you would enjoy it. Mother and I both
belong. There is another and more fashionable literary club, but we
like ours much the best. The real workers are members of it, not the
make-believes. It meets every Tuesday afternoon. We must arrange for
you to go with us, and Miss Ri must come, too." Here the elder women
entered, and Miss Ri reminded Linda that they were to go to a tea on
their way home, so they departed, Linda and Margaret parting like old
friends.
The tea was a quiet little affair which Linda had promised Miss Ri
to attend, as it was at the house of one of the latter's particular
friends, and here they lingered till dinner time. As they were going
to their rooms a card was handed them. Miss Ri raised her lorgnette to
read the name. "Mr. Jeffreys has been here," she exclaimed.
"The gen'l'man say he be back this evenin'," the elevator boy told them.
"Humph!" Miss Ri looked at Linda. "Were we going anywhere to-night?"
"No. You remember that we said we would be going all day and that we'd
better stay in and rest."
"Then rest shall I, and you can see the young man. Now, no protests;
I am not going down one step. I can trust you to go unchaperoned this
once, I should think. I don't feel like talking to him. I have been
talking all day."
Therefore Linda went down alone when the young man was announced, to
find him sitting in a little alcove, waiting for her. He was in correct
evening dress and looked well. Linda had never seen him so carefully
attired and could but acknowledge that there was a certain elegance in
the tall, dignified figure, and that he looked quite as distinguished
as any man she had met. She, herself, was all in white, Miss Ri having
persuaded her that such a dress was as appropriate as her frocks of
black. She looked very charming, thought the young man, who rose to
meet her, and his manner was slightly more genial than usual.
"It seems a very long time since I saw you, Miss Linda," he said.
"Only a week," returned Linda, seating herself on a low divan, her
skirts making soft billows around her.
"You have enjoyed yourself and the time has passed very quickly, I
presume."
"Very quickly. We have had a delightful week. And you?"
"There have been festivities in Sandbridge from which you were missed."
"And to which, probably, I should not have gone. No piece of news of
any importance?"
"One which will interest you and which I came to tell you of."
He hesitated so long that Linda, to help him out, began, "And the news
is--"
"About my claim." He hesitated, as if finding it very hard to go on.
"Oh, I think I can anticipate what you have to say," rejoined Linda
easily. "My sister-in-law has told me that it is Talbot's Angles to
which your papers refer. Is that true?"
"It is."
"And have you established your facts?" Linda asked the question
steadily.
"Not perfectly; although the past week has given us some extra proof in
the papers found at the house itself. Among them we found some receipts
given by Cyrus Talbot to the tenant for rent. They read: 'Received from
John Briggs one quarter's rent for Talbot's Angles,' so much, and are
signed by Cyrus Talbot."
"By 'us' you mean Mr. Matthews and yourself?"
"Yes, it is through his efforts that we are able to get so much
evidence as we have."
"I see." There was silence for a moment. Linda sat perfectly still and,
except that she nervously played with a ring on her finger, appeared
unmoved.
Mr. Jeffreys watched her for a moment, then he leaned forward. "Miss
Linda," he began, "I know how you must feel, and it pains me beyond
expression to bring you news that must be disappointing to you, but--"
he halted in his precise speech, "but you need not lose your old home,
if you will take the claimant with it."
Linda lifted startled eyes.
The young man went on: "I have thought the matter over and while I
could not consider it expedient to live on the place, I would not sell
it unless you wished, and would always, under any circumstances,
reserve the house, that you might still consider it your home."
Linda laughed a little wildly. "It seems that is always the way of it.
I am merely to consider it my home in every case."
He drew nearer and took her hand. "Then, will you accept it as I offer
it? With myself? I would try to make you happy. I think if I had the
stimulus of your companionship, I could succeed. We could make our home
in Hartford, and you could return to Maryland when it pleased you each
year. I have just received an offer from an insurance company. They
wish to send me to England on business, and on my return they give me
the promise of such a position as will insure me a future."
"It is in Hartford?"
"Yes; and it is a lovely city, you know."
"Where, as in Sandbridge, they are always ready to welcome strangers
cordially? I think I have heard how very spontaneous they are up there,
quite expansive and eager to make newcomers feel at home." She spoke
with sarcastic emphasis.
"Of course, my friends would welcome you," returned Mr. Jeffreys a
little stiffly. "Dear Miss Linda," he continued more fervently, "don't
get the idea that there are no warm hearts in the North because you
have heard of some cold ones. Once you know the people, none could be
better friends. I would try to make you happy. Will you believe me
when I say that you are the first woman I have ever wished to make my
wife?"
"Yes, I believe you." She smiled a little.
"Please think it over. I would rather not have my answer now. I know
there is much to bewilder you, and I would rather you did not give
me an impulsive reply. I will not pursue the subject. I will come
to-morrow. I would much rather wait."
"Thank you for your consideration," returned Linda. "I will think it
over, Mr. Jeffreys. It is only right that I should. Must you go?"
"I think so. May I come to-morrow afternoon? At what hour?"
"About five. We have an engagement in the evening."
He arose, took her hand, pressed it gently and said earnestly, "I beg
that you will remember that it would be my dearest wish to make you my
wife under any circumstances."
"I will remember," returned Linda.
"Please give my regards to Miss Hill," continued Mr. Jeffreys, taking
up his hat. "I owe her a debt of thanks for giving me this opportunity
of seeing you alone." And he bowed himself out.
There were but few persons in the large drawing-room, and they had
been quite sequestered in their little alcove. Linda returned to her
seat, and lingered there, thinking, thinking. Presently she smiled
and whispered to herself, "He never once said he loved, never once.
'As moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine,'" she murmured
musingly. So he would marry her and take her to his city, where there
would be no Aunt Ri, no warm-hearted neighbors to welcome her with
cordial emphasis, as there would be when she went back to Sandbridge.
Nevermore the flat, level roads, the little salt rivers, the simple
every-day intercourse of friend with friend, the easy-going unambitious
way of living, the smiling content. Instead, the eager struggle for
greater ostentation and luxury, which she saw even in the city where
she now was; the cold, calculating stares from utter strangers, when
she went among them, interest lacking, affection wanting. But on the
other hand, she would come back to her old home every year, and it
would be truly hers. But how hard it would be to go from it again!
And after a while she would be coming less and less frequently. She
would grow reticent and unapproachable. Repression would silently work
the change in her. She would have the opportunity of pouring out her
thoughts on paper, to be sure, but--so she would at home. "No, no, no,"
she cried; "I'd rather a thousand times teach my restless boys for
the remainder of my life. I don't love him, and that is exactly what
is wrong. Where he lives has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, Talbot's
Angles. You were never mine, and you never will be now."
She went to her room, tip-toeing gently that Miss Ri might not hear her
in the adjoining one. She slipped quietly into a chair near the window
and gave herself up to her thoughts. She must not let Miss Ri think her
caller had remained so short a time, and the dear woman must not be
told of what had occurred. When she heard a stirring around in the next
room, she knocked on the door, which was quickly opened to her.
"Well, child, has your young man gone?" came the query. "What did he
have to say?"
"He told me the same thing Grace did about Talbot's Angles."
"He did? The wretch!... Linda, why did we ever treat him so well? He
doesn't deserve it."
"Why, Aunt Ri, he can't help being the great-grandson of Cyrus Talbot."
"He could help coming down here and stirring up all this fuss."
"He sent his regards to you."
"I don't want them. What else did he say?"
"It appears that they have some new evidence, found in the paper which
Grace directed them to. Some old receipts which seem to establish the
fact that Cyrus Talbot really did have the right to rent the place
to a certain John Briggs. I don't know how these receipts came into
the possession of our branch of the family, but probably Briggs gave
them to our great-grandfather to keep safely. At all events, Berkley
Matthews and Mr. Jeffreys have worked it all out."
"I don't see how Berkley could have the conscience. It is outrageous
for him to be party to a scheme for defrauding an orphan girl."
"Oh, Aunt Ri, you mustn't say it is defrauding; it is just legal
rights. We may have been defrauding them."
"We'll see whether it is so or not. Judge Goldsborough was so sure; but
then I suppose all these things were not known to him. I wish we could
hear from him and learn what he has discovered in the papers he holds."
"We shall, in good time. Meanwhile, what difference does it make? I
am used to having the place belong to someone else, and I am growing
content to spend my days in teaching. I shall even be glad to get back
to my boys."
Miss Ri swung around sharply and took the girl's face between her
hands. "Verlinda, Verlinda," she said, "I wish I could turn a
search-light on that heart of yours?"
"Why, Aunt Ri?"
"Oh, because, because, a woman's reason." Then she put her arms around
the girl and hugged her close to her ample night-dress. "You are a
darling child. Teach as long as you like; it will be so much the better
for me than seeing you go off to Hartford."
Linda felt the color rise to her face. "How do you know that
opportunity will ever be afforded me?" she asked lightly.
"If it hasn't been, it will. How did that miserable usurper look?"
"Very handsome; in quite correct evening dress, which suited him
perfectly. Aunt Ri, it would be a privilege to sit opposite such a
fine-looking man three times a day for the rest of my life."
"It would, would it? and have to use a knife to dissect him before you
could find out what he really felt about anything? And even then you
wouldn't discover a thing in his veins but ice-water."
Linda laughed. "You can be the most vehement person for one who
pretends to be so mild and serene. I notice that where those you love
are concerned, you are anything but mild, bless your dear heart. Don't
be scared, Aunt Ri; I'll never leave Sandbridge, never. I'll never
leave the dear old Eastern Shore for anyone. No, indeed."
"Who is vehement now, Verlinda Talbot? I verily believe that man has
proposed to you. I am convinced of it. Oh, my dear, maybe after all you
ought to consider him, for that would settle it all. You could live in
the old home and be happy ever after, only, Verlinda, Verlinda, what
would become of Berk?"
Linda gave a little smothered cry and Miss Ri felt the slender figure
quivering, though quite steadily came the words, "We can't take Berk
into consideration, Aunt Ri; he is fighting with all his might for
Mr. Jeffreys, and so far as I am concerned, he doesn't think of me at
all--in any direction."
"I don't believe it," returned Miss Ri. "I admit he is an enigma, but
I don't believe a word of his not thinking of you. I've talked to his
mother," she added triumphantly.
After that not a word would she say on the subject, but sent Linda off
to bed, and if the girl needed anything to fix her decision regarding
Mr. Jeffreys, it is possible that Miss Ri's last words helped to the
conclusion.