FIVE CANDLES.
The week passed away; a good deal of it was spent by Mr. Andrews in the
city. The expected guests seemed uncertain in the matter of
appointments; either they didn't know their own minds, or they were
trying the mettle of their future host's temper. More than one night he
had stayed in town to meet them and to bring them up, but after a shower
of telegrams, no guests had come. At last, on Friday morning, he had
gone to town, and told the servants he did not know when he should be
back; till he sent a telegram they need not make any preparation for the
visitors.
This day was Jay's birthday. With a sore heart, Missy had been preparing
for it. She was making this week a sort of valedictory. Every day might
be the last; Jay would never be hers after this. And he had never been
so sweet; he was gentle and good and loving, and never wanted to be out
of her sight. This birthday they had been talking of for many weeks. She
had planned an ideal treat for him; when, on this fatal Friday morning,
she woke up to the news that one of their own servants had come down
with what might be a case of scarlet fever. The girl was carefully
quarantined. Missy had not been near her, and did not propose to go near
her, but it broke up poor little Jay's party. It was impossible to allow
children to come to the house. She took him out for a drive, and all
that, but there was the birthday cake, and there were the candles, and
there were all the pretty little gifts that were to come out of the
simulated charlotte russe. They must have a feast, nothing else could
take its place. So that afternoon she took a sudden resolution. She
would make a sacrifice of her own feelings. She would go to the Andrews'
cottage and give Jay his fête there.
"Do you think it's wise, Missy?" said her mother faintly.
"It's kind, at all events," returned Missy. "The poor baby is going to
have hard times enough with the new cousins, it's but fair his last
birthday without them should be festive. I've sent to have the children
I'd invited for him come there. Now, don't look serious, mamma. One must
not be always thinking of one's self. And what is a fiction of
propriety, compared with Jay's happiness?"
"Compared with his permanent happiness, nothing, but compared with an
afternoon's pleasure, a good deal, and you've been so rigid yourself
about it, Missy. You've eschewed that poor cottage like a pestilence. I
didn't suppose anything would tempt you into it. You felt so bitterly
about our staying there, though you didn't tell me; and I'm sure you've
never crossed the threshold since."
"And I shouldn't cross it now, but that the master himself's away,
and--and in fact, I haven't the heart to disappoint the child, and
circumstances seem to make it my duty to give up my whim. In short,
mamma, it is too late to be sorry, for I've sent word to the children,
so don't, please, worry any more about it."
At five o'clock the children came, two stout little girls with hair in
pigtails, and three freckled little boys with shaved heads; they were
the hopes of illustrious families.
Missy contrasted them with Jay, and wondered that any one could endure
creatures so commonplace, and that patience could be found to provide
them nourishment and clothing.
Jay, however, seemed to like them very much, and that gave them a
certain importance in her eyes. Gabrielle interested herself deeply in
the attire of the little girls, and the "party" proceeded with great
success through its various stages of shyness, awkward advances, rough
responses, good fellowship, to hilarious riot, and open warfare. They
had a series of games in the boat-house till six, then races on the lawn
till nearly seven, when Missy, tired of adjusting differences and
pinning collars, left them in Eliza's care, and went in to superintend
the arrangement of the tables and the darkening of the windows, so that
the candles might be lighted at half-past seven o'clock. She thought
less well of human nature than usual at the moment. Even in its budding
infancy it could be so disagreeable, and its innocence was so far from
pleasant, what would not its mature development be. Jay himself had
tired her out. He had been willful, selfish, wanting in love to her; his
party seemed to have turned him into somebody else. She again concluded
he wasn't worth it all; but since she had begun the fête, she must go
through with it. It gave her rather an uncomfortable feeling to be going
into the house she had forsworn so vehemently. It was doubly hard now
that Jay's naughtiness had taken away the last excuse she had; he
certainly had not enjoyed himself very much, had not, in fact, had so
many fits of crying and got into so many passions in the same number of
hours since Alphonsine went away last autumn. It certainly had been an
ill-starred birthday. When the waitress came to her for directions about
the table-cloth, she felt sure she detected a smile on her decorous
mouth, and when the cook put her head in at the door and begged to know
if Miss Rothermel wished the cold chicken sliced or whole, she felt all
through her that there was a shade of disrespect in the woman's tones.
"I am sure," she said, "I know nothing about all that. I suppose you
will give them something for tea, as every day, and I will arrange for
them the cake, and the things that have been sent over from my house.
Only be as quick as you can, for it is getting late."
The servants snubbed, Missy proceeded to arrange the bonbons. This
necessitated going to the china-closet for a dish to put them on. She
hated this. She wished herself out of the place; her cheeks grew
scarlet, stumbling about among _his_ plates and glasses, his decanters
and soup tureens. She heard low talking and laughing in the kitchen.
What a fool she had been to put herself in this position! What did Jay
have a birthday for, and tempt her out of her resolution? And then she
remembered the poor young mother, the anniversary of whose sufferings
they were keeping without a thought of her. She seemed to be fading out
of the memories of all, loving and unloving, among whom, only a year
ago, she had had her place. She was no more than a name now to her
children. Who could tell whether her husband remembered her departure
with relief or remorse, or remembered her at all? New servants moved
about the house which she had left; new household usages prevailed;
nothing of her seemed left. Here was one who had called herself her
friend, who had thought of her for the first time to-day--this day,
which her throes should have made sacred to her memory.
Missy tried to catch at the shadow which seemed passing away from her;
tried to realize that this woman of whom she thought, had been, was, the
wife of the man whom she had grown to like, to listen to, to wonder
about. She tried to remember that this dark-eyed, pure-featured picture
was the mother of tawny, snub-nosed, ruddy Jay; but it was all a
picture, an effort of the brain, it was no reality. The reality seemed,
Jay, in the flesh, she who felt she owned him, and the father about whom
she could not keep her resolution, and the household which she had
reconstructed.
The bonbons looked less pretty to her than when she bought them; she
wished the fête was over, and she herself out of this uncomfortable
house. The waitress, having ended her little gossip in the kitchen, came
in and laid the cloth and closed the windows, and lighted a lamp or two.
Missy arranged the bonbons and the flowers, and the deceitful charlotte
russe, with its cave of surprises. It was nearly half past seven
o'clock, and she put the cake upon the table, and proceeded to arrange
the five candles around it. Now, every one who has put candles around a
birthday cake knows that it is a business not devoid of difficulties.
The colored wax drips on the table-cloth, the icing cracks if you look
at it, the candles lean this way and that, the paper or the match with
which you have lighted them, drops upon the linen or the cake, and
makes a smutty mark. All these things happened to Miss Rothermel, and in
the midst of it, in trooped the impatient children, headed by Jay, who
had burst past Eliza, declaring that he wouldn't wait a minute longer.
The sight of the table was premature; she did not mean to have him see
it till it was perfect. He dragged a heavy chair up beside her, climbed
up on it, tugged at her dress, pushed her elbow, shrieked in her ear.
The moment was an unhappy one; Miss Rothermel was not serene, the
provocation was extreme; she turned short upon him, boxed his ears, took
him by the arms and set him down upon the floor.
"You're such a little torment," she said, "there is no pleasure in doing
anything for you."
Jay roared, the sudden, short roar of good-natured passion; the children
crowded round. Missy told them to stand back, while she bent forward to
rescue a candle, tottering to its fall. Jay hushed his howls, intent
upon the candle; the children were all around Missy, with their backs to
the door. Gabrielle had gone around to the other side of the table,
facing the door, and was leaning forward on her elbows, gazing silently,
not at Missy, but beyond her. The candle nodded over the wrong way, a
great blot of green wax dropped upon the table-cloth. Jay screamed with
excitement, and made a dash forward to get his hands in the wax.
Missy stamped with her foot upon the floor--ah! that it must be
told!--and slapped his hands and pushed him back. And then the sudden
green gleam in Gabby's eyes made her start and look behind her. There
in the door stood--Mr. Andrews and two ladies. How long they had been
there, who can tell? There was a look of amusement on his face, a look
of eager curiosity on the faces of the strangers. The hall was not
lighted, the parlor was not lighted--the dining-room was, in contrast,
quite brilliant, and the decorated table and the group of children quite
a picture. Missy was not capable of speaking, for a moment. She caught
the candle and blew it out, and tried to find her voice, which seemed to
have been blown out, too.
"What a charming picture," cried the young lady. "This, I know, is Miss
Rothermel--and which are my little cousins?--ah, this must be Jay--he is
your image, Mr. Andrews," and she flew upon him with kisses, while the
mother, singling out a stout, little girl, with a pigtail, not unlike
him in feature, embraced her as Gabrielle. While this mistake was being
rectified, and the correct Gabrielle being presented to her cousins,
Missy recovered herself enough to turn to Mr. Andrews and tell him she
did not think he was coming home that night.
"The telegram wasn't received then? I sent it at ten o'clock this
morning."
No, no telegram had been received. The waitress was standing by, the
picture of consternation, and corroborated the statement incoherently.
Missy then explained as well as she could, her presence in the house,
but nobody seemed to listen to her; the ladies were so engrossed with
caressing the children, they did not heed. Mr. Andrews himself seemed
not at all to be interested in any fact but that the children were
having a good time, and that to balance it was the companion fact that
there was no dinner ready.
The cook was looking through the kitchen door, which was ajar, with a
bewildered face. The birthday cake and the bonbons were a mockery, no
doubt, to the hungry travelers. Missy wished the cake and the travelers
in the Red Sea together.
"How charming," said Miss Eustace, rising from her knees before Jay, and
looking at the table. "How charming it is, and how good of you, Miss
Rothermel. Mamma, is she not good? Think of giving up all that time for
a little child who never can repay you!"
"Miss Rothermel is unselfish," said the mother, releasing Gabby from a
final embrace. "Jay ought to love her very much. Jay, you do, I know.
Tell Miss Rothermel you love her."
"And thank her for the party," cried the daughter, stooping over him
with irrepressible fondness, again.
"I won't," said Jay, stoutly, pulling himself away. "It's none of you's
business."
"Jay!" cried his father.
But Missy moved forward, as if to protect him, and said, "He only means
that he and I can settle our accounts together. Can't we, Jay?"
Jay did not answer otherwise than by clutching at her gown and scowling
back at the honeyed cousins. How sweet it was, that little fist tight in
her dress; Missy felt it almost made up for the whole affair, and gave
her resolution to make another and more definite apology for being
there.
"I am sure," cried Miss Eustace, "you are unselfish, indeed. There isn't
one young woman in a hundred would have done it; taking all that
trouble, and coming over here by yourself,--without a lady in the house,
I mean, you know, and all that--and not minding about us, and not
standing on conventionalities, and such tiresome things. Oh, Miss
Rothermel, I am sure we shall be friends. I _hate_ proprieties, and I
love to do what comes into my head. I am so bored with the restrictions
that mamma is insisting on forever."
Miss Rothermel changed color several times during this speech. It seemed
to her she had never been so angry before; one's youngest grievance is
always one's greatest, however. Perhaps she had hated people as much
before, but it did not seem so to her. She could not say anything, but
she moved towards the door, stooping down to loosen Jay's hands from her
dress.
"I am very sorry," she said to Mr. Andrews, "to have been the means of
interfering with your dinner. I hope the cook will be able to get
something ready for you."
"You are not going away?" said Mr. Andrews, anxiously.
"The children will be so disappointed," said Mrs. Eustace. "We are not
used to them enough to make them happy, yet. Do stay, Miss Rothermel. It
is no matter at all about dinner. I was thinking if the cook would make
some tea and an omelette, and put some plates on for us, we could all
sit down, birthday and all, and make our meal. I think I'd better go out
and speak to her about it--or--or--perhaps you will go, Miss Rothermel?"
Missy bit her lip, and did not answer, but passed on towards the door,
and her hand was unsteady as she opened it. Jay set up a howl, feeling
that things were wrong. But putting it upon his desire for cake, Miss
Eustace darted forward, and gave him a handful of bonbons, to pacify
him, and taking up a knife, was going to cut the cake. But Jay, who had
correct feelings about the cake, only howled the louder, and struck out
at her so handsomely that she was fain to give it up. She overcame, with
great discretion, a very angry look that came into her eyes, and laid
down the knife, and, wreathed in smiles, threw him a kiss, and said they
would be better friends to-morrow. She was afraid of attempting to offer
the kiss more practically, as Master Jay's fists were heavy, for fists
of only five years of active training. Nobody but Missy knew why he was
howling, or what he meant by his incoherent demands.
"Oh, I see," she said, turning back with a smile. "He thinks no one else
should cut his cake. Well, Jay, I'll cut it for you, and be sure you
tell me to-morrow who has got the ring."
Jay's screams subsided, and in a silence born of expectation, Miss
Rothermel stepped forward and took up the knife. It was inevitable that
the new-comers were taking her measure. And it is pleasant to relate
that, pleased by Jay's loyalty, her face was bright, and almost pretty
at the moment, and she was always graceful and her figure admirable. She
leaned over the table, and cut the cake, and gave Jay his piece, and
with great promptness, withdrew to the door again, leaving Miss Eustace
to take her place, and put the remaining pieces of cake into the greedy
hands held out for them.
"I don't want you to go away from me," cried Jay above the stillness,
with his mouth full of cake, and his eyes full of tears.
"Oh, but I must," said Missy, giving him a kiss, "and remember to tell
me who gets the ring. Good-night."
With a sweeping good-night to all the party, she went out before he
could get up another roar. Mr. Andrews followed her, though she was
half-way down the path before he overtook her. It was nearly August, and
the days were already beginning to show the turn of the season. It was
quite dark, coming from the lighted room.
"I must beg you won't come any further with me," said Missy, at the
gate. "It is quite light, and I am in the habit of walking all about the
place at night."
"You must allow me," said Mr. Andrews, not going back at all.
"I think you are needed to keep the children in order, and I am sure you
ought to go back and see about some dinner for those ladies, since
you've brought them here," said Missy firmly, pulling the gate after
her, and looking at Mr. Andrews from the other side of it.
"I have no doubt they'll see about it themselves, they know more about
it than I do. And I want to thank you, Miss Rothermel, for remembering
Jay's birthday, for I am ashamed to say I had forgotten it myself. The
poor boy would have had a dismal time if it had not been for you. I'm
always having to thank you, you see."
"I don't see why you should be at that pains. I didn't do it for--for
anybody but Jay, and he and I can settle our little account between
ourselves, as I told the new cousin just now. Good-night," and before
Mr. Andrews could open the gate, she was swallowed up by the darkness
and the shrubbery, and he was obliged to go home, which he did slowly
and in some perplexity. He could only hope his cousins would not be as
difficult to comprehend as his neighbor was.
As for Missy, she came in with flushed cheeks and threw herself down on
the seat beside her mother's sofa.
"Aunt Harriet has not come down? That is the first thing that has gone
right to-day. I've got so much to tell you. Mamma, they've come--the new
cousins, I mean--right in the midst of the birthday party, and no dinner
ready for them, and everything about as bad for me as it could be."
"Now, I suppose you wish you had been contented to stay at home as I
advised you. It _was_ unfortunate. Did Mr. Andrews come with them, and
how did it happen that they were not expected?"
"Oh, the telegram never was delivered, and they arrived in the last
train, without any carriage to meet them, and trundled down four miles
in the stage, and arrived hungry and tired, to find all the house dark
but the dining-room, and a table full of bonbons and birthday
fripperies, in place of the solid cheer that the solid host delights in.
Jay met them with howls, and kicked the young lady till she could have
cried; but Gabrielle made up in sweetness for the party, ingenuous child
that she is!"
"I suppose there is no use in asking if you like them: you had made up
your mind on that point long before you saw them!"
"I hate them. I didn't suppose I could detest any one so much. They are
ready to open the war at once. They haven't even the grace to wait and
see whether I mean to make fight or not. They are bent upon one thing,
making a conquest of the stout Adonis, and securing themselves
permanently in charge of his establishment. They flew upon the children
with kisses before they had seen whether they were oafs or angels; they
opened their batteries on me before they knew whether I was an enemy or
not. The mother assumed the charge of the house before she had been five
minutes in it; the daughter had flattered Mr. Andrews and both the
children _ad nauseam_ before she took her bonnet off. Jay is to be
Mademoiselle's pet, by arrangement, because they have discovered that he
is his father's favorite. Gabrielle falls to Madame's share, and a nice
time may she have of it, petting a green snake. They had heard enough of
me to know I might be dangerous; and they hadn't sense to wait and to
see whether I were or not. It is war to the knife, and now I don't care
how soon they bring on their heaviest guns."
"Your metaphor is a little mixed, my dear; I am afraid you are not as
cool as could be wished."
"Ice wouldn't be cool in such a company. You are long past hating any
one, I know, but even you would have had some difficulty in keeping
yourself charitable if you had heard that young woman's oily insolence
to me. She is sure we shall be such friends, for she too is
unconventional and fond of improprieties. _She_ would think it a fine
lark to be free of a gentleman's house while he was away from it; she is
so artless, no one knows what she might not do if she had not dear mamma
to watch her. Gushing young thing; she needs such care. She looks
twenty-five, but I am prepared to celebrate her eighteenth birthday
before the summer passes. I heard her telling Jay to guess how many
candles she would have to get for her cake. I am afraid he said more
than she thought complimentary, for she changed the subject very
quickly, and told him that she had some candy for him in her trunk. He
had just had a surfeit of candy, and he told her, to my delight, he
didn't want her candy, that he had plenty of his own. Wasn't it nice of
him? That's what I call a discriminating child, mamma. It isn't every
boy of five who knows a possible stepmother when he sees her. I am proud
of Jay. I wish I were as confident of his father's discretion. Poor man,
how he will be cajoled! How he will learn to reverence the opinion of
Mrs. Eustace, how he will dote on the airy graces of the daughter. I
wish you could see them, mamma. They rather affect the attitude of
sisters. If it were not for the superior claims of the daughter, I am
sure the mother is capable of aspiring to the post herself. I should not
wonder if it were left an open question with them, which one of them
should have him. Mrs. Eustace certainly is young-looking, but she is
stout. The daughter is ridiculously like her; you seem to jump over
twenty years as you look from one to the other; the same figure, but a
little stouter, the same hair, but a little thinner, the same eyes, but
gone a little deeper in, the same complexion, but a little thickened,
the same smile, but a little more effort in getting it to come. They are
about the same height, and they wreathe their arms about each other, and
smile back and forward, and pose and prattle like a vaudeville."
"Really, my dear, you made good use of your time. How many minutes were
you in their company, I should like to know?"
"They arrived about twenty minutes before eight,--it is now ten minutes
past. That is just how long I have known them."
"Well, dear, for half an hour, I think you are rather venomous. But
though I don't take your judgment of them altogether, I wish they hadn't
seen fit to accept Mr. Andrews' invitation, or that Mr. Andrews hadn't
seen fit to offer them an invitation. Don't let it all bother you,
Missy. It has been rather a muddle from the beginning. I think you'll
have to make up your mind to let Jay go, though it will be pretty hard."
"Hard!" cried Missy, bitterly. "But of course, I've made up my mind to
it. I went through it all that evening on the lawn, when Mr. Andrews
told us that they were to come. It is but with one object that he
brought them, it will have but one end."
"I don't believe that he brought them with this object, but I
acknowledge that it may possibly end in giving the poor little fellow a
stepmother. I am afraid he is the sort of man that is easily taken in."
Missy's face expressed scorn.
"Yes, he is just that sort of man, and if he didn't drag poor Jay in
with him, I should say I was glad he had got the fate that he deserved."
"Hardly that, Missy. He has always been very nice to you, and I can't
think why you feel so towards him. But I've always felt it was a mistake
for people to garner up their hearts in other people's children, and
I've wished, from the beginning, that you cared less for the boy. Give
it up now, dear, and make up your mind to interest yourself in other
things."
"That's very easy to say. I've made up my mind so a hundred times in the
last week, but it doesn't stay made up, and I shall go on caring for him
till he's taken away from me, and a good while after, I'm afraid."