had a fresh outburst of sorrow as she recognized the contrast between
this bare little chamber and her luxurious sleeping-apartment and
dressing-room in the city. Laura soon regained her air of weary
indifference, but Zell, hastily throwing off her wraps, came down to
explore, and to question Hannibal.
"Bress you, chile, it does my eyes good to see you all, ony you'se
musn't take on as if we'se all dyin' with slow 'sumption."
Zell put her hand on the black's shoulder and looked up into his face
with a wonderfully gentle and grateful expression, saying:
"You are as good as gold Hannibal. I am so glad you stayed with us,
for you seem like one of the best bits of our old home. Never mind,
I'll have a grander house again soon, and you shall have a stiffer
necktie and higher collar than ever."
"Bress you," said Hannibal with moist eyes, "it does my ole black
heart good to hear you. But, Miss Zell, I say," he added in a loud
whisper, "when is it gwine to be?"
"Oh!" said poor Zell, asked for definiteness, "some day," and she
passed into the large room where Arden was just setting down a trunk.
"Don't leave it there in the middle of the floor," she said sharply.
"Take it upstairs."
Arden suddenly straightened himself as if he had received a slight cut
from a whip, and turned his sullen face full on Zell, and it seemed
very repulsive to the imperious little lady.
"Don't you hear me?" she asked sharply.
"Perhaps it would be well for you not to ask favors of your neighbors
in that tone," he replied curtly.
Edith, coming down, saw the situation and said with oil in her voice,
"You must excuse my sister, Mr. Lacey. She does not know who you are.
Hannibal will assist with the trunks if you will be so kind as to take
them upstairs."
"She is different from the rest," thought Arden, readily complying
with her request.
But Zell said as she turned away, loud enough for him to hear, "What
airs these common country people do put on!" Zell might have loaded
Arden's wagon with gold, and he would not have lifted a finger for her
after that. If he had known that Edith's kindness had been half
policy, his face would have been more sullen and forbidding than ever.
But she dwelt glorified and apart in his consciousness, and if she
could only maintain that ideal supremacy, he would be her slave. But
in his morbid sensitiveness she would have to be very careful. The
practical girl at this time did not dream of his fanciful imagining
about her, but she was bent on securing friends and helpers, however
humble might be their station, and she had shrewdly and quickly
learned how to manage Arden.
The next day was spent by the family in getting settled in their
narrow quarters, and a dreary time they had of it. It was a long rainy
day, the roof leaked badly, and every element of discomfort seemed let
loose upon them.
Mrs. Allen had a nervous headache, and one of her worst touches of
dyspepsia, and Zell and Laura were so weary and out of sorts that
little could be accomplished. Between the tears and sighs within, and
the dripping rain without, Edith looked back on the first two days,
when the Laceys were helping her, as bright in contrast. But Mrs.
Allen was already worrying over the Laceys' connection with their
settlement in the neighborhood.
"We shall be associated with these low people," said she to Edith
querulously. "Your first acquaintances in a new place are of great
importance."
Edith was not ready any such association, and she felt that there was
force in her mother's words. She had thought of the Laceys chiefly in
the light of their usefulness.
She was glad when the long miserable day came to a close, and she
welcomed the bright sunshine of the following morning, hoping it would
dispel some of the gloom that seemed gathering round them more thickly
than ever.
After partaking of a rather meagre breakfast, for Hannibal's materials
were running low, Edith pushed back her chair, and said:
"I move we hold a council of war, and look the situation in the face.
We are here, and we've got to live here. Now what shall we do? I
suppose we must go to work at something that will bring in money."
"Go to work, and for money!" said Mrs. Allen sharply from her
cushioned arm-chair. "I hope we haven't ceased to be ladies."
"But, mother, we can't live forever on the title. The 'butchers,
bakers, and candlestick-makers' won't supply us long on that ground.
What did the lawyer, who settled father's estate, say before you
left?"
"Well," replied Mrs. Allen vaguely, "he said he had placed to our
credit in--Bank, what there was left, and he gave me a check-book and
talked economy as men always do. Your poor father, after losing
hundreds at the club, would talk economy the next morning, in the most
edifying way. He also said that there was some of that hateful stock
remaining that ruined your father, but that it was of uncertain value,
and he could not tell how much it would realize, but he would sell it
and place the proceeds also to our credit. It will amount to
considerable, I think, and it may rise.
"Now, girls," continued Mrs. Allen, settling herself back among the
cushions, and resting the forefinger of her right hand impressively on
the palm of the left, "this is the proper line of policy for us to
pursue. I hope in all these strange changes I am still mistress of my
own family. You certainly don't think that I expect to stay in this
miserable hovel all my life. If you two girls, Laura and Edith, had
made the matches you might, we should still be living on the avenue.
But I certainly cannot permit you now to spoil every chance of getting
out of this slough. You may not be able to do as well as you could
have done, but if you are once called working-girls, what can you do?
"In the first place we must go into the best society of this town. Our
position warrants it of course. Therefore, for heaven's sake don't let
it get abroad that we are associating with these drunken Laceys."(Mrs.
Allen in her rapid generalization gave the impression that the entire
family were habitually "on the rampage," and Edith remembered with
misgivings that she had drunk tea with Arden Lacey on that very spot.)
"Moreover," continued Mrs. Allen, "there is a large summer hotel near
here, and 'my friends' have promised to come and see me this summer.
"We must try to present an air of pretty, rural elegance, and your
young gentleman friends from the city will soon be dropping in. Then
Gus Elliot and Mr. Van Dam continue very kind and cordial, I am sure.
Zell, though so young, may soon become engaged to Mr. Van Dam, and
it's said he is very rich--"
"I can't get up much faith in these two men," interrupted Edith, "and
as for Gus, he can't support himself."
"I hope you don't put Gus Elliot and my friend on the same level,"
said Zell indignantly.
"I don't know where to put 'your friend,'" said Edith curtly. "Why
doesn't he speak out? Why doesn't he do something open, manly, and
decided? It seems as if he can see nothing and think of nothing but
your pretty face. If he would become engaged to you and frankly take
the place of lover and brother, he might be of the greatest help to
us. But what has he done since father's death but pet and flatter you
like an infatuated old--"
"Hush!" cried Zell, blazing with anger and starting up; "no one shall
speak so of him. What more has Gus Elliot done?"
"He has been useful as my errand boy," said Edith contemptuously, "and
that's all he amounts to as far as I'm concerned. I am disgusted with
men. Who in all our trouble has been noble and knightly toward us?--"
"Be still, children; stop your quarrelling," broke in Mrs. Allen. "You
have got to take the world as you find it. Men of our day don't act
like knights any more than they dress like them. The point I wish you
to understand is that we must keep every hold we have on our old life
and society. Next winter some of my friends will invite you to visit
them in the city and then who knows what may happen?"--and she nodded
significantly. Then she added, with a regretful sigh, "What chances
you girls have had! There's Cheatem, Argent, Livingston, Pamby, and
last and best, Goulden, who might have been secured if Laura had been
more prompt, and a host of others. Edith had better have taken Mr.
Fox, even, than have had all this happen."
An expression of disgust came out on Edith's face, and she said, "It
seems to me that I would rather go to work than take any of them."
"You don't know anything about work," said Mrs. Allen. "It's a great
deal easier to marry a fortune than to make one, and a woman can't
make a fortune. Marrying well is the only chance you girls have now,
and it's my only chance to live again as a lady ought, and I want to
see to it that nothing is done to spoil these chances."
Laura listened with a dull assent, conscious that she would marry any
man _now_ who would give her an establishment and enable her to sweep
past Mr. Goulden in elegant scorn. Zell listened, purposing to marry
Mr. Van Dam, though Edith's words raised a vague uneasiness in her
mind, and she longed to see him again, meaning to make him more
explicit. Edith listened with a cooling adherence to this familiar
faith and doctrine of the world in which the mother had brought up her
children. She had a glimmering perception that the course indicated
was not sound in general, or best for them in particular.
"And now," continued Mrs. Allen, becoming more definite, "we must have
a new roof put on the house right away, or we shall all be drowned
out, and the house must be painted, a door-bell put in, and fences and
things generally put in order. We must fit this room up as a parlor,
and we can use the little room there as a dining and sitting-room.
Laura and I will take the chamber over the kitchen, and the one over
this can be kept as a spare room, so that if any of our city friends
come out to see us, they can stay all night."
"Oh, mother, the proposed arrangements will make us all uncomfortable,
you especially," remonstrated Edith.
"No matter, I've set my heart on our getting back to the old life, and
we must not stop at trifles."
"But are you sure we have money to spare for all these improvements?"
continued Edith anxiously.
"Oh, yes, I think so," said Mrs. Allen indefinitely. "And as your poor
father used to say, to spend money is often the best way to get
money."
"Well, mother," said Edith dubiously, "I suppose you know best, but it
doesn't look very clear to me. There seems nothing definite or certain
that we can depend on."
"Perhaps not to-day, but leave all to me. Some one will turn up, who
will fill your eye and fill your hand, and what more could you ask in
a husband? But you must not be too fastidious. These difficult girls
are sure to take up with 'crooked sticks' at last." (Mrs. Allen's
views as to straight ones were not original.) "Leave all to me. I will
tell you when the right ones turn up."
CHAPTER XII
WAITING FOR SOME ONE TO TURN UP
And so the girls were condemned to idleness and ennui, and they all
came to suffer from these as from a dull toothache, especially Laura
and Zell. Edith had great hopes from her garden, and saw the snow
finally disappear and the mud dry up, as the imprisoned inmates of the
ark might have watched the abatement of the waters.
On the afternoon of the council wherein Mrs. Allen had marked out the
family policy, Edith and Zell walked to the village, and going to one
of the leading stores, made arrangements with the proprietor to have
his wagon stop daily at their house for orders. They also asked him to
send them a carpenter. They made these requests with the manner of
olden time, when money seemed to flow from a full fountain, and the
man was very polite, thinking he had gained profitable customers.
While they were absent, Rose stepped in to see if she could be of any
further help. Mrs. Allen surmised who she was and resolved to snub her
effectually. To Rose's question as to their need of assistance, she
replied frigidly, that they had two servants now, and did not wish to
employ any more help.
Rose colored, bit her lip, then said with an open smile:
"You are under mistake. I am Miss Lacey, and helped your daughter the
first two days after she came."
"Oh! ah! Miss Lacey. I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Allen, still more
distantly. "My daughter Edith is out. Did she not pay you?"
Rose's face became scarlet, and rising hastily she said, "Either I
misunderstand, or am greatly misunderstood. Good-afternoon."
Mrs. Allen slightly inclined her head, while Laura took no notice of
her at all. When she was gone, Mrs. Allen said complacently, "I think
we will see no more of that bold-faced fly-away creature. The idea of
her thinking that we would live on terms of social equality with
them!"
Laura's only reply was a yawn, but at last she got up, put on her hat
and shawl and went out to walk a little on the porch. Arden, who was
returning home with his team, stopped a moment to inquire if there was
anything further that he could do. He hoped the lady he saw on the
porch was Edith, and the wish to see her again led him to think of any
excuse that would take him to the house.
As Laura turned to come toward him, he surmised that it was another
sister, and was disappointed and embarrassed, but it was too late to
turn back, though she scarcely appeared to heed him.
"I called to ask Miss Edith if I could do anything more that would be
of help to her," he said diffidently.
Giving him a cold, careless glance, Laura said, "I believe my sister
wants some work done around the house before long. I will tell her
that you were here looking for employment, and I have no doubt she
will send for you if she needs your services," and Laura turned her
back on him and continued her walk.
He whirled about on his heel as if she had struck him, and when he got
home his mother noted that his face looked more black and sullen than
she had ever seen it before. Rose was open and strong in her
indignation, saying:
"Fine neighbors you have introduced us to! Nice return they make for
all our kindness; not that I begrudge it. But I hate to see people get
all out of you they can, and then about the same as slap your face and
show you the door."
"Did you see Miss Edith?" asked Arden quickly.
"No, I saw the old lady and a proud pale-faced girl who took no more
notice of me than if I had come for cold victuals."
"I suppose they have heard," said Arden dejectedly.
"They have heard nothing against me, nor you, nor mother," said Rose
hotly. "If I ever see that Miss Edith again, I will give her a piece
of my mind."
"You will please do nothing of the kind," said her brother. "She has
not turned her back on you. Wait till she does. We are the last people
to condemn one for the sake of another."
"I guess they are all alike; but, as you say, it's fair to give her a
chance," answered Rose quietly.
With his habit of reticence he said nothing about his own experience.
But it was a cruel shock that those connected with the one who was
becoming the inspiration of his dreams should be so contemptible, as
he regarded them, and as we are all apt to regard those who treat us
with contempt. His faith in her was also shaken, and he resolved that
she must "send for him," feeling her need, before he would go near her
again. But, after all, his ardent fancy began to paint her more gentle
and human on the background of the narrow pride shown by the others.
He longed for some absolute proof that she was what he believed her,
but was too proud to put himself in the way of receiving it.
When Edith heard how the Lacey acquaintance had been nipped in the
bud, she said with honest shame, "It's too bad, after all their
kindness."
"It was the only thing to be done," said Mrs. Allen. "It is better for
such people to talk against you than to be claiming you as neighbors,
and all that. It would give us a very bad flavor with the best people
of the town."
"I only wish then," said Edith, "that I had never let them do anything
for me. I shall hate to meet them again," and she sedulously avoided
them.
The next day a carpenter appeared after breakfast, and seemed the most
affably suggestive man in the world. "Of course he would carry out
Mrs. Allen's wishes immediately," and he showed her several other
improvements that might be made at the same time, and which would cost
but little more while they were about it.
"But how much _will_ it cost?" asked Edith directly.
"Oh, well," said the man vaguely, "it's hard to estimate on this kind
of jobbing work." Then turning to Mrs. Allen, he said with great
deference, "I assure you, madam, I will do it well, and be just as
reasonable as possible."
"Certainly, certainly," said Mrs. Allen majestically, pleased with the
deference, "I suppose that is all we ought to ask."
"I think there ought to be something more definite as to price and
time of completing the work," still urged Edith.
"My dear," said Mrs. Allen with depressing dignity, "pray leave these
matters to me. It is not expected that a young lady like yourself
should understand them."
Mrs. Allen had become impressed with the idea that if they ever
reached the haven of Fifth Avenue again, she must take the helm and
steer their storm-tossed bark. As we have seen before, she was capable
of no small degree of exertion when the motive was to attain position
and supremacy in the fashionable world. She was great in one direction
only--the one to which she had been educated, and to which she devoted
her energies.
The man chuckled as he went away. "Lucky I had to deal with the old
fool rather than that sharp black-eyed girl. By Jove! but they are a
handsome lot though; only they look like the houses we build nowadays
--more paint and finish than solid timber."
The next day there were three or four mechanics at work, and the job
was secured. The day following there were only two, and the next day
none. Edith sent word by the grocer, asking what was the matter. The
following day one man appeared, and on being questioned, said "the
boss was very busy, lots of jobs on hand."
"Why did he take our work then?" asked Edith indignantly.
"Oh, as to that, the boss takes every job he can get," said the man
with a grin.
"Well, tell the boss I want to see him," she replied sharply.
The man chuckled and went on with his work in a snail-like manner, as
if that were the only job "the boss" had, or was like to have, and he
must make the most of it.
The house was hers, and Edith felt anxious about it, and indeed it
seemed that they were going to great expense with no certain return in
view. That night one corner of the roof was left open and rain came in
and did not a little damage.
Loud and bitter were the complaints of the family, but Edith said
little. She was too incensed to talk about it. The next day it
threatened rain and no mechanics appeared. Donning her waterproof and
thick shoes, she was soon in the village, and by inquiry found the
man's shop. He saw her coming and dodged out.
"Very well, I will wait," said Edith, sitting down on a box.
The man, finding she would not go away, soon after bustled in, and was
about to be very polite, but Edith interrupted him with a question
that was like a blow between the eyes:
"What do you mean, sir, by breaking your word?"
"Great press of work just now, Miss Allen--"
"That is not the question," interrupted Edith. "You said you would do
our work immediately. You took it with that distinct understanding;
and, because you have been false to your word, we have suffered much
loss. You knew the roof was not all covered. You knew it when it
rained last night, but the rain did not fall on you, so I suppose you
did not care. But is a person who breaks his word in that style a
gentleman? Is he even a man, when he breaks it to a lady, who has no
brother or husband to protect her interests?"
The man became very red. He was accustomed, as his workman said, to
secure every job he could, then divide and scatter his men so as to
keep everything going, but at a slow, provoking rate, that wore out
every one's patience save his own. He was used to the annual fault-finding and grumbling of the busy season, and bore it as he would a
northeast storm as a disagreeable necessity, and quite prided himself
on the good-natured equanimity with which he could stand his
customers' scoldings; and the latter had become so accustomed to being
put off that they endured it also as they would a northeaster, and
went into improvements and building as they might visit a dentist.
But when Edith turned her scornful face and large indignant eyes full
upon him, and asked practically what he meant by lying to her, and
said that to treat a woman so proved him less than a man, he saw his
habit of "putting off" in a new light. At first he was a little
inclined to bluster, but Edith interrupted him sharply:
"I wish to know in a word what you will do. If that roof is not
completed and made tight to-day, I will put the matter in a lawyer's
hands and make you pay damages."
This would place the man in an unpleasant business aspect, so he said
gruffly:
"I will send some men right up."
"And I will take no action till I see whether they come," said Edith
significantly.
They came, and in a few days the work was finished. But a bill double
the amount they expected came promptly, also. They paid no attention
to it.
In the meantime Edith had asked the village merchant, who supplied
them with provisions, and who had also become a sort of agent for
them, to send a man to plow the garden. The next day a slouchy old
fellow, with two melancholy shacks of horses that might well tremble
at the caw of a crow, was scratching the garden with a worn-out plow
when she came down to breakfast. He had already made havoc in the
flower borders, and Edith was disgusted with the outward aspect of
himself and team to begin with. But when in her morning slippers she
had picked her way daintily to a point from which she could look into
the shallow furrows, her vexation knew no bounds. She had been reading
about gardening of late, and she had carefully noted how all the
writers insisted on deep plowing and the thorough loosening of the
soil. This man's furrows did not average six inches, and with a
frowning brow, and dress gathered up, she stood perched on a little
stone, like a bird that had just alighted with ruffled plumage, while
Zell was on the porch laughing at her. The man with his gaunt team
soon came round again opposite her, with slow automatic motion as if
the whole thing were one crazy piece of mechanism. The man's head was
down, and he paid no heed to Edith. The rim of his old hat flapped
over his face, the horses jogged on with dropping head and ears, as if
unable to hold them up, and all seemed going down, save the plow. This
light affair skimmed and scratched along the ground like the sharpened
sticks of oriental tillage.
"Stop!" cried Edith sharply.
"Whoa!" shouted the man, and he turned toward Edith a pair of watery
eyes, and a face that suggested nothing but snuff.
"Who sent you here?" asked Edith in the same tone.
"Mr. Hard, mum." (Mr. Hard was the merchant who was acting as their
agent.)
"Am I to pay you for this work, or Mr. Hard?"
"I guess you be, mum."
"Who's to be suited with this work, you, Mr. Hard, or I?"
"I hain't thought nothin' about that."
"Do you mean to say that it makes no difference whether I am suited or
not?"
"What yer got agin the work?"
"I want my garden plowed, not scratched. You don't plow half deep
enough, and you are injuring the shrubs and flowers in the borders."
"I guess I know more about plowin' than you do. Gee up thar!" to the
horses, that seemed inclined to be Edith's allies by not moving.
"Stop!" she cried, "I will not pay you a cent for this work, and wish
you to leave this garden instantly."
"Mr. Hard told me to plow this garding and I'm a-goin' to plow it. I
never seed the day's work I didn't git paid for yit, and you'll pay
for this. Git up thar, you cussed old critters," and the man struck
the horses sharply with a lump of dirt. Away went the crazy rattling
old automaton round and round the garden in spite of all she could do.
She was half beside herself with vexation, which was increased by
Zell's convulsed laughter on the porch, but she stormed at the old
plowman as vainly as a robin might remonstrate with a windmill.
"Mr. Hard told me to plow it, and I'm a-goin' to plow it," said the
human part of the mechanism as it again passed, without stopping, the
place where Edith stood.
Utterly baffled, Edith rushed into the house and hastily swallowed a
cup of coffee. She was too angry to eat a mouthful.
Zell followed with her hand upon her side, which was aching from
laughter, and as soon as she found her voice said:
"It was one of the most touchingly beautiful rural scenes I ever
looked upon. I never had so close and inspiring a view of one of the
'sons of the soil' before."
"Yes," snapped Edith, "he is literally a clod."
"I can readily see," continued Zell, in a mock-sentimental tone, "how
noble and refining a sphere the 'garding' (as your friend, out there,
terms it) must be, even for women. In the first place there are your
associates in. labor--"
"Stop!" interrupted Edith sharply. "You all leave everything for me to
do, but I won't be teased and tormented in the bargain."
"But really," continued the incorrigible Zell, "I have been so much
impressed by the first scene in the creation of your Eden, which I
have just witnessed, that I am quite impatient for the second. It may
be that our sole acquaintances in this delightful rural retreat, the
'drunken Laceys,' as mother calls them, will soon insist on becoming
inspired with the spirit of the corn they raise in our arbor."
Edith sprang up from the table and went to her room.
"Shame on you, Zell," said Mrs. Allen sharply, but Laura was too
apathetic to scold.
Impulsive Zell soon relented, and when Edith came down a few moments
later in walking trim, and with eyes swollen with unshed tears, Zell
threw her arms around her neck and said:
"Forgive your naughty little sister."
But Edith repulsed her angrily, and started toward the village.
"I do hate to see people sullenly hoard up things," said Zell
snappishly. Then she dawdled about the house, yawning and saying
fretfully, "I do wish I knew what to do with myself."
Laura reclined on the sofa with a novel, but Zell was not fond of
reading. Her restless nature craved continual activity and excitement,
but it was part of Mrs. Allen's policy that they should do nothing.
"Some one may call," she said, "and we must be ready to receive them,"
but at that season of the year, when roads were muddy, there was but
little social visiting in the country.
So, consumed with ennui, Zell listened to the pounding of the
carpenters overhead, and watched the dogged old plowman go round the
small garden till it was all scratched over, and then the whole crazy
mechanism rattled off to parts unknown. The two servants did not leave
her even the recourse of housework, of which she was naturally fond.
Edith went straight to Mr. Hard, and was so provoked that she scarcely
avoided the puddles in her determined haste.
Mr. Hard looked out upon his customers with, cold, hard little eyes
that changed their expression only in growing more cold and hard. The
rest of his person seemed all bows, smirks, and smiles, but it was
noticed that these latter diminished and his eyes grew harder as he
wished to remind some lagging patron that his little account needed
settling. This thrifty citizen of Pushton was soon in polite
attendance on Edith, but was rather taken back when she asked sharply
what he meant by sending such a good-for-nothing man to plow her
garden.
"Well, Miss Allen," he said, his eyes growing harder but his manner
more polite, "old Gideon does such little jobs around, and I thought
he was just the one."
"Does he plow your garden?" asked Edith abruptly.
"I keep a gardener," said Mr. Hard with some dignity.
"I believe it would pay me to do the same," said Edith, "if I could
find one on whom I could depend. The man you sent was very impudent. I
told him the work didn't suit me--that he didn't plow half deep
enough, and that he must leave. But he just kept right on, saying you
sent him, and he would plow it, and he injured my flower borders
besides. Therefore he must look to you for payment." (Mr. Hard's eyes
grew very hard at this.) "Because I am a woman I am not going to be
imposed upon. Now do you know of a man who can really plow my garden?
If not, I must look elsewhere. I had hoped when you took our business
you would have some interest in seeing that we were well served."
Mr. Hard, with eyes like two flint pebbles, made a low bow and said
with impressive dignity:
"It is my purpose to do so. There is Mr. Skinner, he does plowing."
"I don't want Mr. Skinner," said Edith impatiently, "I don't like his
name in reference to plowing."
"Oh! ah! excellent reason; very good, Miss Allen. Well, there's Mr.
McTrump, a Scotchman, who has a small greenhouse and nursery, he looks
after gardens for some people."
"I will go and see him," said Edith, taking his address.
As she plodded off to find his place, she sighed, "Oh, dear! it's
dreadful to have no men in the family. That Arden Lacey might have
helped me so much, if mother was not so particular. I fear we are all
on the wrong track, throwing away substantial and present good for
uncertainties."
Mr. McTrump was a little man with a heavy sandy beard and such bushy
eyebrows and hair that he reminded Edith of a Scotch terrier. But her
first glance around convinced her that he was a gardener. Neatness,
order, thrift, impressed her the moment she opened his gate, and she
perceived that he was already quite advanced in his spring work.
Smooth seed-sown beds were emerging from winter's chaos. Crocuses and
hyacinths were in bloom, tulips were budding, and on a sunny slope in
the distance she saw long green rows of what seemed some growing crop.
She determined if possible to make this man her ally, or by stratagem
to gain his secret of success.
The little man stood in the door of his greenhouse with a
transplanting trowel in his hand. He was dressed in clay-colored
nankeen, and could get down in the dirt without seeming to get dirty.
His small eyes twinkled shrewdly, but not unkindly, as she advanced
toward him. He was fond of flowers, and she looked like one herself
that spring morning.
"I was directed to call upon you," she said, with conciliatory
politeness, "understanding that you sometimes assist people with their
gardens."
"Weel, noo and then I do, but I canna give mooch time with a' my ain
work."
"But you would help a lady who has no one else to help her, wouldn't
you?" said Edith sweetly.
Old Malcom was not to be caught with a sugar-plum, so he said with a
little Scotch caution:
"I canna vera weel say till I hear mair aboot it."
Edith told him how she was situated, and in view of her perplexity and
trouble, her voice had a little appealing pathos in it. Malcom's eyes
twinkled more and more kindly, and as he explained afterward to his
wife, "Her face was sae like a pink hyacinth beent doon by the storm
and a wantin' proppin' oop," that by the time she was done he was
ready to accede to her wishes.
"Weel," said he, "I canna refuse a blithe young leddy like yoursel,
but ye must let me have my ain way."
Edith was inclined to demur at this, for she had been reading up and
had many plans and theories to carry out. But she concluded to accept
the condition, thinking that with her feminine tact she would have her
own way after all. She did not realize that she was dealing with a
Scotchman.
"I'll send ye a mon as will plow the garden, and not scratch it, the
morrow, God willin'," for Mr. McTrump was a very pious man, his only
fault being that he would take a drop too much occasionally.
"May I stay here a while and watch you work, and look at things?"
asked Edith. "I don't want to go back till that hateful old fellow has
done his mischief and is gone."
"Why not?" said Malcom, "an ye don't tech anything. The woman folk
from the village as come here do pick and pull much awry."
"I promise you I will be good," said Edith eagerly.
"That's mair than ony on us can say of oursel," said Malcom, showing
the doctrinal bias of his mind, "but I ken fra' yer bonnie face ye
mean weel."
"Oh, Mr. McTrump, that is the first compliment I have received in
Pushton," laughed Edith.
"I'm a thinkin' it'll not be the last. But I hope ye mind the Scripter
where it says, 'We do all fade as a flower,' and ye will not be puffed
oop."
But Edith, far more intent on horticultural than on scriptural
knowledge, asked quickly:
"What were you going to set out with that trowel?"
"A new strawberry-bed. I ha' more plants the spring than I can sell,
sae I thought to put oot a new bed, though I ha' a good mony."
"I am so glad. I wish to set out a large bed and can get the plants of
you."
"How mony do ye want?" said Malcom, with a quick eye to business.
"I shall leave that to you when you see my ground. Now see how I trust
you, Mr. McTrump."
"An' ye'll not lose by it, though I would na like a' my coostomers to
put me sae strictly on my honesty."
Edith spent the next hour in looking around the garden and greenhouses
and watching the old man put out his plants.
"These plants are to be cooltivated after the hill seestem," he said.
"They are to stand one foot apart in the row, and the rows two feet
apart, and not a rooner or weed to grow on or near them, and it would
do your bright eyes good to see the great red berries they'll bear."
"Shall I raise mine that way?" said Edith.
"Weel, ye might soom, but the narrow row coolture will be best for ye,
I'm thinkin'."
"What's that?"
"Weel, just let the plants run togither and make a thick close row a
foot wide, an' two feet between the rows. That'll be the easiest for
ye, but I'll show ye."
"I'm so glad I found you out!" said Edith, heartily; "and if you will
let me, I want to come here often and see how you do everything, for
to tell you the truth, between ourselves, we are poor, and may have to
earn our living out of the garden, or some other way, and I would
rather do it out of the garden."
"Weel, noo, ye're a canny lass to coom and filch all old Malcom's
secrets to set oop opposition to him. But then sin' ye do it sae
openly I'll tell ye all I know. The big wourld ought to be wide enough
for a bonnie lassie like yoursel to ha' a chance in it, and though I'm
a little mon, I would na be sae mean a one as to hinder ye. Mairover
the gardener's craft be a gentle one, and I see na reason why, if a
white lily like yoursel must toil and spin, it should na be oot in
God's sunshine, where the flowers bloom, instead o' pricking the bluid
oot o' yer body, and the hope oot o' yer heart, wi' the needle's
point, as I ha' seen sae mony o' my ain coontry lassies do. Gude-by,
and may the roses in yer cheeks bloom a' the year round."
Edith felt as if his last words were a blessing, and started with her
heart cheered and hopeful; and yet beyond her garden, with its spring
promise, its summer and autumn possibilities, there was little
inspiring or hopeful in her new home.
In accordance with their mother's policy, they were waiting for
something to turn up--waiting, in utter uncertainty, and with dubious
prospects, to achieve by marriage the security and competence which
they must not work for, or they would utterly lose caste in the old
social world in which they had lived.
Be not too hasty in condemning Mrs. Allen, my reader, for you may, at
the same time, condemn yourself. Have you no part in sustaining that
public sentiment which turns the cold shoulder of society toward the
woman who works? Many are growing rich every year, but more are
growing poor. What does the "best society," in the world's estimation,
say to the daughters in these families?
"Keep your little hands white, my dears, as long as you can, because
as soon as the traces of toil are seen on them you become a working-woman, and our daughters can't associate with you, and our sons can't
think of you, that is for wives. No other than little and white hands
can enter our heaven."
So multitudes struggle to keep their hands white, though thereby the
risk that their souls will become stained and black increases daily. A
host of fair girls find their way every year to darker stains than
ever labor left, because they know how coldly society will ignore them
the moment they enlist in the army of honest workers. But you,
respectable men and women in your safe pleasant homes, to the extent
that you hold and sustain this false sentiment, to the extent that you
make the paths of labor hard and thorny, and darken them from the
approving smile of the world, you are guilty of these girls' ruin.
Christian matron, with your husband one of the pillars of church and
state, do you shrink with disgust from that poor creature who comes
flaunting down Broadway? None but the white-handed enter your parlors,
and the men (?) who are hunting such poor girls to perdition will sit
on the sofa with your daughters this evening. Be not too confident.
Your child, or one in whom your blood flows at a little later remove,
may stand just where honor to toil would save, but the practical
dishonoring of it, which you sustain, eventually blot out the light of
earth and heaven.
Mrs. Allen knew that even if her daughters commenced teaching, which,
with all the thousands spent on their education, they were incapable
of doing, their old sphere on Fifth Avenue would be as unapproachable
as the pearly gates, between which and the lost a "great gulf is
fixed."
But Mrs. Allen knew also of a very respectable way, having the full
approval of society, by which they might regain their place in the
heaven from which they had fallen. Besides it was such a simple way,
requiring no labor whatever, though a little scheming perhaps, no
amount of brains or culture worth mentioning, no heart or love, and
least of all a noble nature. A woman may sell herself, or if of a waxy
disposition, having little force, may be sold at the altar to a man
who will give wealth and luxury in return. This, society, in full
dress, smiles upon, and civil law and sacred ceremony sanction.
With the forefinger of her right hand resting impressively on the palm
of her left, Mrs. Allen had indicated this back door into the
paradise, the gates of which were guarded against poor working-women
by the flaming sword of public opinion, turning every way.
And the girls were waiting yawningly, wearily, as the long unoccupied
days passed. Laura's cheek grew paler than even her delicate style of
beauty demanded. She seemed not only a hot-house plant, but a sickly
one. The light was fading from her eye as well as the color from her
cheek, and all vigor vanishing from her languid soul and body. The
resemblance to her mother grew more striking daily. She was a
melancholy result of that artificial luxurious life by which the whole
nature is so enervated that there seems no stamina left to resist the
first cold blast of adversity. Instead of being like a well-rooted
hardy native of the soil she seemed a tender exotic that would wither
even in the honest sunlight. As a gardener would say, she needed
"hardening off." This would require the bracing of principle and the
development of work. But Mrs. Allen could not lead the way to the
former, and the latter she forbade, so poor Laura grew more sickly and
morbid every day of her weary idle waiting.
Mrs. Allen's policy bore even more heavily on Zell. We have all
thought something perhaps of the cruelty of imprisoning a vigorous
young person, abounding in animal life and spirits, in a narrow cell,
which forbids all action and stifles hope. It gives the unhappy victim
the sensation of being buried alive. There comes at last to be one
passionate desire to get out and away. Impulsive, restless, excitable
Zell, with every vein filled with hot young blood, was shut out from
what seemed to her the world, and no other world of activity was shown
to her. Her hands were tied by her mother's policy, and she sat moping
and chafing like a chained captive, waiting till Mr. Van Dam should
come and deliver her from as vile durance as was ever suffered in the
moss-grown castles of the old world. The hope of his coming was all
that sustained her. Her sad situation was the result of acting on a
false view of life from beginning to end. Any true parent would have
shuddered at the thought of a daughter marrying such a man as Van Dam,
but Zell was forbidden to do one useful thing, lest it should mar her
chance of union with this resume of all vice and uncleanness; and
though she had heard the many reports of his evil life, her moral
sense was so perverted that he seemed a lion rather than a reptile to
her. It is true, she looked upon him only in the light of her future
husband, but that she did not shrink from any relationship with such a
man shows how false and defective her education had been.
Edith had employment for mind and hand, therefore she was happier and
safer than either of her sisters. Malcom had her garden thoroughly
plowed, and helped her plant it. He gave her many flower roots and
sold others at very low prices. In the lower part of the garden, where
the ground was rather heavy and moist, he put out a large number of
raspberries; and along a stone fence, where weeds and bushes had been
usurping the ground, he planted two or three varieties of blackcaps.
He also lined another fence with Kittatinny blackberries. There were
already many currants and gooseberries on the place. These he trimmed,
and put in cuttings for new bushes. He pruned the grapevines also
somewhat, but not to any great extent, on account of the lateness of
the season, meaning to get them into shape by summer cutting. The
orchard also was made to look clean and trim, with the dead wood and
interfering branches cut away. Edith watched these operations with the
deepest interest, and when she could, without danger of being observed
from the road, assisted, though in a very dainty, amateur way. But
Malcom did not aim to put in as many hours as possible, but seemed to
do everything with a sleight of hand that made his visits appear too
brief, even though she had to pay for them. As a refuge from long idle
hours, she would often go up to Malcom's little place, and watch him
and his assistant as they deftly dealt with nature in accordance with
her moods, making the most of the soil, sunlight, and rain. Thus
Malcom came to take a great interest in her, and shrewd Edith was not
slow in fostering so useful a friendship. But in spite of all this,
there were many rainy idle days that hung like lead upon her hands,
and upon these especially, it seemed impossible to carry out her
purpose to be gentle and forbearing, and it often occurred that the
dull apathy of the household was changed into positive pain by sharp
words and angry retorts that should never have been spoken.
About the last Sabbath of April, Mrs. Allen sent for a carriage and
was driven with her daughters to the most fashionable church of
Pushton. Marshalled by the sexton, they rustled in toilets more
suitable for one of the gorgeous temples of Fifth Avenue than for even
the most ambitious of country churches. Mrs. Allen hoped to make a
profound impression on the country people, and by this one dress
parade to secure standing and cordial recognition among the foremost
families. But she overshot the mark. The failure of Mr. Allen was
known. The costly mourning suits and the little house did not accord,
the solid, sensible people were unfavorably impressed, and those of
fashionable and aristocratic tendencies felt that investigation was
needed before the strangers could be admitted within their exclusive
circles. So, though it was not a Methodist church that they attended,
the Allens were put on longer probation by all classes, when if they
had appeared in a simple unassuming manner, rating themselves at their
true worth and position, many would have been inclined to take them by
the hand.
CHAPTER XIII
THEY TURN UP
One morning, a month after the Allens had gone into poverty's exile,
Gus Elliot lounged into Mr. Van Dam's luxurious apartments. There was
everything around him to gratify the eye of sense, that is, such sense
as Gus Elliot had cultivated, though an angel might have hidden his
face. We will not describe these rooms--we had better not. It is
sufficient to say that in their decorations, pictures, bacchanalian
ornaments, and general suggestion, they were a reflex of Mr. Van Dam's
character, in the more refined and aesthetic phase which he presented
to society. Indeed, in the name of art, whose mantle, if at times
rather flimsy, is broader than that of charity, not a few would have
admired the exhibitions of Mr. Van Dam's taste.
But concerning Gus Elliot, no doubt exists in our mind. The atmosphere
of Mr. Van Dam's room was entirely adapted to his chosen direction of
development. He was a young man of leisure and fashion, and was
therefore what even the fashionable would be horrified at their
daughters ever becoming. This nice distinction between son and
daughter does not result well. It leaves men in the midst of society
unbranded as vile, unmarked so that good women may shrink in disgust
from them. It gives them a chance to prey upon the weak, as Mr. Van
Dam purposed to do, and as he intended to induce Gus Elliot to do, and
as multitudes of exquisitely dressed scoundrels are doing daily.
If Mr. and Mrs. Allen had done their duty as parents, they would have
kept the wolf (I beg the wolf's pardon) the jackal, Mr. Van Dam, with
his thin disguise of society polish, from entering their fold. Gus
Elliot was one of those mean curs that never lead, and could always be
drawn into any evil that satisfied the one question of his life, "Will
it give me what _I_ want?"
Gus was such an exquisite that the smell of garlic made him ill, and
the sight of blood made him faint, and the thought of coarse working
hands was an abomination, but in worse than idleness he could see his
old father wearing himself out, he could get "gentlemanly drunk," and
commit any wrong in vogue among the fast young men with whom he
associated. And now Mephistopheles Van Dam easily induces him to seek
to drag down beautiful Edith Allen, the woman he had meant to marry,
to a life compared with which the city gutters are cleanly.
Van Dam in slippers and silken robe was smoking his meerschaum after a
late breakfast and reading a French novel.
"What is the matter?" he said, noting Gus's expression of ennui and
discontent.
"There is not another girl left in the city to be mentioned the same
day with Edith Allen," said Gus, with the pettishness of a child from
whom something had been taken.
"Well, spooney, what are you going to do about it?" asked Mr. Van Dam
coolly.
"What is there to do about it? You know well enough that I can't
afford to marry her. I suppose it's the best thing for me that she has
gone off to the backwoods somewhere, for while she was here I could
not help seeing her, and after all it was only an aggravation."
"I can't afford to marry Zell," replied Van Dam, "but I am going up to
see her to-morrow. After being out there by themselves for a month, I
think they will be glad to see some one from the civilized world." The
most honest thing about Van Dam was his sincere commiseration for
those compelled to live in quiet country places, without experience in
the highly spiced pleasures and excitements of the metropolis. In his
mind they were associated with oxen--innocent, rural, and heavy, these
terms being almost synonymous to him, and suggestive of such a forlorn
tame condition that it seemed only vegetating, not living. Mr. Van Dam
believed in a life, like his favorite dishes, that abounded in
cayenne. Zell's letters had confirmed this opinion, and he saw that
she was half desperate with ennui and disgust at their loneliness.
"I imagine we have stayed away long enough," he continued. "They have
had sufficient of the miseries of mud, rain, and exile, not to be very
nice about the conditions of return to old haunts and life. Of course
I can't afford to marry Zell any more than you can Edith, but for all
that I expect to have her here with me before many months pass, and
perhaps weeks."
"Look here, Van Dam, you are going too far. Remember how high the
Allens once stood in society," said Gus, a little startled.
"'Once stood;' where do they stand now? Who in society has lifted, or
will lift a finger for them, and they seem to have no near relatives
to stand by them. I tell you they are at our mercy. Luxury is a
necessity, and yet they are not able to earn their bare bread.
"Let me inform you," he continued, speaking with the confidence of a
hunter, who from long experience knows just where the game is most
easily captured, "that there is no class more helpless than the very
rich when reduced to sudden poverty. They are usually too proud to
work, in the first place, and in the second, they don't know how to do
anything. What does a fashionable education fit a girl for, I would
like to know, if, as often occurs, she has to make her own way in the
world?--a smattering of everything, mistress of nothing."
"Well, Van Dam," said Gus, "according to your showing, it fits them
for little schemes like the one you are broaching."
"Precisely. Girls who know how to work and who are accustomed to it,
will snap their fingers in your face, and tell you they can take care
of themselves, but the class to which the Allens belong, unless kept
up by some rich relations, are soon almost desperate from want. I have
kept up a correspondence with Zell. They seem to have no near
relatives or friends who are doing much for them. They are doing
nothing for themselves, save spend what little there is left, and
their monotonous country life has half-murdered them already. So I
conclude I have waited long enough and will go up to-morrow. Instead
of pouting like a spoiled child over your lost Edith, you had better
go up and get her. It may take a little time and management. Of course
they must be made to think we intend to marry them, but if they once
elope with us, we can find a priest at our leisure."
"I will go up to-morrow with you any way," said Gus, who, like so many
others, never made a square bargain with the devil, but was easily
"led captive" from one wrong and villany to another.
It was the last day of April--one on which the rawness and harshness
of early spring were melting into the mildness of May. The buds on the
trees had perceptibly swollen. The flowering maple was still aflame,
the sweet centre of attraction to innumerable bees, the hum of whose
industry rose and fell on the languid breeze. The grass had the
delicate green and exquisite odor belonging to its first growth, and
was rapidly turning the brown, withered sward of winter into emerald.
The sun shone through a slight haze, but shone warmly. The birds had
opened the day with full orchestra, but at noon there was little more
than chirp and twitter, they seeming to feel something of Edith's
languor, as she leaned on the railing of the porch, and watched for
the coming of Malcom. She sighed as she looked at the bare brown earth
of the large space that she purposed for strawberries, and work there
and everywhere seemed repulsive. The sudden heat was enervating and
gave her the feeling of luxurious languor that she longed to enjoy
with a sense of security and freedom from care. But even as her
eyelids drooped with momentary drowsiness, there was a consciousness,
like a dull, half-recognized pain, of insecurity, of impending trouble
and danger, and of a need for exertion that would lead to something
more certain than anything her mother's policy promised.
She was startled from her heaviness by the sharp click of the gate
latch, and Malcom entered with two large baskets of strawberry-plants.
He had said to her:
"Wait a bit. The plants will do weel, put oot the last o' the moonth.
An ye wait I'll gie ye the plants I ha' left cover and canna sell the
season. But dinna be troobled, I'll keep it enoof for ye ony way."
By this means Edith obtained half her plants without cost, save for
Malcom's labor of transplanting them.
The weather had little influence on Malcom's wiry frame, and his
spirit of energetic, cheerful industry was contagious. Once aroused
and interested, Edith lost all sense of time, and the afternoon passed
happily away.
At her request Malcom had brought her a pair of pruning nippers, such
as she had seen him use, and she kept up a delicate show of work,
trimming the rose-bushes and shrubs, while she watched him. She could
not bring her mind to anything that looked like real work as yet, but
she had a feeling that it must come. She saw that it would help Malcom
very much if she went before and dropped the plants for him, but some
one might see her, and speak of her doing useful work. The
aristocratically inclined in Pushton would frown on the young lady so
employed, but she could snip at roses and twine vines, and that would
look pretty and rural from the road.
But it so happened that the one who caught a glimpse of her spring-day
beauty, and saw the pretty rural scene she crowned, was not the
critical occupant of some family carriage; for when, while near the
road, she was reaching up to clip off the topmost spray of a bush, her
attention was drawn by the rattle of a wagon, and in this picturesque
attitude her eyes met those of Arden Lacey. The sudden remembrance of
the unkind return made to him, and the fact that she had therefore
dreaded meeting him, caused her to blush deeply. Her feminine
quickness caught his expression, a timid questioning look, that seemed
to ask if she would act the part of the others. Edith was a society
and city girl, and her confusion lasted but a second. Policy
whispered, "You can still keep him as a useful friend, though you must
keep him at a distance, and you may need him." Some sense of gratitude
and of the wrong done him and his also mingled with these thoughts,
passing with the marvellous rapidity with which a lady's mind acts in
social emergencies. She also remembered that they were alone, and that
none of the Pushton notables could see that she was acquainted with
the "drunken Laceys." Therefore before the diffident Arden could turn
away, she bowed and smiled to him in a genial, conciliatory manner.
His face brightened into instant sunshine, and to her surprise he
lifted his old weather-stained felt hat like a gentleman. Though he
had received no lessons in etiquette, he was inclined to be a little
courtly and stately in manner, when he noticed a lady at all, from
unconscious imitation of the high-bred characters in the romances he
read. He said to himself in glad exultation:
"She is different from the rest. She is as divinely good as she is
divinely beautiful," and away he rattled toward Pushton as happy as if
his old box wagon were a golden chariot, and he a caliph of Arabian
story on whom had just shone the lustrous eyes of the Queen of the
East. Then as the tumult in his mind subsided, questioning thoughts as
to the cause of her blush came trooping through his mind, and at once
there arose a long vista of airy castles tipped with hope as with
sunlight Poor Arden! What a wild, uncurbed imagination had mastered
his morbid nature, as he lived a hermit's life among the practical
people of Pushton! If he had known that Edith, had she seen him in the
village, would have crossed the street rather than have met or
recognized him, it would have plunged him into still bitterer
misanthropy. She and his mother only stood between him and utter
contempt and hatred of his kind, as they existed in reality, and not
in his books and dreams.
She forgot all about him before his wagon turned the corner of the
road, and chatted away to Malcom, questioning and nipping with
increasing zest. As the day grew cooler, her spirits rose under the
best of all stimulants, agreeable occupation. The birds ceased at last
their nest-building, and from orchard and grove came many an inspiring
song. Edith listened with keen enjoyment, and country life and work
looked no longer as they had done in the sultry noon. She saw with
deep satisfaction the long rows of strawberry-vines increasing under
Malcom's labors. In the still humid air the plants scarcely wilted and
stood up with the bright look of those well started in life.
As evening approached, and no carriage of note had passed, Edith
ventured to get her transplanting trowel, doff her gloves, and
commence dividing her flower roots, that she might put them elsewhere.
She became so interested in her work that she was positively happy,
and soft-hearted Malcom, with his eye for the beauties of nature, was
getting his rows crooked, because of so many admiring glances toward
her as she went to and fro.
The sun was low in the west and shone in crimson through the soft
haze. But the color in her cheeks was richer as she rose from the
ground, her little right hand lost in the scraggly earth-covered roots
of some hardy phlox, and turned to meet exquisite Gus Elliot, dressed
with finished care, his hands incased in immaculate gloves. Her broad-rimmed hat was pushed back, her dress looped up, and she made a
picture in the evening glow that would have driven a true artist half
wild with admiration; but poor Gus was quite shocked. The idea of
Edith Allen, the girl he had meant to marry, grubbing in the dirt and
soiling her hands in that style! It was his impression that only Dutch
women worked in a garden; and for all he knew of its products she
might be setting out a potato plant. Quick Edith caught his
expression, and while she crimsoned with vexation at her plight, felt
a new and sudden sense of contempt for the semblance of a man before
her.
But with the readiness of a society girl she smoothed her way out of
the dilemma, saying with vivacity:
"Why, Mr. Elliot, where did you drop from? You have surprised me among
my flowers, you see."
"Indeed, Miss Edith," said Gus, in rather unhappily phrased gallantry,
"to see you thus employed makes me feel as if we both had dropped into
some new and strange sphere. You seem the lovely shepherdess of this
rural scene, but where is your flock?"
Shrewd Malcom, near by, watched this scene as the terrier he resembled
might have done, and took instant and instinctive dislike to the new-comer. With a contemptuous sniff he thought to himself, "There's
mateerial enoof in ye for so mooch toward a flock as a calf and a
donkey."
"A truce to your lame compliments," she said, concealing her vexation
under badinage. "I do not live by hook and crook yet, whatever I may
come to, and I remember that you only appreciate artificial flowers
made by pretty shop girls, and these are not in the country. But come
in. Mother and my sisters will be glad to see you."
Gus was not blind to her beauty, and while the idea of marriage seemed
more impossible than ever, now that he had seen her hands soiled, the
evil suggestion of Van Dam gained attractiveness with every glance.
Edith found Mr. Van Dam on the porch with Zell, who had welcomed him
in a manner that meant much to the wily man. He saw how necessary he
was to her, and how she had been living on the hope of seeing him, and
the baseness of his nature was such that instead of being stirred to
one noble kindly impulse toward her, he simply exulted in his power.
"Oh," said she, as with both hands she greeted him, her eyes half
filling with tears, "we have been living like poor exiles in a distant
land, and you seem as if just from home, bringing the best part of it
with you."
"And I shall carry you back to it ere long," he whispered.
Her face grew bright and rosy with the deepest happiness she had ever
know. He had never spoken so plainly before. "Edith can never taunt me
again with his silence," she thought. Though sounding well enough to
the ear, how false were his words! Zell was giving the best love of
which her heart was capable in view of her defective education and
character. In a sincere and deep affection there are great
possibilities of good. Her passion, so frank and strong, in the hands
of a true man, was a lever that might have lifted her to the noblest
life. Van Dam sought to use it only to force her down. He purposed to
cause one of God's little ones to offend.
Edith soon appeared, dressed with the taste and style of a Fifth
Avenue belle of the more sensible sort, and Gus was comforted. Her
picturesque natural beauty in the garden was quite lost on him, but
now that he saw the familiar touches of the artificial in her general
aspect, she seemed to him the peerless Edith of old. And yet his nice
eye noted that even a month of absence from the fashionable centre had
left her ignorant of some of the shadings off of one mode into
another, and the thought passed over the polished surface of his mind
(all Gus's thoughts were on the surface, there being no other
accommodation for them), "Why, a year in this out-of-the-world life,
and she would be only a country girl."
But all detracting thoughts of each other, all mean, vile, and deadly
purposes, were hidden under smiling exteriors. Mrs. Allen was the
gracious, elegant matron who would not for the world let her daughters
soil their hands, but schemed to marry one to a weak apology for a
man, and another to a villain out and out, and the fashionable world
would cordially approve and sustain Mrs. Allen's tactics if she
succeeded.
Laura brightened up more than she had done since her father's death.
Anything that gave hope of return to the city, and the possibility of
again meeting and withering Mr. Goulden with her scorn, was welcome.
And Edith, while she half despised Gus, found it very pleasant to meet
those of her old set again, and repeat a bit of the past. The young
crave companionship, and in spite of all his weakness she half liked
Elliot. With youth's hopefulness she believed that he might become a
man if he only would. At any rate, she half-consciously formed the
reckless purpose to shut her eyes to all presentiments of coming
trouble and enjoy the evening to the utmost.
Hannibal was enjoined to get up as fine a supper as possible,
regardless of cost, with Mrs. Allen's maid to assist.
In the long purple twilight, Edith and Zell, on the arms of their
pseudo lovers, strolled up and down the paths of the little garden and
dooryard. As Edith and Gus were passing along the walk that skirted
the road, she heard the heavy ramble of a wagon that she knew to be
Arden Lacey's. She did not look up or recognize him, but appeared so
intent on what Gus was saying as to be oblivious of all else, and yet
through her long lashes she glanced toward him in a rapid flash, as he
sat in his rough working garb on the old board where she, on the rainy
night of her advent to Pushton, had clung to his arm in the jolting
wagon. Momentary as the glance was, the pained, startled expression of
his face as he bent his eyes full upon her caught her attention and
remained with her.
His manner and appearance secured the attention of Gus also, and with
a contemptuous laugh he said loud enough for Arden to hear partially:
"That native comes from pretty far back, I imagine. He looks as if he
never saw a lady and gentleman before. The idea of living like such a
cabbage-head as that!"
If Gus had not been with Edith, his good clothes and good looks would
have been spoiled within the next five minutes.
Edith glanced the other way and pointed to her strawberry-bed as if
not noticing his remark or its object, saying:
"If you will come and see us a year from next June, I can give you a
dainty treat from these plants."
"You will not be here next June," said Gus tenderly. "Do you imagine
we can spare you from New York? The city has seemed dull since robbed
of the light of your bright eyes."
Edith rather liked sugar-plums of such make, even from Gus, and she,
as it were, held out her hand again by the rather sentimental remark:
"Absent ones are soon forgotten."
Gus, from much experience, knew how to flirt beautifully, and so with
some aptness and show of feeling, replied:
"From my thoughts you are never absent."
Edith gave him a quick questioning look. What did he mean? He had
avoided everything tending to commit him to a penniless girl after her
father's death. Was this mere flirtation? Or had he, in absence,
learned his need of her for happiness? and was he now willing to marry
her even though poor?
"If he is man enough to do this, he is capable of doing more," she
thought quickly, and circumstances pleaded for him. She felt so
troubled about the future, so helpless and lonely, and he seemed so
inseparably associated with her old bright life, that she was tempted
to lean on such a swaying reed as she knew Gus to be. She did not
reply, but he could see the color deepen in her cheeks even in the
fading twilight, her bosom rose and fell more quickly, and her hand
rested upon his arm with a more confiding pressure. What more could he
ask? and he exulted.
But before he could speak again they were summoned to supper. Van Dam
touched Gus's elbow as they passed in and whispered:
"Don't be precipitate. Say nothing definite to-night. I gather from
Zell that a little more of their country purgatory will render them
wholly desperate."
Edith noticed the momentary detention and whispering, and the thought
that there was some understanding between the two occurred to her. For
some undefined reason she was always inclined to be suspicious and on
the alert when Mr. Van Dam was present. And yet it was but a passing
thought, soon forgotten in the enjoyment of the evening, after so long
and dull an experience. Zell was radiant, and there was a glimmer of
color in Laura's pale cheeks.
After supper they sat down to cards. The decanter was placed on the
side table, and heavy inroads were made on Mrs. Allen's limited stock
of wine, for the gentlemen, feeling that they were off on a lark, were
little inclined to self-control. They also insisted on the ladies
drinking health with them, which foolish Zell, and more foolish Mrs.
Allen were too ready to do, and for the first time since their coming
the little cottage resounded with laughter that was too loud and
frequent to be inspired by happiness only.
If guardian angels watched there, as we believe they do everywhere,
they may well have veiled their faces in sadness and shame.
But the face of poor innocent Hannibal shone with delight, and nodding
his head toward Mr. Allen's maid with the complacency of a prophet who
saw his predictions fulfilled, he said:
"I told you my young ladies wasn't gwine to stay long in Bushtown" (as
Hannibal persisted in calling the place).
To Arden Lacey, the sight of Edith listening with glowing cheeks and
intent manner to a stranger with her hand within his arm--a stranger
too that seemed the embodiment of that conventionality of the world
which he despised and hated, was a vision that pierced like a sword.
And then Gus's contemptuous words and Edith's non-recognition, though
he tried to believe she had not seen him, were like vitriol to a
wound. At first there was a mad impulse of anger toward Elliot, and,
as we have intimated, only Edith's presence prevented Arden from
demanding instant apology. He knew enough of his fiery nature to feel
that he must get away as fast as possible, or he might forever
disgrace himself in Edith's eyes.
As he rode home his mind was in a sad chaos. He was conscious that his
airy castles were falling about him with a crash, which, though
unheard by all the world, shook his soul to the centre.
Too utterly miserable to face his mother, loathing the thought of
food, he put up his horses and rushed out into the night.
In his first impulse he vowed never to look toward Edith again, but,
before two hours of fruitless wandering had passed, a fascination drew
him toward Edith's cottage, only to hear that detested voice again,
only to hear even Edith's laugh ring out too loud and reckless to come
from the lips of the exquisite ideal of his dreams. Though the others
had spoken in thunder tones, he would have had ears for these two
voices only. He rushed away from the spot, as one might from some
torturing vision, exclaiming:
"The real world is a worse mockery than the one of my dreams. Would to
heaven I had never been born!"
CHAPTER XIV
WE CAN'T WORK
The gentlemen agreed to meet the ladies the next day at church. Mrs.
Allen insisted upon it, as she wished to show the natives of Pushton
that they were visited by people of style from the city. As yet they
had not received many calls, and those venturing had come in a
reconnoitring kind of way. She knew so little of solid country people
as to suppose that two young men, like Gus Elliot and Van Dam, would
make a favorable impression. The latter, with a shrug and grimace at
Zell, which she, poor child, thought funny, promised to do so, and
then they took leave with great cordiality.
So they were ready to hand the Allens out of their carriage the next
morning, and were, with the ladies, who were dressed even more
elaborately than on the previous Sabbath, shown to a prominent pew,
the centre of many admiring eyes, as they supposed. But where one
admired, ten criticised. The summer hotel at Pushton had brought New
York too near and made it too familiar for Mrs. Allen's tactics.
Visits to town were easily made and frequent, and by brief diversions
of their attention from the service, the good church people soon
satisfied themselves that the young men belonged to the bold fast
type, an impression strengthened by the parties themselves, who had
devotion only for Zell and Edith, and a bold stare for any pretty girl
that caught their eyes.
After church they parted with the understanding that the gentlemen
should come out toward night and spend the evening.
Mr. Van Dam and Gus Elliot dined at the village hotel, having ordered
the best dinner that the landlord was capable of serving, and a couple
of bottles of wine. Over this they became so exhilarated as to attract
a good deal of attention. A village tavern is always haunted by idle
clerks, and a motley crowd of gossips, on the Sabbath, and to these
the irruption of two young bloods from the city was a slight break in
the monotony of their slow shuffling jog toward perdition; and when
the fine gentlemen began to get drunk and noisy it was really quite
interesting. A group gathered round the bar, and through the open door
could see into the dining-room. Soon with unsteady step, Van Dam and
Elliot joined them, the latter brandishing an empty bottle, and
calling in a thick loud voice:
"Here landlord (hic) open a bottle (hic) of wine, for these poor (hic)
suckers, (hic) I don't suppose (hic) they ever tasted (hic) anything
better than corn-whiskey, (hic) But I'll moisten (hic) their gullets
to-day (hic) with a gentleman's drink."
The crowd was mean enough, as the loafers about a tavern usually are,
to give a faint cheer at the prospect of a treat, even though
accompanied by words equivalent to a kick. But one big raw-boned
fellow, who looked equal to any amount of corn-whiskey or anything
else, could not swallow Gus's insolence, and stepped up saying:
"Look here, Cap'n, I'm ready enough to drink with a chap when he asks
me like a gentleman, but I feel more like puttin' a head on you than
drinkin' with yer."
Gus had the false courage of wine and prided himself on his boxing. In
the headlong fury of drunkenness he flung the bottle at the man's
head, just grazing it, and sprang toward him, but stumbled and fell.
The man, with a certain rude sense of chivalry, waited for him to get
up, but the mean loafers who had cheered were about to manifest their
change of sentiment toward Gus by kicking him in his prostrate
condition. Van Dam, who also had drunk too much to be his cool careful
self, now drew a pistol, and with a savage volley of oaths swore he
would shoot the first man who touched his friend. Then, helping Gus
up, he carried him off to a private room, and with the skill of an old
experienced hand set about righting himself and Elliot, so that they
might be in a presentable condition for their visit at the Allens'.
"Curse it all, Gus, why can you not keep within bounds? If this gets
to the girls' ears it may spoil everything."
By five o'clock Gus had so far recovered as to venture to drive to the
Allens', and the fresh air restored him rapidly. Before leaving, the
landlord said to Van Dam:
"You had better stay out there all night. From what I hear the boys
are going to lay for you when you come home to-night. I don't want any
rows connected with my house. I'd rather you wouldn't come back."
Van Dam muttered an oath, and told the driver to go on.
As a matter of course they were received very cordially. Gus was quite
himself again. He only seemed a little more inclined than usual to be
sentimental and in high spirits.
They walked again in the twilight through the garden and under the
budding trees of the orchard. Gus assumed a caressing tone and manner,
which Edith half received and half resented. She felt that she did not
know her own mind and did not understand him altogether, and so she
took a diplomatic middle course that would leave her free to go
forward or retreat. Zell, under the influence of Mr. Van Dam's
flattering manner, walked in a beautiful but lurid dream. At last they
all gathered in the parlor and chatted and laughed over old times.
On this Sabbath evening one of the officers of the church, seeing that
the Allens had twice worshipped with them, felt that perhaps he ought
to call and give them some encouragement. As he came up the path he
was surprised at the confused sound of voices. With his hand on the
door-bell he paused, and through an opening between the curtains saw
the young men of whose bar-room performance he had happened to hear.
Not caring to meet any of their sort he went silently away, shaking
his head with ill-omened significance. Of course one good man told his
wife what sort of company their new neighbors kept, and whom didn't
she tell?
The evening grew late, but no carriage came from the village.
"It's very strange," said Van Dam.
"If it doesn't come you must stay all night," said Mrs. Allen
graciously. "We can make you quite comfortable even if we have a
little house."
Mr. Van Dam, and Gus also, were profuse in their thanks. Edith bit her
lip with vexation. She felt that she and Zell were being placed in a
false position since the gentlemen who to the world would seem so
intimate with the family in reality held no relation to them. But no
scruples of prudence occurred to thoughtless Zell. With an arch look
toward her lover she said:
"I think it threatens rain, so of course you cannot go."
"Let us go out and see," he said.
In the darkness of the porch he put his arm around the unresisting
girl and drew her to him, but he did not say like a true man:
"Zell, be my wife."
But poor Zell thought that was what all his attention and show of
affection meant.
Edith and Gus joined them, and the latter thought also to put his
regard in the form of caressing action, rather than in honest
outspoken words, but she turned and said a little sharply:
"You have no right."
"Give me the right then," he whispered.
"Whether I shall ever do that I cannot say. It depends somewhat on
yourself. But I cannot now and here."
The warning hand of Van Dam was reached through the darkness and
touched Gus's arm.
The next morning they walked back to the village, were driven two or
three miles to the nearest railway station, and took the train to the
city, having promised to come again soon.
The week following their departure was an eventful one to the inmates
of the little cottage, and all unknown the most unfavorable influences
were at work against them. The Sunday hangers-on of a tavern have
their points of contact with the better classes, and gossip is a
commodity always in demand, whatever brings it to market. Therefore
the scenes in the dining and bar rooms, in which Mrs. Allen's
"friends" had played so prominent a part, were soon portrayed in hovel
and mansion alike, with such exaggerations and distortions as a story
inevitably suffers as passed along. The part acted by the young men
was certainly bad enough, but rumor made it much worse. Then this
stream of gossip was met by another coming from the wife of the good
man who had called with the best intentions on Sunday evening, but,
pained at the nature of the Allen's associations, had gone lamenting
to his wife, and she had gone lamenting to the majority of the elder
ladies of the church. These two streams uniting, quite a tidal wave of
"I want to knows," and "painful surprises," swept over Pushton, and
the Allens suffered wofully through their friends. They had already
received some reconnoitering calls, and a few from people who wanted
to be neighborly. But the truth was the people of Pushton had been
somewhat perplexed. They did not know where to place the Allens. The
fact that Mr. Allen had been a rich merchant, and lived on Fifth
Avenue, counted for something. But then even the natives of Pushton
knew that all kinds of people lived on Fifth Avenue, as elsewhere, and
that some of the most disreputable were the richest. A clearer
testimonial than that was therefore needed. Then again there was
another puzzle. The fact that Mr. Allen had failed, and that they
lived in a little house, indicated poverty. But their style of
dressing and ordering from the store also suggested not a little
property left. The humbler portion of the community doubted whether
they were the style of people for them to call on, and the rumor of
Rose Lacey's treatment, getting abroad in spite of Arden's injunction
to the contrary, confirmed these doubts, and alienated this class. The
more wealthy and fashionably inclined doubted the grounds for their
calling, having by no means made up their minds whether they could
take the Allens into their exclusive circle. So thus far Mrs. Allen
and her daughters had given audience to a sort of middle class of
skirmishers and scouts representing no one in particular save
themselves, who from a _penchant_ in that direction went out and
obtained information, so that the more solid ranks behind could know
what to do. In addition, as we have intimated, there were a few good
kindly people who said:
"These strangers have come to live among us, and we must give them a
neighborly welcome."
But there was something in their homely honest heartiness that did not
suit Mrs. Allen's artificial taste, and she rather snubbed them.
"Heaven deliver us soon from Pushton," she said, "if the best people
have no more air of quality than these outlandish tribes. They all
look and act as if they had come out of the ark."
If the Allens had frankly and patiently accepted their poverty and
misfortunes, and by close economy and some form of labor had sought to
maintain an honest independence, they could soon, through this latter
class, have become _en rapport_ with, not the wealthy and fashionable,
but the finest people of the community; people having the refinement,
intelligence, and heart to make the best friends we can possess. It
might take some little time. It ought to. Social recognition and
esteem should be earned. Unless strangers bring clear letters of
credit, or established reputation, they must expect to be put on
probation. But if they adopt a course of simple sincerity and dignity,
and especially one of great prudence, they are sure to find the right
sort of friends, and win the social position to which they are justly
entitled. But let the finger of scandal and doubt be pointed toward
them, and all having sons and daughters will stand aloof on the ground
of self-protection, if nothing else. The taint of scandal, like the
taint of leprosy, causes a general shrinking away.
The finger of doubt and scandal in Pushton was now most decidedly
pointed toward the Allens. It was reported around:
"Their father was a Wall Street gambler who lost all in a big
speculation and died suddenly or committed suicide. They belonged to
the ultra-fast fashionable set in New York, and the events of the past
Sabbath show that they are not the persons for self-respecting people
to associate with."
Some of the rather dissipated clerks and semi-loafers of the village
were inclined to make the acquaintance of such stylish handsome girls,
but the Allens received the least advance from them with ineffable
scorn.
Thus within the short space of a month Mrs. Allen had, by her policy,
contrived to isolate her family as completely as if they had had a
pestilence.
Even Mrs. Lacey and Rose were inclined to pass from indignation to
contempt; for Mr. Lacey was present at the scene in the bar-room, and
reported that the "two young bucks were friends of their new
neighbors, the Allens, and had stayed there all Sunday night because
they darsn't go back to town."
"Well," said Rose, "with all their airs, I haven't got to keeping
company with that style of men yet."
"Cease to call yourself my sister if you ever do knowingly," said
Arden sternly. "I don't believe Edith Allen knows the character of
these men. They would not report themselves, and who is to do it?"
"Perhaps you had better," said Rose maliciously.
Arden's only answer was a dark frowning look. A severe conflict was
progressing in his mind. One impulse was to regard Edith as unworthy
of another thought. But his heart pleaded for her, and the thought
that she was different from the rest, and capable of developing a
character as beautiful as her person, grew stronger as he dwelt upon
it.
"Like myself, she is related to others that drag her down," he
thought, "and she seems to have no friend or brother to protect or
warn her. Even if this over-dressed young fool is her lover, if she
could have seen him prostrate on the bar-room floor, she would never
look at him again. If she would I would never look at her."
His romantic nature became impressed with the idea that he might
become in some sense her unknown knight and protector, and keep her
from marrying a man that would sink to what his father was. Therefore
he passed the house as often as he could in hope that there might be
some opportunity of seeing her.
To poor Edith troubles thickened fast, for, as we have seen, the brunt
of everything came on her. Early on the forenoon of Monday the
carpenter appeared, asking with a hard, determined tone for his money,
adding with satire:
"I suppose it's all right of course. People who want everything done
at once must expect to pay promptly."
"Your bill is much too large--much larger than you gave us any reason
to suppose it would be," said Edith.
"I've only charged you regular rates, miss, and you put me to no
little inconvenience besides."
"That's not the point. It's double the amount you gave us to
understand it would be, and if you should deduct the damage caused by
your delay it would greatly reduce it. I do not feel willing that this
bill should be paid as it stands."
"Very well then," said the man, coolly rising. "You threatened me with
a lawyer; I'll let my lawyer settle with you."
"Edith," said Mrs. Allen majestically, "bring my checkbook."
"Don't pay it, mother. He can't make us pay such a bill in view of the
fact that he left our roof open in the rain."
"Do as I bid you," said Mrs. Allen impressively.
"There," she said to the chuckling builder, in lofty scorn, throwing
toward him a check as if it were dirt. "Now leave the presence of
ladies whom you don't seem to know much about."
The man reddened and went out muttering that "he had seen quite as
good ladies before."
Two days later a letter from Mrs. Allen's bank brought dismay by
stating that she had overdrawn her account.
The next day there came a letter from their lawyer saying that a
messenger from the bank had called upon him--that he was sorry they
had spent all their money--that he could not sell the stock he held at
any price now--and they had better sell their house in the country and
board.
This Mrs. Allen was inclined to do, but Edith said almost fiercely:
"I won't sell it. I am bound to have some place of refuge in this
hard, pitiless world. I hold the deed of this property, and we
certainly can get something to eat off of it, and if we must starve,
no one at least can disturb us."
"What can we do?" said Mrs. Allen, crying and wringing her hands.
"We ought to have saved our money and gone to work at something,"
answered Edith sternly.
"I am not able to work," whined Laura.
"I don't know how to work, and I won't starve either," cried Zell
passionately. "I shall write to Mr. Van Dam this very day and tell him
all about it."
"I would rather work my fingers off," retorted Edith scornfully, "than
have a man come and marry me out of charity, finding me as helpless as
if I were picked up off the street, and on the street we should soon
be, without shelter or friends, if we sold this place."
And so the blow fell upon them, and such was the spirit with which
they bore it.
CHAPTER XV
THE TEMPTATION
The same mail brought them a long bill from Mr. Hard, accompanied with
a very polite but decisive note saying that it was his custom to have
a monthly settlement with his customers.
The rest of the family looked with new dismay and helplessness at
this, and Edith added bitterly:
"There are half a dozen other bills also."
"What can we do?" again Mrs. Allen cried piteously. "If you girls had
only accepted some of your splendid offers--"
"Hush, mother," said Edith imperiously. "I have heard that refrain too
often already," and the resolute practical girl went to her room and
shut herself up to think.
Two hours later she came down to lunch with the determined air of one
who had come to a conclusion.
"These bills must be met, in part at least," she said, "and the sooner
the better. After that we must buy no more than we can pay for, if
it's only a crust of bread. I shall take the first train to-morrow and
dispose of some of my jewelry. Who of you will contribute some also?
We all have more than we shall ever need."
"Pawn our jewelry!" they all shrieked.
"No, sell it," said Edith firmly.
"You hateful creature!" sobbed Zell. "If Mr. Van Dam heard it he would
never come near me again."
"If he's that kind of a man, he had better not," was the sharp retort.
"I'll never forgive you if you do it. You shall not spoil all my
chances and your own too. He as good as offered himself to me, and I
insist on your giving me a chance to write to him before you take one
of your mad steps."
They all clamored against her purpose so strongly that Edith was borne
down and reluctantly gave way. Zell wrote immediately a touching,
pathetic letter that would have moved a man of one knightly instinct
to come to her rescue. Van Dam read it with a look of fiendish
exultation, and calling on Gus said:
"We will go up to-morrow. The right time has come. They won't be nice
as to terms any longer."
It was an unfortunate thing for Edith that she had yielded at this
time to the policy of waiting one hour longer. In the two days that
intervened before the young men appeared there was time for that kind
of thought that tempts and weakens. She was in that most dangerous
attitude of irresolution. The toilsome path of independent labor
looked very hard and thorny--more than that, it looked lonely. This
latter aspect causes multitudes to shrink, where the work would not.
She knew enough of society to feel sure that her mother was right, and
that the moment she entered on bread-winning by any form of honest
labor, her old fashionable world was lost to her forever. And she knew
of no other world, she had no other friends save those of the gilded
past. She did not, with her healthful frame and energetic spirit,
shrink so much from labor as from association with the laboring
classes. She had been educated to think of them only as coarse and
common, and to make no distinctions.
"Even if a few are good and intelligent as these Laceys seem, they
can't understand my feelings and past life, so there will be no
congeniality, and I shall have to work practically alone. Perhaps in
time I shall become coarse and common like the rest," she said with a
half-shudder at the thought of old-fashioned garb, slipshod dressing,
and long monotonous hours at one employment. All these were
inseparable in her mind from poverty and labor.
Then after a long silence, during which she had sat with her chin
resting on her hands, she continued:
"I believe I could stand it if I could earn a support out of the
garden with such a man as Malcom to help me. There are variety and
beauty there, and scope for constant improvement. But I fear a woman
can't make a livelihood by such out-of-door, man-like work. Good
heavens! what would my Fifth Avenue friends say if it should get to
their ears that Edith Allen was raising cabbages for market?"
Then in contrast, as the alternative to labor, Gus Elliot continually
presented himself.
"If he were only more of a man!" she thought. "But if he loves me so
well as to marry me in view of my poverty, he must have some true
manhood about him. I suppose I could learn to love him after a
fashion, and I certainly like him as well as any one I know. Perhaps
if I were with him to cheer, incite, and scold, he might become a fair
business man after all."
And so Edith in her helplessness and fear of work was tempted to enter
on that forlorn experiment which so many energetic women of decided
character have made--that of marrying a man who can't stand alone, or
do anything but dawdle, in the hope that they may be able to infuse in
him some of their own moral and intellectual backbone.
But Gus Elliot was not man enough, had not sense enough, to give her
this poor chance of matrimonial escape from labor that seemed to her
like a giant taskmaster, waiting with grimy, horny hand to claim her
as another of his innumerable slaves. Though a life of lonely, ill-paid toil would have been better for Edith than marriage to Gus, he
was missing the one golden opportunity of his life, when he thought of
Edith Allen in other character than his wife. God uses instruments,
and she alone could give him a chance of being a man among men. In his
meditated baseness toward her, he aimed a fatal blow at his own life.
And this is ever true of sins against the human brotherhood. The
recoil of a blow struck at another's interests has often the
retributive wrath of heaven in it, and the selfish soul that would
destroy a fellow-creature for its own pleasure is itself destroyed.
False pride, false education, helpless, unskilled hands, an untaught,
unbraced moral nature, made strong, resolute, beautiful Edith Allen so
weak, so untrue to herself, that she was ready to throw herself away
on so thin a shadow of a man as Gus Elliot. She might have known,
indeed she half feared, that wretchedness would follow such a union.
It is torment to a large strong-souled woman to despise utterly the
man to whom she is chained. She revolts at his weakness and
irresolution, and the probabilities are that she will sink into that
worst phase of feminine drudgery, the supporting of a husband, who,
though able, will not work, and that she will become that social
monster of whom it is said with a significant laugh:
"She is the man of the house."
The only thing that reconciled her to the thought of marrying Gus was
the hope that she could inspire him to better things; and he seemed
the only refuge from the pressing troubles that environed her, and
from a lonely life of labor; for the thought that she could bring
herself to marry among the laboring classes had never occurred to her.
So she came to the miserable conclusion on the afternoon of the second
day:
"I'll take him if he will me, knowing how I am situated."
If Gus could have been true and manly one evening, he might have
secured a prop that would have kept him up, though it would have been
at sad cost to Edith.
On the afternoon of Friday, Zell returned from the village with
radiant face, and, waving a letter before Edith who sat moping in her
room, exclaimed with a thrill of ecstasy in her tone:
"They are coming. Help make me irresistible."
Edith felt the influence of Zell's excitement, and the mysteries of
the toilet began. Nature had done much for these girls, and they knew
how to enhance every charm by art. Edith good-naturedly helped her
sister, weaving pure shimmering pearls in the heavy braids of her
hair, whose raven hue made the fair face seem more fair. The toilet-table of a queen had not the secrets of Zell's beauty, for the most
skilful art must deal with the surface, while Zell's loveliness glowed
from within. Her rich young blood mantled her cheek with a color that
came and went with her passing thoughts, and was as unlike the
flaming, unchanging red of a painted face as sunlight that flickers
through a breezy grove is to a gas-jet. Her eyes shone with the deep
excitement of a passionate love, and the feeling that the crisis of
her life was near. Even Edith gazed with wondering admiration at her
beauty, as she gave the finishing touches to her toilet, before she
commenced her own.
Discarded Laura had a sorry part in the poor little play. She was to
be ill and unable to appear, and so resigned herself to a novel and
solitude. Mrs. Allen was to discreetly have a headache and retire
early, and thus all embarrassing third parties should be kept out of
the way.
The late afternoon of Friday (unlucky day for once) brought the
gentlemen, dressed as exquisitely as ever, but the vision on the
rustic little porch almost dazzled even their experienced eyes. They
had seen these girls more richly dressed before and more radiant.
There was, however, a delicious pensiveness hanging over them now,
like those delicate veils that enhance beauty and conceal nothing. And
there was a deep undertone of excitement that gave them a magnetic
power that they could not have in quieter moods.
Their appearance and manner of greeting caused secret exultation in
the black hearts that they expected would be offered to them that
night, but Edith looked so noble as well as beautiful that Gus rather
trembled in view of his part in the proposed tragedy. As warm and
gentle as had been her greeting, she did not appear like a girl that
could be safely trifled with. However, Gus knew his one source of
courage and kept up on brandy all day, and he proposed a heavier
onslaught than ever on poor Mrs. Allen's wine. But Edith did not bring
it out. She meant that all that was said that night should be spoken
in sober earnest.
They sat down to cards for a while after tea, during which
conversation was rather forced, consisting mainly of extravagant
compliments from the gentlemen, and tender, meaning glances which the
girls did not resent. Mrs. Allen languidly joined them for a while,
and excused herself saying:
"My poor head has been too heavily taxed of late," though how, save as
a small distillery of helpless tears, we do not remember.
The regret of the young men at being deprived of her society was quite
affecting in view of the fact that they had often wished her dead and
out of the way.
"Why should we shut ourselves up within walls this lovely spring
evening, this delicious earnest of the coming summer?" said Mr. Van
Dam to Zell. "Come, put on your shawl and show me your garden by
moonlight."
Zell exultingly complied, believing that now she would show him, not
their poor little garden, but the paradise of requited love. A moment
later her graceful form, bending like a willow toward him, vanished in
the dusky light of the rising moon, down the garden path which led to
the little arbor.
Gus, having the parlor to himself, went over to the sofa, seated
himself by the side of Edith and sought to pass his arm around her
waist. "You have no right," again said Edith with dignity, shrinking
away.
"But will you not give the right? Behold me a suppliant at your feet,"
said Gus tenderly, but comfortably keeping his seat.
"Mr. Elliot," said Edith earnestly, "do you realize that you are
asking a poor girl to marry you?"
"Your own beautiful self is beyond all gold," said Gus gushingly.
"You did not think so a month ago," retorted Edith bitterly.
"I was a fool. My friends discouraged it, but I find I cannot live
without you."
This sounded well to poor Edith, but she said half sadly:
"Perhaps your friends are right. You cannot afford to marry me."
"But I cannot give you up," said Gus with much show of feeling. "What
would my life be without you? I admit to you that my friends are
opposed to my marriage, but am I to blight my life for them? Am I, who
have seen the best of New York for years, to give up the loveliest
girl I have ever seen in it? I cannot and I will not," concluded Gus
tragically.
"And are you willing to give up all for me?" said Edith feelingly, her
glorious eyes becoming gentle and tender.
"Yes, if you will give up all for me," said Gus languishingly, taking
her hand and drawing her toward him.
Edith did not resist now, but leaned her head on his shoulder with the
blessed sense of rest and at least partial security. Her cruelly
harassed heart and burdened, threatened life could welcome even such
poor shelter as Gus Elliot offered. The spring evening was mild and
breathless, and its hush and peace seemed to accord with her feelings.
There was no ecstatic thrilling of her heart in the divine rapture of
mutual and open recognition of love, for no such love existed on her
part. It was only a languid feeling of contentment--moon-lighted with
sentiment, not sun-lighted with joy--that she had found some one who
would not leave her to labor and struggle alone.
"Gus," she said pathetically, "we are very poor; we have nothing. We
are almost desperate from want. Think twice ere you engage yourself to
a girl so situated. Are you able to thus burden yourself?"
Gus thought these words led the way to the carrying out of Van Dam's
instructions, for he said eagerly:
"I know how you are situated. I learned all from Zell's letter to Van
Dam, but our hearts only cling the closer to you, and you must let me
take care of you at once. If you will only consent to a secret
marriage I can manage it."
Edith slowly raised her head from his shoulder. Gus could not meet her
eyes, but felt them fixed searchingly on his face. There was a distant
mutter of thunder like a warning voice. He continued hurriedly:
"I think you will agree with me, when you think of it, that such a
marriage would be best. It would be hard for me to break with my
family at once. Indeed I could not afford to anger my father now. But
I would soon get established in business myself, and I would work so
hard if I knew that you were dependent on me!"
"Then you would wish me to remain here in obscurity your wife," said
Edith in a low constrained tone that Gus did not quite like.
"Oh, no, not for the world," replied Gus hurriedly. "It is because I
so long for your daily and hourly presence that I urge you to come to
the city at once."
"What is your plan then?" asked Edith in the same low tone.
"Go with me to the city, on the boat that passes here in the evening.
I will see that you are lodged where you will have every comfort, yes
luxury. We can there be quietly married, and when the right time comes
we can openly acknowledge it."
There was a tremble in Edith's voice when she again spoke, it might be
from mere excitement or anger. At any rate Gus grew more and more
uncomfortable. He had a vague feeling that Edith suspected his
falseness, and that her seeming calmness might presage a storm, and he
found it impossible to meet her full searching gaze, fearing that his
face would betray him. He was bad enough for his project, but not
quite brazen enough.
She detached herself from his encircling arm, went to a book-stand
near and took from it a richly bound Bible. With this she came and
stood before Gus, who was half trembling with fear and perplexity, and
said in a tone so grave and solemn that his weak impressible nature
was deeply moved:
"Mr. Elliot, perhaps I do not understand you. I have received several
offers before, but never one like yours this evening. Indeed I need
not remind you that you have spoken to me in a different vein. I know
circumstances have greatly altered with me. That I am no longer the
daughter of a millionaire, I am learning to my sorrow, but I am the
same Edith Allen that you knew of old. I would not like to misjudge
you, one of my oldest, most intimate friends of the happy past. And
yet, as I have said, I do not quite understand your offer. Place your
hand on this sacred book with me, and, as you hope for God's mercy,
answer me this truly. Would you wish your own sister to accept such an
offer, if she were situated like myself? Look me, an honest girl with
all my faults and poverty, in the face, and tell me as a true
brother."
Gus felt himself in an awful dilemma. Something in Edith's solemn tone
and look convinced him that both he and Van Dam had misjudged her. His
knees trembled so that he could scarcely rise. A fascination that he
could not resist drew his face, stamped with guilt, toward her, and
slowly he raised his fearful eyes and for a moment met Edith's
searching, questioning gaze, then dropped them in confusion.
"Why do you not put your hand on the book and speak?" she asked in the
low, concentrated voice of passion.
Again he looked hurriedly at her. A flash of lightning illumined her
features, and he quailed before an expression such as he had never
seen before on any woman's face.
"I--I--cannot," he faltered.
The Bible dropped from her hands, they clasped, and for a moment she
seemed to writhe in agony, and in a low, shuddering tone she said:
"There are none to trust--not one."
Then, as if possessed by a sudden fury, she seized him roughly by the
arm and said hoarsely:
"Speak, man! what then did you mean? What have all your tender
speeches and caressing actions meant?"
Her face grew livid with rage and shame as the truth dawned upon her,
while poor feeble Gus lost his poise utterly and stood like a detected
criminal before her.
"You asked me to marry you," she hissed. "Must no one ask your
immaculate sisters to do this, that you could not answer my simple
question? Or, did you mean something else? How dare you exist longer
in the semblance of a man? You have broken the sacred law of
hospitality, and here, in my little home that has sheltered you, you
purpose my destruction. You take mean advantage of my poverty and
trouble, and like a cowardly hunter must seek out a wounded doe as
your game. My grief and misfortune should have made a sanctuary about
me, but the orphaned and unfortunate, God's trust to all true men,
only invite your evil designs, because defenceless. Wretch, would you
have made me this offer if my father had lived, or if I had a
brother?"
"It's all Van Dam's work, curse him," groaned Gus, white as a ghost.
"Van Dam's work!" shrieked Edith, "and he's with Zell! So this is a
conspiracy. You both are the flower of chivalry," and her mocking,
half-hysterical laugh curdled Gus's blood, as her dress fluttered down
the path that led to the arbor.
She appeared in the doorway like a sudden, supernatural vision, Zell's
head rested on Mr. Van Dam's shoulder, and he was portraying in low,
ardent tones the pleasures of city life, which would be hers as his
wife.
"It is true," he had said, "our marriage must be secret for the
present. You must learn to trust me. But the time will soon come when
I can acknowledge you as my peerless bride."
Foolish little Zell was too eager to escape present miseries to be
nice and critical as to the conditions, and too much in love, too
young and unsuspecting, to doubt the man who had petted her from a
child. She agreed to do anything he thought best.
Then Edith's entrance and terrible words broke her pretty dream in
fragments.
Snatching her sister from Van Dam's embrace, she cried passionately:
"Leave this place. Your villany is discovered."
"Really, Miss Edith"--began Van Dam with a poor show of dignity.
"Leave instantly!" cried Edith imperiously. "Do you wish me to strike
you?"
"Edith, are you mad?" cried Zell.
"Your sister must have lost her reason," said Van Dam, approaching
Zell.
"Stand back," cried Edith sternly. "I may go mad before this hateful
night passes, but while I have strength and reason left, I will drive
the wolves from our fold. Answer me this: have you not been proposing
secret marriage to my sister?"
Her face looked spirit-like in the pale moonlight, and her eyes blazed
like coals of fire. As she stood there with her arm around her
bewildered, trembling sister, she seemed a guardian angel holding a
baffled fiend at bay.
This was literally true, for even hardened Van Dam quailed before her,
and took refuge in the usual resource of his satanic ally--lies.
"I assure you, Miss Edith, you do me great injustice. I have only
asked your sister that our marriage be private for a time--"
"The same wretched bait--the same transparent falsehood," Edith cried.
"We cannot be married openly at our own home, but must go away with
you, two spotless knights, to New York. Do you take us for silly
fools? You know well what the world would say of ladies that so
compromised themselves, and no true man would ask this of a woman he
meant to make his wife. These premises are mine. Leave them."
Van Dam was an old villain who had lived all his life in the
atmosphere of brawls and intrigue, therefore he said brazenly:
"There is no use in wasting words on an angry woman. Zell, my darling,
do me justice. Don't give me up, as I never shall you," and he
vanished on the road toward the village, where Gus was skulking on
before him.
"You weak, unmitigated fool," said he savagely, "why did I bring you?"
"Look here, Van Dam," whined Gus, "that isn't the way to speak to a
gentleman."
"Gentleman! ha, ha," laughed Van Dam bitterly.
"I be hanged if I feel like one to-night. A pretty scrape you have got
me into," snarled Gus.
"Well," said Van Dam cynically. "I thought I was too old to learn much
more, but you may shoot me if I ever go on a lark again with one of
your weak villains who is bad enough for anything, but has brains
enough only to get found out. If it hadn't been for you I would have
carried my point. And I will yet," he added with an oath. "I never
give up a game I have once started."
And so they plodded on with mutual revilings and profanity, till Gus
became afraid of Van Dam, and was silent.
The dark cloud that had risen unnoted in the south, like the slowly
gathering and impending wrath of God, now broke upon them in sudden
gusts, and then chased them, with pelting torrents of rain and
stinging hail, into the village. The sin-wrought chaos--the hellish
discord of their evil natures--seemed to have infected the peaceful
spring evening, for now the very spirit of the storm appeared abroad.
The rush and roar of the wind was so strong, the lightning so vivid,
and the crashing thunder peals overhead so terrific, that even
hardened Van Dam was awed, and Gus was so frightened and conscience-smitten that he could scarcely keep up with his companion, but
shuddered at the thought of being left alone.
At last they reached the tavern, roused the startled landlord, and
obtained welcome shelter.
"What!" he said, "are the boys after you?"
"No, no," said Van Dam impatiently; "the devil is after us in this
infernal storm. Give us two rooms, a fire, and some brandy as soon as
possible, and charge what you please."
When Grus viewed himself in the mirror, as he at once did from long
habit, his haggard face, drenched, mud-splashed form, awakened sincere
self-commiseration; and his stained, bedraggled clothes troubled him
more than his soiled character. He did not remember the time when he
had not been well dressed, and to be so was his religion--the sacred
instinct of his life. Therefore he was inexpressibly shocked, and
almost ready to cry, as he saw his forlorn reflection in the glass.
And he had no change with him. What should he do? All other phases of
the disastrous night were lost in this.
"There is nothing to be bought in this mean little town, and how can I
go to the city in this plight?" he anxiously queried.
"Go to the devil then," and the sympathetic Van Dam wrapped himself up
and went to sleep.
Gus worked fussily at his clothes till a late hour, devoutly hoping he
should meet no one whom he knew before reaching his dressing-room in
New York.
CHAPTER XVI
BLACK HANNIBAL'S WHITE HEART
Edith half led, half carried her sobbing sister to the parlor. Mrs.
Allen, no longer languid, and Laura from her exile, were already
there, and with dismayed faces drew near the sofa where Zell had been
placed.
"What has happened?" asked Mrs. Allen tremblingly.
Edith's self-control, now that her enemies were gone, gave way
utterly, and sinking on the floor, she swayed back and forth, sobbing
even more hysterically than Zell, and her mother and Laura, oppressed
with the sense of some new impending disaster, caught the contagion of
their bitter grief, and wept and wrung their hands also.
The frightened maid stood in one door, with white questioning face,
and old gray-haired Hannibal in another, with streaming eyes of honest
sympathy.
"Speak, speak, what is the matter?" almost shrieked Mrs. Allen.
Edith could not speak, but Zell sobbed, "I--don't--know. Edith--seems
to have--gone--mad."
At last, after the application of restoratives, Edith so far recovered
herself as to say brokenly:
"We've been betrayed--they're--villains. They never--meant--marriage
at all."
"That's false!" screamed Zell. "I won't believe it of my lover,
whatever may have been true of your mean little Gus Elliot. He
promised to marry me, and you have spoiled everything by your mad
folly. I'll never forgive you."--When Zell's wild fury would have
ceased, cannot be said, but a new voice startled and awed them into
silence. In the storm of sorrow and passion that raged within, the
outer storm had risen unnoted, but now an awful peal of thunder broke
over their heads and rolled away among the hills in deep
reverberations. Another and a louder crash soon followed, and a
solemn, expectant silence fell upon them akin to that when the noisy
passionate world will suddenly cease its clamor as the trump of God
proclaims the end.
"Merciful heaven! we shall be struck," said Mrs. Allen shudderingly.
"What's the use of living?" said Zell in a hard, reckless tone.
"What is there to live for?" sighed Edith, deep in her heart. "There
are none to be trusted--not one."
Instead of congratulations received with blushing happiness, and
solitaire engagement rings, thus is shown the first result of Mrs.
Allen's policy, and of society's injunction:
"Keep your hands white, my dears."
The storm passed away, and they crept off to such poor rest as they
could get, too miserable to speak, and too worn to renew the
threatened quarrel that a voice seemingly from heaven had interrupted.
The next morning they gathered at a late breakfast-table with haggard
faces and swollen eyes. Zell looked hard and sullen, Edith's face was
so determined in its expression as to be stern. Mrs. Allen lamented
feebly and indefinitely, Laura only appeared more settled in her
apathy, and, like Zell and Edith, was utterly silent through the
forlorn meal.
When it was over, Zell went up to her room and Edith followed her.
Zell had not spoken to her sister since the thunder peal had suddenly
checked her bitter words. Edith dreaded the alienation she saw in
Zell's face, and felt wronged by it, knowing that she had only acted
as truest friend and protector. But in order still to shield her
sister she must secure her confidence, or else the danger averted the
past evening would threaten as grimly as ever. She also realized how
essential Zell's help would be in the struggle for bread on which they
must enter, and wished to obtain her hearty co-operation in some plan
of work. She saw that labor now was inevitable, and must be commenced
immediately. From Laura little was to be hoped. She seemed so lacking
in mental and physical force since their troubles began, that it
appeared as if nothing could arouse her. She threatened soon to become
an invalid like her mother. The thought of help from the latter did
not even occur to her.
Edith had not slept, and as the chaos and bitterness of the past
evening's experience passed away, her practical mind began to
concentrate itself on the problem of support. Her disappointment had
not been so severe as that of Zell, by any means, and so she was in a
condition to rally much sooner. She had never much more than liked
Elliot, and now the very thought of him was sickening, and though
labor and want might be hard indeed, and regret for all they had lost
keen, still she was spared the bitterer pain of a hopeless love.
But it was just this that Zell feared, and though she repeated to
herself over and over again Van Dam's last words, "I will never give
you up," she feared that he would, or what would be equally painful,
she would be compelled to give him up, for she could not disguise from
herself that her confidence had been shaken.